The Voidstone Chamber became the center of my universe. Days blurred, marked not by the rising and setting of the sun, but by the heavy, grating sound of the stone slab sealing me in, and the exhausted, trembling relief when it slid open again.
The sessions were grueling. My father's method was relentless, built on a simple, brutal philosophy: to control the beast, I must first learn to endure its rage without breaking.
"Again."
His voice, a low rumble in the absolute darkness, was the only metronome. He stood opposite me, a mountain of silent, immovable presence, his weighted practice sword a mere extension of his will.
'He is testing us,' the cold, arrogant whisper echoed from the dragon's heart. 'He pokes the cage, daring us to show our true strength. Obliterate him.'
I ignored it, my focus a pinpoint, my body already aching. I sank into the Two-Heart Cadence, the steady rhythm a fragile shield against the internal storm.
"Scales," my father commanded.
I took a breath. Thump-THUMP. I focused my will, not on suppression, but on the precise, controlled act of creation. The familiar, burning-cold sensation erupted along my arms, flowing like liquid shadow over my shoulders and chest, locking into a solid, shimmering vambrace of black, draconic armor.
The moment the scales settled, the dragon's voice grew louder, its presence surging, amplified by its own manifested power. The armor wanted to be used. It craved impact. It sang with a low, dissonant hum of territorial aggression.
My father attacked. His blows were heavy, jarring, aimed not to injure but to test the limits of my defense, the limits of my control. Each thud of his practice sword against my scaled forearm sent a shockwave not just through my body, but through my mind.
The dragon roared at the insult. 'Strike back! This lesser creature dares to strike us? Rip the blade from its hands! Tear it apart!'
"Hold your center!" my father's voice cut through the rising haze. "Do not let it dictate your response! You are the master, it is the tool! Control it!"
I gritted my teeth, sweat stinging my eyes. I didn't attack. I didn't retaliate. I focused every ounce of my will on the cadence, on my footwork, on simply enduring. I flowed, parried, blocked, using the scales as a shield, not a weapon, forcing the dragon's fury into a purely defensive posture.
My arms trembled with the strain, a dual exertion of physical force and psychic suppression. The crimson haze lapped at the edges of my vision, but I held it at bay. I was the wall.
After what felt like an eternity, he disengaged, stepping back. "Dismiss them."
With a shuddering exhale, I willed the scales to recede. They dissolved back beneath my skin, leaving me feeling strangely cold, hollowed out, but in control. My thoughts were my own.
'Pathetic,' the dragon's will snarled, receding into a sullen, watchful silence.
Leo's slow, deliberate clap echoed from the shadows near the wall. "Bravo, lordling. You managed to not throw a temper tantrum when your father hit you. A stunning display of maturity." His voice was laced with its usual cynicism, but I caught a flicker of something else in his Aether. Grudging respect.
"His control held," my father stated, his voice flat. "But defense is only half the battle. Power that cannot be aimed is just a tantrum." He gesttured to the far wall of the chamber. "The Lance. Targets. Now."
This was the harder part. The scales were defensive, reactive. The Dragon's Lance was an act of pure, focused aggression. To use it, I had to deliberately tap into the very part of the dragon I was trying to cage.
I turned to face the blank, unforgiving stone. My father moved, not to attack, but to stand beside Leo, his Grandmaster's Aura a silent, heavy presence, a wall at my back. The pressure was different now, not a physical assault, but the immense, crushing weight of expectation, of scrutiny.
"Fire," he commanded.
I took a breath, found my cadence. Thump-THUMP. I gathered my Mana, reaching for that core of draconic power. The dragon's will met me instantly, eager, surging. 'Yes! Unleash! Destroy!'
I tried to shape the energy, to force it into the precise, narrow beam of the Lance. But the dragon's fury was too much, my control too fragile. The energy tore free from my grasp. A wild, chaotic blast of crimson-black power erupted from my hand, not a lance, but a concussive, roaring wave. It slammed into the Voidstone wall, the sound a deafening crack, sending spiderwebs of fissures through the unyielding stone. The chamber filled with the smell of ozone.
I staggered back, appalled. The backlash of uncontrolled energy left my arm numb, my mind reeling.
"Pathetic," Leo's voice was flat, bored. "That was a child's tantrum. You didn't aim, you just threw. A waste of power. What if that wall had been Seraphina?"
A cold dread washed over me, far colder than the chamber air. He was right. That blast could have obliterated anyone in its path.
"Again," my father's voice was like iron. "You are not a beast, Lancelot. You are a warrior. A warrior imposes his will on the weapon. The weapon does not control the man. Find the rhythm. Use the cadence as the barrel of the gun, not just the trigger. Focus."
I closed my eyes, my breath ragged. 'He's right. Leo is right. I can't fight the aggression. The Inheritor's Burden… integration, not suppression. I have to channel it.'
I took a slow, deep breath. I found the cadence. Thump-THUMP. I reached for the dragon's power again, felt its eager, destructive surge. But this time, I didn't build a wall against it. I built a canal. I accepted the cold, arrogant fury, embraced its desire to strike, but forced it, with all my human will, into the narrow, disciplined channel of my Path. I wove the dragon's rage into the very rhythm of my two hearts.
"Target," I said, my voice hoarse.
"Center wall. High," my father commanded.
I raised my hand. Thump-THUMP. I exhaled. Now.
The power surged, but this time it was contained. It flowed through the canal of my will, compressed by the cadence, and erupted from my palm. It was not a wild, roaring blast. It was a focused, silent, impossibly fast beam of dark, crimson energy, no thicker than my arm. It struck the far wall with a sharp crack, leaving a deep, perfectly circular hole bored into the stone.
Silence.
"Again," my father said, his voice unchanged. "Left. Low."
Thump-THUMP. I fired. The beam struck true.
"Right. Mid-level. Moving target."
I felt him subtly shift his Aura, creating a moving "cold" spot on the wall. I tracked it, my senses, the dragon's senses, and my own locked in perfect, terrifying harmony. Thump-THUMP. I fired. A direct hit.
I stood there, panting, my arm aching, my mind strangely clear. The dragon's will was still there, humming with a satisfied, sated power, but it was quiet. It had been used. It had been respected. And it had obeyed.
"That," Leo's voice was different now, the cynicism gone, replaced by a quiet, calculating intensity, "is how you begin. You didn't cage the beast. You aimed it."
I opened my hand, feeling the phantom tingle of the Lance. I was still a Low Expert. I was still terrified of the near-death trigger, the moment when all my fragile walls and careful channels would be swept away. But this was a start. I had proven I could wield the dragon's fire without letting it burn me alive.
My father placed a heavy hand on my shoulder, his grip firm, grounding. "Better," he rumbled. "You are learning to aim the weapon. Do not grow complacent. The weapon is still alive. And it is always hungry."