The next morning, mist still clung low over the grounds of the Rathsture Estate when Riven arrived. Dew soaked the soil and grass, its cold seeping slowly into the soles of his feet. He didn't complain. The chill of dawn made his mind feel clearer than usual.
He held Riftmaker lightly in his right hand, not to fight, but to look inward: to understand himself.
He stood in the center of the training yard, recalling Ashtoria's movements from the day before. The way she positioned her body, regulated her breathing, and shifted her stance between the four forms she demonstrated. Each movement carried its own philosophy. And today, Riven intended to explore them one by one.
First: the heavy, powerful sword.
He drew in a breath and lowered his stance. Knees bent, shoulders raised slightly, center of gravity lowered. He pulled Riftmaker back and swung forward as if splitting a boulder in front of him.
WHUUM.
The strike dragged his whole body with it. His chest trembled, his arms tightened, and his feet rooted firmly into the ground. He repeated it. Once. Twice. Three times. Each swing was a heavy wave crashing through everything in its path.
But his body pushed back against it.
Every motion felt forced. He had to strain his hips to control the torque, and his grip on Riftmaker tightened until his fingers began to cramp.
"This isn't me," he whispered.
Power like that required a body built like stone, towering stamina, and overwhelming physical force. Riven could imitate it, but he couldn't blend with it. He exhaled and moved on.
Second: the soft, flowing sword.
He loosened his shoulders. Released the tension from his knees. Let his body sway like a willow branch in the wind. He began to move, not striking, but flowing. His steps curved, his body turning along the arc of motion. It was like dancing, though not for beauty, but for efficiency.
He imagined an attack from the left and shifted with it, rotating his hips and guiding the blade as though it was moved by wind instead of muscle.
His body welcomed it. No strain. Only rhythm.
But every time he tried to direct force into the strike, the attack lost weight. He could evade, yes. But counter? Kill? He hesitated. Not because the style was wrong, but because he himself couldn't commit to it fully.
He stopped. Drew a slow breath. It was beautiful. But not his path.
Third: the swift and agile sword.
He shifted again. His breathing quickened. Light, rapid steps carried him across the training ground. He didn't wait. His body began moving on instinct.
ZRAK. ZRAK.
Short slashes. Quick thrusts. Explosive bursts of movement like arrows loosed from a bowstring. He crossed from one side of the yard to the other. Attacking from the right, dodging left, then striking upward in a split-second arc.
Sweat began to bead on his skin, but he smiled. His mind moved with his body. His reflexes sharpened. The smaller muscles in his legs, usually dormant, now fired in perfect coordination.
Fast. Nimble. Wild. And controlled.
"This… feels natural."
But he wasn't done.
Fourth: the straight, precise sword.
He came to a stop in the center of the yard.
This form was not about speed. Not about power. But absolute accuracy.
He lowered his stance slightly. Looked forward. There was no target, only open space, thinning mist, and morning light filtering between the trees.
He lifted Riftmaker with a steady hand, holding it level with the ground. He imagined a point. A single point. Not a wide strike. Not a sweeping arc. A line.
One intent. One line. One cut.
ZSSHHT.
He stepped lightly. Not fast. But exact. In one motion, Riftmaker slid forward like lightning straight and silent. When the strike finished, his body stilled, as if no additional motion was necessary. Nothing wasted.
Riven stood still.
He closed his eyes and felt his pulse. It was cool. Focused. He wasn't showing force or trying to imitate anything. He was simply acting on pure intention.
When he opened his eyes, he knew.
Ashtoria had been right. His body lived in speed, in agile movement that freed him to act without being bound to large patterns. But his mind the quiet, sharp, calculating part of him resonated with precision.
Not strength. Not fluidity. But speed and accuracy.
He sat slowly on the damp ground, letting the cool sweat trail down his temple. The morning sun began to warm the grass, and the last of the mist faded from the sky.
For the first time in all his training, Riven felt whole.
His sword was far from complete. But the path had begun to reveal itself.
.
.
.
Footsteps crossed the dew-covered training yard. Quiet, steady, and confident, like someone who believed every place he walked belonged to him.
Riven didn't turn. His breathing had returned to normal after the long session. But his body froze for a fraction of a second when a cold, high voice sounded behind him.
"Training in the morning, are we?"
The tone seemed friendly. But too clean. Too polished to contain sincerity.
"A good habit for a servant."
Riven lowered Riftmaker. Only then did he turn to see the intruder.
A young man stood at the edge of the yard, wearing a velvet black coat lined with gold embroidery. Even in the muted morning light, he looked loud. His face was refined, chin lifted, and in his eyes there was a gaze that judged not people, but property.
Riven didn't reply. He simply stared back, flat and cold.
The man's eyes narrowed. "Not a servant, then. Or maybe a servant who's fantasizing about being a swordsman?"
His voice was needle-sharp. Not loud, but clearly intentional. He stepped forward.
Riven exhaled and replied quietly, almost lazily, yet sharp enough to cut.
"I don't know who you are, and I don't care. But if you're judging people by their clothes, your brain might not weigh much more than the brooch on your chest."
Riven had never seen him before, but everything about him made it obvious he was a noble. Likely the one who arrived the previous night.
In the past, Riven might have endured the insult silently. He knew there was no benefit in provoking nobles.
But after his time with Ashtoria and the truth he'd learned about himself, he no longer wished to be looked down on.
The man's gaze tightened.
A breeze lifted his dark hair, but not the faint smile returning to his lips.
"Interesting." His tone dropped slightly. "Most people like you kneel before I even speak."
"Then maybe," Riven replied, unblinking, "you're used to being surrounded by cowards."
Silence walked in between them.
Their eyes met. Equally cold. Equally sharp. Equally unwilling to step back.
Seconds passed. The man finally stepped closer, closing the distance until only a few paces separated them.
"I like people who don't know their place," he murmured. "They make the best lesson."
"In that case," Riven answered softly, "you're going to learn something today."
The air tightened.
But the man didn't step further. He just smiled, openly this time.
"I'll remember your face. We may speak again tonight, when my father and I meet Lord Rathsture. I hope you're still here, so I can see just how far this little servant's arrogance goes."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned away.
Riven watched him leave.
.
.
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Author's Note:
In the original version, this chapter was actually around the point where Riven awakened his power. Just sharing...