The grim satisfaction of the Brennus mission faded quickly upon returning to the familiar, oppressive silence of the Voidstone Chamber. Success against Borin and the Iron Mask handler felt distant, almost irrelevant here.
Yes, I had maintained control. Yes, I had used my Expert abilities with precision. But I hadn't faced it. The trigger. The moment where survival instinct screams louder than reason, where the world narrows to a single point of impending annihilation. The moment the dragon had broken free before.
My father understood this. Leo understood this. And so, the crucible was reignited, its fires stoked hotter than before.
The chamber felt even smaller now, the absolute darkness pressing in. My father stood opposite me, a massive silhouette, his presence an unyielding wall. Leo lounged somewhere in the periphery, a cynical ghost whose sharp critiques cut deeper than any blade. Seraphina's presence just outside the sealed door was a faint, warm anchor in the cold void, her Life Sense our only early warning system.
"The mission was a success," my father's voice rumbled, devoid of praise, merely stating fact. "You followed orders. You controlled your power against lesser threats." He drew his weighted practice swords, the heavy steel glinting faintly. "Lesser threats do not forge true strength. Today, we test the chains under real pressure."
His earlier sessions had been about pushing me towards the edge, making me feel the dragon's rise. Now, the goal was different. It was about simulating injury, simulating the moments just before the trigger point, forcing me to maintain control while my body screamed danger. Stress inoculation, Leo called it. Torture, I called it privately.
He attacked. The onslaught was immediate, relentless. Faster than before, stronger. He wasn't aiming to disarm or outmaneuver me now. His blows were targeted, controlled bursts of force aimed at vulnerable points – ribs, joints, the side where the Huntsman's blade had pierced. Each impact was jarring, sending waves of simulated agony through my nerves, designed to mimic true injury without causing lasting damage.
I reacted instinctively, sinking into the Two-Heart Cadence, my power flaring. "Scales!" I commanded inwardly. They flowed into existence across my torso and arms, faster, smoother than before, a testament to the weeks of practice. The black armor absorbed the brunt of his initial assault, the heavy practice swords thudding dully against the draconic surface.
But holding the scales under constant, painful impact was a different challenge. The dragon's will surged with every blow, a primal roar demanding retaliation, demanding I meet force with overwhelming, annihilating force. The cold arrogance whispered, 'Why endure this insect's buzzing? Erase him.'
'Control,' I gritted my teeth, visualizing the fortress walls Leo had taught me, anchoring myself in the memory of Seraphina's terrified face, the feel of the cold stone floor, anything human. I parried, deflected, flowed, using my agility to mitigate the impacts, channeling infusion taps through my gauntlets to disrupt his rhythm, fighting a war on two fronts.
"Too slow!" my father barked, his blade slipping past my guard, the weighted pommel slamming hard into my side, right over the old wound. Pain exploded, sharp and sickening. My breath hitched. The world flickered red for a terrifying instant.
"My lord!" Seraphina's voice, faint, panicked, from beyond the door. "His signature—!"
"Hold!" My father's command was absolute, his Aura pressing down, reinforcing the cage.
I gasped, forcing the cadence back into line, shoving the crimson haze back with sheer, desperate willpower. My scaled arm trembled with the effort.
'He felt it,' Leo's voice rasped from the shadows. 'The fear spike. The pain response. That's the door opening, kid. You let it open, but you slammed it shut. Good. Now do it again, without needing the warden to hold your hand.'
The session continued, an agonizing cycle of pressure, pain, and resistance. My father pushed me relentlessly, simulating near misses, impacts that felt bone-jarringly real. Each time, I felt the dragon surge, felt the cold fury rise, felt the edge of the berserk state beckoning. Each time, I fought it back, using the mental defenses, the anchors, the sheer, stubborn refusal to yield my soul.
Interspersed with the sparring were exercises in controlled offense under duress. My father would force me onto the defensive, then suddenly command, "Lance! Target Alpha!"
I'd have to break rhythm, gather my Mana, shape the beam, and fire accurately at a designated spot on the wall, all while parrying his follow-up attack and suppressing the aggressive surge the Lance naturally provoked.
My first few attempts were failures. One Lance shot went wide, scoring the Voidstone wall, lacking focus. Another fizzled out, my concentration broken by the need to block a blow. The dragon snarled at the inefficiency, urging me to just unleash a raw blast.
'Precision, Lancelot!' my father roared. 'Control! A wild beast is useless on the battlefield!'
Gritting my teeth, I tried again. Block. Cadence. Gather. Shape. Exhale. THUMP. The Lance beam shot out, humming with contained power, striking the target dead center. Then immediately back to defense, wrestling the accompanying wave of aggression back into its cage.
It was exhausting on a level deeper than mere physical exertion. It was soul-wearying. Every success felt temporary, every brush with the edge a terrifying reminder of the monster lurking within.
By the time my father finally called a halt hours later, I was drenched in sweat, bruised from simulated impacts, my Mana reserves scraped low, my mind feeling raw and abraded. I collapsed onto the floor, my limbs trembling uncontrollably.
My father stood over me, his expression unreadable in the dim light filtering in as the door slid open. "You held," he stated. "Under moderate duress. The walls are stronger." He paused, then added, his voice holding a rare, almost imperceptible note of something other than sternness. "But the true storm has not yet struck. Do not grow complacent." He turned and left the chamber.
Leo offered me a hand up, his grip surprisingly strong. "Not bad, lordling," he admitted, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "You didn't scream or cry this time. Definite improvement."
Seraphina rushed in, her face etched with worry, pressing a cool, damp cloth to my forehead. Her Life Sense had undoubtedly felt every surge, every moment I neared the brink. Her fear was still there, but now mingled with a fierce, determined support. She was no longer just a monitor; she was a fellow soldier in this internal war.
I had survived another session. I had demonstrated improved resistance, better control over my manifestations, increased stability with the Lance under pressure. Tangible progress. But my father's final words resonated deeply. Moderate duress. The true storm – the moment of actual, imminent death – remained untested. The chains felt stronger, yes. But I hadn't yet felt the beast truly strain against them. The fear of that moment, the fear of failing when it mattered most, remained a cold shadow in the back of my mind.