The next morning, Cassian was summoned to his father's study. It was unusual for Dorian Meleros to request his presence directly, and Cassian couldn't quite determine whether that was a good or bad sign.
As he stepped into the dimly lit room, he took in the sight of his father seated behind a grand mahogany desk, parchment and ledgers neatly stacked beside him. The scent of ink and aged parchment mixed with the faint aroma of spiced wine lingering in the air.
Dorian looked up as Cassian entered, his sharp eyes assessing him in silence for a moment before gesturing toward the chair across from him. "Sit, Cassian."
Cassian obeyed, keeping his expression neutral, though he remained wary. Conversations with his father were often formal, focused on expectations rather than sentiments.
"You've grown," Dorian observed, his tone almost thoughtful. "It seems only yesterday you were a child trailing after your mother. Now I hear you've been making quite the impression in the training yard."
Cassian inclined his head. "I only seek to improve, Father."
Dorian studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. "That is good. Strength commands respect, and respect commands influence. But tell me, Cassian, what is it that you seek? Beyond the training yard, beyond the lessons your tutors drill into you?"
Cassian hesitated. It was a rare question, one that suggested his father was willing—if only briefly—to peer beyond the surface of expectations.
"I seek understanding," Cassian answered carefully. "Of the world, of power, of how men rise and fall."
A slow smile tugged at the corner of Dorian's lips. "An ambitious answer. But ambition without wisdom is like a ship without a rudder—it will eventually crash upon the rocks."
Cassian nodded, sensing his father's approval beneath the words. "Then I will learn wisdom, as well."
Dorian chuckled. "Good. Perhaps you will be more than just another noble's son squabbling for scraps. We will speak again soon."
Cassian stood, inclining his head before exiting the study. As the door closed behind him, he exhaled softly. His father was testing him, measuring his potential. And Cassian intended to prove he was more than worthy.
___________
The clang of steel rang through the training yard, a sharp contrast to the muffled voices of the household staff and distant calls of traders beyond the estate walls. I tightened my grip on the hilt of my sword, the weight of the real steel feeling different—more dangerous, more final—than the wooden practice blades I had grown used to.
Sweat trickled down my brow, but I paid it no mind. This was my next step, my real test. The instructor, a grizzled former mercenary named Garron, watched me with a critical eye.
"Again," he ordered, nodding toward the practice dummy before me.
I exhaled slowly and stepped forward, lifting the sword in a high guard before striking down with precise force. The blade cut into the straw-stuffed figure, biting deep enough to satisfy Garron.
"Better," he muttered. "But you still hesitate before the swing. A real opponent won't wait for you to decide. Again. Faster."
I adjusted my stance and repeated the strike, this time without the slight pause. The impact sent a tremor through my arms, but I held steady. My muscles ached, but I welcomed the burn. Every repetition brought me closer to mastery, closer to ensuring that no one would ever have the power to cast me aside again.
A figure approached from the corner of my eye—Julian. He leaned against the wooden fence, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He hadn't spoken to me since our last spar, where I had bested him. Was he still nursing his pride? Or was he here to observe, perhaps learn from my form?
"You're actually getting better," he remarked, though there was a hint of reluctance in his tone.
I met his gaze and smirked slightly. "I don't have the luxury of staying the same."
Garron grunted. "Enough talk. Keep swinging, boy."
I turned back to my training, letting the weight of my past and my ambitions guide my blade.