Dawn hadn't arrived yet when Kael opened his eyes.
He didn't need sunlight or the sound of servants moving through the hallways. His body simply... knew. As if every nerve had been waiting for this moment, tense and alert even in sleep.
He rose without making noise, his bare feet touching cold stone. The room was dark except for the dim glow of moonlight filtering through the curtainless window. Outside, the sea roared against the cliffs with its perpetual violence, and the wind howled like something alive and hungry.
First day, he thought as he dressed with deliberate movements. Simple tunic, dark wool pants, boots that still fit too small. Nothing elegant. Nothing that screamed "Grand Duke's son."
Just clothes that could be ruined.
He looked at himself in the small cracked mirror beside his trunk. An eight-year-old boy looked back: thin, normal for his age, with gray eyes too serious for his face. There was nothing imposing about him. Nothing suggesting power or destiny.
Good, he decided. Let them underestimate me. It's easier to surprise when no one expects anything.
He left his room without waking Sareth. His brother needed sleep more than he needed to know Kael was leaving. Besides, he didn't want questions. Didn't want to have to explain why he was doing this.
Because honestly, he still wasn't entirely sure himself.
The training yard was shrouded in darkness when Kael arrived. Sea fog had climbed over the walls, coiling around practice posts and dummies like spectral fingers. The air smelled of salt, iron, and old sweat absorbed into the earth after years of men bleeding on it.
Kael stopped at the edge, looking at the empty space. In a few hours, this place would be full of sound: steel against steel, shouts of effort, Master Torin's harsh corrections. But now, in the pre-dawn stillness, it was almost peaceful.
Almost.
He walked to the center, his boots crunching softly against gravel. He stood where Rylan had been days ago, where electric blue Aether had shone around his practice sword with such ease it seemed to breathe.
I'll never have that, Kael knew. Not like that. Not with that intensity. My resonance was average. Ordinary.
But maybe I don't need to be exceptional with Aether. Maybe I just need to be good enough not to die if someone tries to kill me.
It was a modest goal. Almost pathetic in its lack of ambition.
But it was honest.
—Did you arrive early to impress or because you couldn't sleep?
Kael spun, his hand flying instinctively to where a sword would be if he had one.
Master Torin stood in the archway entrance to the yard, arms crossed over his chest. His leather training armor reflected the moon's dim light, and his eyes—dark as river stones—studied him with impassive expression.
How long has he been there?
—I couldn't sleep, Master Torin —Kael admitted.
—Nerves or excitement?
—Both.
Torin grunted, something that might have been approval.
—At least you're honest. Half the idiots training here would lie and say they're not afraid. —He walked toward the center of the yard with heavy steps—. Fear is good. Fear keeps you alert. It's only when fear paralyzes you that it kills you.
He stopped in front of Kael, looking down at him.
—Last chance to back out. Once we start, there's no turning back for at least a week. Understood?
—Understood.
—You're going to bleed.
—That's fine.
—You're going to cry.
—Probably.
—You're going to want to quit every damn day for the first month.
Kael held his gaze.
—But I won't.
There was a long moment of silence. Then Torin nodded, something like respect briefly crossing his face.
—We'll see.
The sound of footsteps interrupted the moment. Both turned to see figures emerging from the fog: the other initiates, arriving in groups of two or three, yawning and rubbing sleepy eyes.
Kael watched them approach, cataloging each one.
The biggest was obvious immediately: a fifteen-year-old boy with shoulders already broad from two years of constant training, brown hair cut in military style, and the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly where he stood in the hierarchy. Not at the top—he'd never be the best, his expression made that clear—but high enough to be respected.
Several others followed: boys between ten and fourteen, all bigger than Kael, all moving with the ease of those who already knew the routine. Some noticed him and looked with curiosity. Others with barely disguised contempt. Most simply paid him no attention.
Until one—maybe twelve, with a recent scar on his cheek—stopped in front of him.
—How old are you, runt?
—Eight.
The boy whistled.
—I started at ten and almost died the first month. —He looked Kael up and down—. Good luck. You're going to need it.
He walked away before Kael could respond.
Favius was the last to approach. He stood next to Kael, not looking directly at him, eyes fixed on Torin.
—You're Rylan's brother —he said. Not a question.
