The morning air in Korvan carried the scent of dew, coal, and turned soil — a far cry from the iron tang of Draconis. The forge smoke curled lazily over the rooftops, fading into the pale dawn. At the edge of the training yard, Rogan stood on the packed ground, the dirt still cool beneath his soles. His wooden long sword felt heavier today — not because of its weight, but because he knew what awaited him.
Across from him, Seren adjusted her stance with calm precision, the haft of her lance resting lightly against her shoulder. The morning light caught the edge of her armor, glinting faintly with the Eternal mark etched along its trim.
"Alright, Rogan," she called, her voice firm but patient. "We start with the basics. No power, no show — just control."
Rogan nodded, gripping the wooden sword with both hands. "Yes, ma'am."
Seren smiled faintly. "Don't 'ma'am' me. I'm your instructor, not your commander. Breathe with your swings, understand?"
Rogan took a slow breath, exhaled through his nose, and lifted the weapon.
"Overhead slash," Seren instructed. "A clean, vertical cut. Let the blade fall — don't force it."
Rogan brought the sword down. The motion was sharp, too sharp — his shoulders tensed, the swing struck air like a hammer against water. The echo cracked through the yard.
Seren frowned. "You're choking it. Breathe with it, not against it."
He nodded again, inhaling as he raised the sword, exhaling as he swung. This time the sound was smoother — less thunder, more wind. His feet shifted naturally in the soil.
"Good," Seren said. "Again. Then right slash — diagonal, right to left."
He swung again, faster, the blade cutting a clean line through the air. Dust kicked up at his feet.
"Now left slash — return the motion," she called. "Keep your weight even!"
Rogan pivoted, but his footing slipped. The swing faltered.
Seren sighed. "Your balance is collapsing again. Power's fine, but power without roots is chaos." She walked over, tapping the back of his leg with the lance's tip. "Heel down. Feel the ground. That's where strength lives."
Rogan adjusted. "Like this?"
"Better," she said. "Now finish with a thrust. Quick and clean."
He lunged, the sword's tip stopping short of an invisible target. It wasn't perfect — his breath broke halfway through the motion — but Seren's gaze softened anyway.
"You're learning," she said.
Rogan wiped sweat from his forehead. "Feels like I'm starting from nothing."
Seren smirked. "That's because you are."
---
Flashback
That same night, the forge burned low. Maerin sat by her desk in the warm amber light, sorting through letters. One envelope bore Alder's seal — faintly smudged but unmistakable. She broke the wax and unfolded several pages written in his steady, practical handwriting.
"Always with the details," she murmured fondly, scanning the notes. Diagrams of stances, breath cycles, and strike sequences filled the parchment, annotated in neat script.
Kael entered the room mid-yawn, rubbing his eyes. "You're still reading at this hour?"
"Old habits," Maerin replied, holding up the pages. "Alder sent this — a new training regimen for the boy."
Kael's brow lifted as he took the papers. "Hmm… long sword forms, huh? Overhead, diagonal, thrust… breathing patterns too. Not bad." He smirked faintly. "Alder always did have a good eye for raw talent."
Seren appeared in the doorway, wiping soot from her hands. "Who's getting the new regimen?"
Kael handed her the notes. "You are. Rogan's under your wing now."
Seren scanned the first page. Her expression shifted from mild surprise to quiet determination. "Understood," she said simply.
"Good," Maerin said. "Then it's settled. Let's see if this one can handle the discipline Alder wrote about."
The fire popped in the hearth, sending a faint ripple of light across the room — a quiet sign of beginnings.
---
The Training Days
The following days blurred into a steady rhythm of effort and exhaustion.
Each dawn began the same: Rogan standing at the training yard, sword in hand, waiting for Seren's signal.
Each dusk ended with him collapsing by the forge, arms trembling, breath shallow but satisfied.
He practiced until his shirt clung to his skin and his lungs burned. His strikes were still rough, the wooden sword chipped at its edges, but it now survived longer than a few minutes of training.
His stance no longer crumbled beneath his own strength. His swings, though imperfect, carried direction — not just raw force.
Seren's voice guided every motion. "Step with the swing. Breathe with it. Don't rush — the sword isn't your enemy."
Rogan listened. Sometimes he failed. Often he improved.
At noon, he worked at the forge beside Maerin, hammering heated iron under her watchful eye. At first, his strikes were too strong — bending metal, breaking molds. But slowly, the rhythm of forging began to bleed into his sword practice. The sound of steel and hammer became one continuous heartbeat.
Evening brought more drills. Seren would wait near the field, arms folded, lance resting at her side. "Form one," she'd command. "Form two. Breathe. Again."
Over and over, until his body learned what his mind still couldn't.
---
One late afternoon, Rogan stood beneath the fading sun, sweat tracing down his jaw. He swung through the final sequence — overhead, diagonal right, return left, thrust. Each motion flowed into the next, like water over stone. The air whistled around the blade.
Seren watched from a distance, her usual stern expression softening slightly.
When he stopped to catch his breath, she approached. "Better."
Rogan looked down at the wooden blade — chipped again, the surface splintered. "Still breaking," he muttered.
Seren gave a faint smile. "Then you're hitting with intent. Weak strikes don't chip the weapon. Only true ones do."
He chuckled breathlessly. "Guess that's a good sign, then."
"It is," Seren said. "But remember — the long sword isn't about power. It's rhythm and patience. You breathe wrong, and you break both blade and body."
Rogan exhaled slowly, looking up at her. "I'll get it right."
She tilted her head. "You will. Just stop fighting the sword."
"Huh?"
Seren pointed to his chest. "You're still trying to control it with muscle. The sword's not a tool — it's a mirror. It reflects whatever's inside you. If you're tense, it's wild. If you're calm, it sings."
Rogan went silent, watching the faint shimmer of light across the worn blade.
"I think I get it," he said at last.
"Good," Seren replied. "Now show me."
He raised the sword again — slower this time. His breath flowed naturally. The swing that followed was quieter, lighter, but deliberate.
Seren nodded once, approving. "That's it. Don't chase perfection. Chase understanding."
The forge bell rang faintly in the distance, signaling the day's end. Rogan lowered his sword, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping from his brow. The exhaustion was heavy — but so was his resolve.
Seren stepped past him toward the gate. "Tomorrow," she said, "we start again. This time with sharper edges."
Rogan turned toward the horizon, the last light glinting off his blade.
He smiled faintly. "I'll be ready."