Lucien had barely slept.
The night air in the Seravain estate was heavy with mist, damp stone pressing faintly against the walls like the weight of centuries. He moved silently along the upper corridor, practicing the smallest shifts in weight he had drilled all week. Even without a blade, his body obeyed the Seravain way: always adapting, always flowing, always shaping itself to the surrounding currents. The hall was narrow, the walls lined with tapestries depicting rivers, streams, and unseen currents, all subtly bending around obstacles. He traced the patterns with his eyes as he walked, mimicking their shapes with the tilt of his shoulders, the angle of his hips, the careful alignment of his feet.
The river beneath the estate pulsed faintly in response. Not whispering. Not roaring. Observing. Testing. Lucien felt the slight pressure in his soles, the subtle shift beneath the stone, the flow of unseen water guiding him, approving some motions, resisting others.
He stopped before the training hall, heart steady but alert. The mirrors reflected only his own movements, yet he imagined the room alive with threats, the unseen presence of watchers from Lysander, spies perhaps already inside the estate, cataloging every detail of his life. Flow, his father had said. Move like the river. Adapt. Shape. Never break.
Lucien drew his wooden practice sword and assumed stance. The weight was familiar. Balanced. The grip felt like an extension of his arm, his own heartbeat syncing to the rhythm of the wood. He began with the footwork, moving through the patterns he had repeated a thousand times: step forward, slide right, pivot left, sink, rise, glide. Each motion was smooth, seamless, continuous, a single thread of water bending around stone. He imagined shadows pressing against the walls, the presence of intruders, the silent patience of House Lysander.
Then he sensed it.
A faint movement in the far corridor—a ripple in the stone floor, almost imperceptible, but enough to disturb the river beneath his feet. He froze mid-step, allowing his body to flow naturally into a defensive position, weight balanced, senses sharpened. The river beneath him coiled, testing him, pressing lightly against his legs as if to remind him: this is the test.
He moved again. Slowly, deliberately, stepping forward, letting the imagined pressure slide along his arms, redirecting it with minimal force. Every motion was precise, every shift in weight an adjustment to the invisible currents of the estate. Lysander operatives did not rush. They tested, observed, prodded like the tip of a blade through water. Lucien was the water—and the current itself.
A shadow detached from the wall. It moved with impossible stillness, silent even against the polished stone. Lucien's eyes caught it in the corner of his vision. Without thinking, he pivoted, allowed the wooden sword to swing in a natural arc, and felt the blade guide the shadow back, redirecting the force without meeting it head-on. The intruder—he guessed an operative of Lysander—did not stumble, but adjusted slightly, a ripple in the stream that did not break the flow.
Lucien held his stance, waiting. The hall seemed to contract around him, air thick with anticipation. Every muscle in his body was tuned, every breath measured. He did not attack. He did not defend aggressively. He flowed around the pressure, letting it move as it would while keeping his center intact. Always keep shape. Adapt. Redirect. Endure.
The intruder shifted again, silent and deliberate. Lucien stepped back, pivoting on the heel of his foot, letting the wooden sword extend naturally, angling it to redirect the opponent's weight. Every motion was fluid, measured, harmonious. The intruder adjusted perfectly, mirroring his movements. Neither side advanced aggressively; both moved like rivers converging, testing each other without breaking the flow.
Lucien's heart remained steady. His father's voice echoed in his memory: The flow does not resist. It bends, it adapts, it shapes itself around pressure without losing form. He realized he had not felt fear—not yet. Not because the threat was small, but because he understood that survival was not about force. It was about awareness, patience, and the ability to bend without breaking.
The shadow paused, just long enough for Lucien to sense a secondary presence behind it—a faint, almost imperceptible ripple. Two. Perhaps three intruders. They were careful, waiting for him to reveal a flaw. The river beneath the estate pressed lightly against his legs and feet, reminding him to shift, to bend, to flow.
Lucien moved through the hall like water. Each step, each pivot, each adjustment of his sword mirrored the natural motion of the unseen river beneath the stone. He flowed around the intruders' positions, sensing pressure points in the air and stone that human eyes could not detect. The mirrors reflected only his own motions, but he could feel the ripple of others, like subtle waves moving beneath the surface.
Then came the first strike. Not from a sword, but a light weight—a small projectile hurled silently from behind a column. Lucien's body reacted instantly. He stepped into the current, allowed the motion to slide along his arm and into the wooden sword, deflecting the object harmlessly into the wall. Every movement was continuous, seamless, adaptive. He had practiced this moment a thousand times in theory; now the theory became reality.
The intruders pressed again, moving with greater coordination. Lucien adjusted his footwork, shifting his center, letting the energy pass around him, never halting, never resisting. He moved through the hall as though the stone itself guided him, as though the river beneath the estate lent him its hidden strength. He struck and redirected simultaneously, a dance of fluidity, letting each threat move without breaking the shape of his defense.
Finally, the intruders withdrew—at least for the moment. The hall was empty again, yet Lucien felt the weight of observation still pressing upon him. He lowered his stance, chest rising and falling, sweat cooling along his back, muscles taut and trembling from exertion. The river beneath him pressed faintly, approving, yet demanding more. Flow is endless. Flow is constant. There is no rest.
Lucien sheathed the wooden sword. He moved to the mirrors, observing himself closely. Every motion, every pivot, every subtle shift in weight reflected the teachings of the Seravain way. Nothing had broken. The shape had remained intact. He had flowed with the current of the intruders' attack, bending without resisting, shaping the pressure into empty space without losing form.
A sound behind him made him turn sharply. His father stood at the door, arms folded, expression unreadable. Lucien bowed slightly.
"You have done well," Alaric said. "But do not mistake this for victory. You have merely passed the first test of the current. Others will follow. They will probe more deeply, move faster, and test your limits."
Lucien nodded. He could feel it already—the pressure of House Lysander, the watchful patience of Drayvane, the cautious calculation of Caelthorn. The current of the Four Families pressed against the estate, invisible yet unstoppable. And yet, he felt ready. Not because he was strong, but because he had learned the river's truth: it bends, it shapes, it adapts, and it endures.
He moved back to the training hall. Alone now, he repeated the patterns, slow at first, then faster, letting the motion become instinct, letting the flow become part of his body. Step, pivot, slide, bend, rise. Every action a continuation of the current. Every movement a rehearsal for the next threat.
Outside, beyond the estate walls, shadows moved. Observers waited. Questions were being asked. Accusations whispered in the corridors of power.
But inside, Lucien Seravain flowed. The current never broke. The river never stopped. And in the stillness of the hall, he knew that even the first strike of the Four Families could not bend him—if he did not allow it.
He paused at the narrow window overlooking the lower gardens. The river ran beneath the estate, a dark, hidden line twisting through stone and shadow. He traced it with his eyes, imagining its secret paths, its hidden channels, its unseen strength.
Then let them try to break the current, he thought, and for the first time, he felt something like certainty.
The river flows, and I flow with it. Nothing else can stop me.