—Half-brother —Kael corrected.
—Does it matter?
—To me it does.
Favius glanced at him sideways, evaluating.
—Fair. —Pause—. I'm Favius. We're probably third cousins or something. Family's complicated.
—It is.
—Did you come to prove something or are you just bored?
Kael considered the question. There were many answers he could give. Political answers. Calculated answers.
But there was something in Favius's direct frankness that demanded honesty.
—I came because being just the son who reads books isn't enough in a family of warriors.
Favius nodded slowly.
—Respectable. —Small smile—. Stupid, but respectable.
Before Kael could respond, Torin's voice thundered across the yard.
—FORMATION!
The initiates lined up immediately, with practiced movements Kael didn't have. He stumbled toward the end of the line, feeling clumsy and out of place.
Torin walked in front of them with slow, deliberate steps, hands behind his back, eyes sweeping each face.
—Some of you already know this. One of you doesn't. —His gaze stopped on Kael—. So I'll say it once: I don't care who your father is. I don't care what blood runs through your veins. I don't care if yesterday you were prince or beggar. Here, you're all equal: pathetically weak until you prove otherwise.
He walked toward Kael, stopping directly in front of him.
—You. What's your name?
—Kael Drayvar, Master Torin.
—Here you're just Kael. No titles. No "son of." —He leaned closer—. And if you vomit during training, do it out of my sight. If you cry, go home. Understood?
—Understood.
—Good. —He straightened, addressing everyone again—. Warm-up: five laps around the main yard. Then body exercises. Then sword forms. Then combat. You have ten seconds to start running or I add a lap.
The initiates exploded into movement.
Kael ran.
He had no idea where the "main yard" was but he followed the others, lungs already starting to burn after the first minute.
This is going to be a disaster, he thought as he watched Favius and the others pull away from him with insulting ease.
But at least it'll be my disaster.
By the end of the second lap, Kael's lungs burned as if he'd swallowed embers. By the third, his legs trembled. By the fourth, each breath was a knife in his chest.
He finished the fifth lap long after everyone else was already resting, doubled over himself, hands on knees, trying not to pass out.
—Pathetic —he heard someone mutter.
He had no breath to respond. He wasn't sure he cared.
Torin appeared over him.
—Can you continue?
Kael nodded, unable to speak.
—Then continue. Push-ups. Fifty.
Kael dropped to the ground, placing his hands in position. He pushed up.
One. Two. Three.
His arms trembled.
Four. Five. Six.
He heard muffled laughter.
Seven. Eight.
On the ninth, his arms gave out. He crashed into the earth, nose hitting gravel.
—Up! —Torin barked.
Kael forced himself up again. Nine. Ten.
He fell again.
—Up.
By the time he reached fifteen, his entire body was screaming. The other initiates were already at thirty, forty, some near fifty.
Kael reached twenty before he literally couldn't lift himself anymore.
—Enough —Torin said, not kindly but not cruelly either—. Sit-ups. Fifty.
They were worse. Much worse.
Kael managed twenty-three before his abdominals simply stopped working, muscles trembling uselessly as he lay in the dirt, looking at the sky slowly turning gray with dawn.
This is worse than I imagined, he thought between gasps. And we're barely starting.
Squats were a different torture: not the acute exhaustion of push-ups, but the slow, constant burn of leg muscles forced beyond their limit. Kael did thirty before his legs literally gave out under him, sending him to the earth in an ungraceful heap.
No one laughed this time. It was too sad to be funny.
When Torin finally called the end of body exercises, Kael was covered in sweat and dirt, hands trembling, muscles he never knew he had now screaming their existence.
And half the training still remained.
—Swords! —Torin shouted.
The initiates rose, some with fluid movements, others—including Kael—with considerable effort. Caminaron hacia los racks donde estaban alineadas espadas de práctica de madera: armas embotadas pero todavía capaces de romper huesos si se usaban con suficiente fuerza.
Kael lifted one. It was heavier than he expected, swinging awkwardly in his hand.
—Pair up —Torin ordered—. Favius, with the new one. The rest know what to do.
Favius approached with a practice sword resting comfortably on his shoulder. He stood before Kael, studying him.
—Have you held a sword before?
—Not really —Kael admitted.
