Liam's training under Eldrin was less a series of lessons and more a constant, harrowing trial. He wasn't taught techniques; he was taught principles. Eldrin believed Aura was the purest extension of a warrior's will, and he forced Liam to confront the core of his own.
The first few weeks were a brutal exploration of the Aura of the Body. Eldrin would launch strikes at Liam with a wooden sword, strikes imbued with a fraction of his terrifying Aura. Liam's task was not to parry with steel, but to manifest his own Aura as a shield. He learned to compress his golden light, to imbue it with the chilling, unyielding resilience of his Draconic Scales. The impacts were bone-jarring, throwing him back, his body a map of bruises despite the Aura's protection. Eldrin was merciless. "Your Aura wavers with your doubt! Every flaw in your will is a crack in your shield! Be a mountain, boy! Not a sandcastle!"
Liam was forced to confront his fears, his insecurities, the moments of weakness from his past life. He learned that every memory of failure was a hole in his defense, and every surge of his rage, while powerful, was a chaotic fire that left him vulnerable. He had to temper his fury with cold, calculating resolve, to make his hate a controlled burn, not a wild conflagration.
As his control grew, Eldrin moved to the Aura of the Blade. This was the essence of a Sword Sovereign's power. Liam would hold Crimson Fang, its hungry hum now a familiar thrum, and Eldrin would simply stare at him. An immense, palpable pressure would descend from the Sword Sovereign, a silent, crushing weight that spoke of a master's absolute dominion over their weapon. Liam's own Aura would flicker, struggling to maintain its form.
"A true warrior's blade is not a tool; it is a part of their soul," Eldrin would say, his voice a low, resonating rumble that vibrated through Liam's bones. "You do not wield the sword. You are the sword. Let your will flow, boy! Let your purpose become the edge, and your fury become the weight!"
Liam learned to pour his Aura into Crimson Fang, to make the blade sing with a golden, shimmering light. He learned to make the light a tangible force, a blade of pure will that could clash against Eldrin's own. Their "duels" were less about steel and more about clashing souls, a quiet, terrifying contest where mana rippled and the air itself seemed to shudder. In these moments, Liam felt Eldrin's power, a force so immense it defied all natural law, and he felt the sheer, exhilarating promise of his own potential.
The final and most profound lesson was the Aura of the Mind. Eldrin would sit opposite Liam in a state of deep meditation, and Liam would be forced to navigate a landscape of raw, unfiltered thought. Eldrin's mind was an ancient, scarred battlefield, a place of iron will and terrifying solitude. Liam felt the echoes of Eldrin's countless victories, his bitter losses, the sheer burden of his power. He felt the loneliness of a man who had transcended mortal understanding, a man burdened by an immortal duty.
In return, Eldrin probed Liam's mind, his presence a quiet, piercing force. Liam couldn't hide his memories, not from a Sword Sovereign. Eldrin saw the shattered battlefield, the betrayals, the cold blade in his back. He saw the grief for his family, the quiet courage of Sarah, the festering, cold fury at his uncle. Eldrin did not judge. He simply absorbed it all, a silent witness to a tragedy already lived.
After one such session, Eldrin spoke, his voice unusually soft. "You carry a heavy legacy, boy. A bloodstained one. You seek vengeance. That is a powerful motivator. But vengeance alone is a poison. It will rot your will from the inside out."
He placed a hand on Liam's shoulder, a touch of surprising warmth and immense weight. "Your will is your greatest weapon. It is born of your pain and your hate, yes. But it is forged in your love for your family, your desire to protect them, to keep them from that same fate. Remember that. Your Aura is a reflection of your will. And your will is a reflection of your purpose. Do not let your purpose be merely to kill. Let it be to save."
The six months passed like a dream, or perhaps a nightmare. Liam returned to Lithian Hold a changed man. He was no longer a boy, not in spirit. His eyes, once twin marbles of amber, now held a deep, unyielding stillness, the kind of stillness that came from staring into the abyss and refusing to blink. His body, already strong, was now a finely tuned weapon. His Aura was a part of him, an echo of his will, a quiet promise of power.
Lord Baren, who met him in the courtyard, seemed to age ten years in a single glance. He saw the change in his son, the maturity that came from a crucible of pain and power. He saw the man, not the boy. The weight of his own worries, the constant threat from Vorian, felt a fraction lighter. He had a weapon now. A protector.
Sarah, who was tidying his chambers, looked at him with a mixture of awe and fear. Her Empathic Healing, now a potent, controlled force, could sense the raw power thrumming beneath his skin. She saw not just the man she had grown up with, but the monster he was becoming. And in her eyes, Liam saw the one thing he was fighting to protect. Her, and his family.
His reunion with his parents was warm, but a subtle, unspoken distance had grown between them. They were proud, yes, but also wary of the power he now carried. They saw the Aura that subtly rippled beneath his skin when his emotions flared, a tell-tale sign of a warrior who had transcended his peers.
Two weeks passed, a quiet interlude of normalcy before the storm. Liam spent the time with his family, cherishing every moment. He had a duty now. A duty to protect them. But in the back of his mind, the question remained: what of Vorian?
The answer came in the form of a summons from the King himself. A Royal Decree, sealed with the royal crest, arrived at Lithian Hold. It was an invitation to a formal feast in the capital, a summons for Lord Baren and his heir. A quiet, almost imperceptible message was also attached, a single word scrawled in a precise, neat hand. The word was "Turan."
Baren's face went grim. He understood the message. The King had heard of Vorian's treachery, or at least the rumors of it. This was a test. A subtle game of political maneuvering. A test to see if Vorian, for all his scheming, would be a loyal subject.
The journey to the capital was a tense, silent procession. Liam, with Sir Lucas and the Black Knights at his side, rode in silence. He felt the weight of the Ring of Azure Depths on his finger, the silent promise of power. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the true battlefield was not a dueling circle, but the treacherous, unforgiving court of the Razakian Kingdom.
The capital, a sprawling metropolis of stone and iron, was a sharp contrast to the wild, untamed beauty of the North. Its streets were a labyrinth of narrow, winding alleys, a breeding ground for shadows and whispers. The palace, a massive, towering monument to the Razakian dynasty, was a symbol of power, and of the rot that was slowly eating it from the inside out.
The Royal Feast was a grand affair, a symphony of light, music, and murmuring voices. The great hall was filled with nobles from every corner of the kingdom, their silks and jewels a garish display of their own fleeting power. Liam stood by his father's side, a silent, watchful presence, his eyes scanning the crowd, his Aura a silent, protective shield.
He saw familiar faces. The King, a frail, withered man, sat on his throne, his eyes a tired reflection of a once-powerful dynasty. Prince Arthur, his face a mask of cold fury, sat to his right, his eyes, like a predator's, fixed on Liam. He saw Vorian, his face a mask of false piety, his eyes, like a viper's, fixed on Liam. He was here. His silent war had begun.
The King's steward, a tall, gaunt man with a face like a hawk, announced the start of the evening. The feast began. The conversation, polite and guarded, was a battlefield of its own. Rumors, whispers, veiled threats—they were all a part of the game.
The King, in a voice as frail as a dry leaf, began to speak. "My lords and ladies, I welcome you to my humble court. I have heard much of the events of late. Of a young lord from the North, a champion of the Oulbeck Tournament, and of the unfortunate events that befell our honored guests from House Vangoria." His gaze, sharp and piercing, landed on Vorian. "I trust all is well, my lord? And that you have no... further... troubles with your enemies?"
Vorian's face, a mask of false piety, did not waver. "Indeed, my King. I have no troubles. My troubles are my brother's. He has a… rash temper. A… wild disposition. I fear he will bring shame upon our family. A shame that will not be forgotten."
Liam's heart sank. He had fallen into his uncle's trap. Vorian had just used the King's banquet as an opportunity to publicly disgrace his own brother, a treacherous move that could very well turn the entire court against Baren.
Then, to his shock, the King's steward announced the final event of the evening. "A duel! A duel between the champion of the Oulbeck Tournament, Lord Liam Lithian, and the most promising young knight in the Royal Guard, Ser Kael."
Liam's heart hammered. A duel? Here? Now? He looked at his father, who simply nodded, a stoic and unyielding expression on his face. He looked at Vorian, who smiled, a chilling, triumphant glint in his eyes.
He stepped onto the dueling circle, a silent figure in a maelstrom of light and whispers. Across from him stood Ser Kael, a tall, imposing man, a man whose Aura was a burning red, a sign of his immense, but unrefined, power. Liam's Aura, a quiet, controlled river, met Kael's wild torrent. The crowd was a silent, watchful presence. The King, a withered figure on his throne, watched with a piercing gaze. The Prince, his face a mask of cold fury, watched with a chilling smile.
Liam looked at his opponent. This was not a tournament. This was a battle for his family's honor. A battle for his father's reputation. A battle for his own life.
"Begin!" the King's steward boomed.
Liam's Aura flared, a brilliant, golden light with a faint, dark, spectral shimmer, a ghostly echo of his Obsidian Scales, a hint of the Dragonheart Vigor. He had become the dragon. And he was ready to show the world what he was capable of.