—Perfect. —Favius sighed—. Alright. Stance first. Watch.
He slid into position: feet shoulder-width apart, weight on the balls of his feet, sword held in diagonal guard across his body.
—This is First Guard. The most basic position. Try it.
Kael tried. His feet were too close together. His weight was on his heels. His sword was too low.
—No, not like that. —Favius approached, pushing Kael's foot outward with his own—. Wider. Imagine you're on ice trying not to slip. You need stable base.
Kael adjusted.
—Better. Now your weight. Forward, on the balls of your feet. Feel the difference?
Kael nodded. It felt... less stable, but more ready to move.
—Good. Now the sword. Higher. You're not resting, you're defending. If I swing at your head right now, can you block?
Kael raised his sword. Favius made a slow, lazy swing. Kael blocked it, barely.
—There. That's First Guard. —Favius stepped back—. Now do it a thousand times until your muscles remember it without thinking.
—Why are you helping me? —Kael asked suddenly.
Favius stopped, considering the question.
—Because I was the worst here when I started five years ago. —Shrug—. And because someone helped me then. Paying it forward, I guess.
—Who helped you?
—Doesn't matter. He's gone. —Dark expression crossing his face—. Now practice your damn stance.
They spent the next hour working basic forms: First Guard, transition to Second Guard, simple attacks, blocks. Kael's arms trembled constantly, his grip slipping with sweat, but Favius was patient.
Not kind. Not condescending. Just... patient.
—Why do you hate Rylan? —Kael asked during a brief water break.
Favius almost choked.
—What makes you think I hate him?
—Your face every time someone mentions his name.
—I don't hate him. Just... —Pause—. You know what it feels like to be around someone who's everything you want to be but never will be?
—Yes —Kael said quietly—. Yes, I do.
Favius looked at him, really looked at him, and something like understanding passed between them.
—Rylan is perfect —Favius said finally—. Strong, talented, praised by everyone. And I'm... average. Decent. "Good effort, Favius." "Keep trying, Favius." But never "exceptional."
—Then don't try to be Rylan —Kael suggested—. Be something different.
—Like what?
—I don't know yet. But there has to be something.
Favius snorted, but there was a small smile on his face.
—You're weird.
—I know.
The practice combat was exactly the disaster Kael expected.
His first opponent was a twelve-year-old boy with thin but surprisingly fast arms. Torin blew the whistle.
The boy attacked.
Kael tried to block.
Failed.
The wooden sword hit him in the side with enough force to knock him down, pain exploding in his ribs.
Eight seconds. The combat lasted eight seconds.
—Up! —Torin shouted—. Again.
Kael got up, sharp pain in his side. He got into guard.
The whistle blew.
This time he lasted fifteen seconds before being knocked down.
Progress, he thought ironically as he spat out dirt.
—Enough! —Torin pointed at him—. You. Kael. You stay an extra half hour. You need to learn how to FALL without killing yourself.
Some of the initiates laughed. Favius didn't laugh. He just nodded, as if he'd expected exactly that.
The extra half hour was brutal in a different way. Not the acute violence of combat, but the monotonous repetition of learning to roll, to bend, to absorb impacts without breaking.
Torin knocked him down again and again, showing him how to fall correctly.
—Don't resist the fall. Use it. Roll with it. Turn the momentum into movement.
Kael tried. Failed. Tried again.
By the time Torin finally let him go, the sun was completely up, the other initiates had long since left, and every part of Kael's body was a bruise waiting to happen.
He got up, swaying slightly.
—Tomorrow, same time —Torin said—. Don't be late.
—Yes, Master Torin.
Kael started to walk away and almost fell when a hand grabbed his shoulder.
Favius was there.
—You stayed —Kael said, surprised.
—Torin did this to me too when I started. —Favius released his shoulder—. Thought you might need help walking back. You look like you're about to pass out.
—I'm fine.
—Liar. —But there was something like respect in Favius's voice—. Come on. I'll show you the shortcut to the main chambers.
Caminaron en silencio durante un momento, con Kael cojeando ligeramente, con todo doliendo.
—Why did you really stay? —he finally asked.
Favius shrugged.
—Because you survived. Most eight-year-olds would have cried and gone home hours ago. You stayed. That's... something.
—Something good?
—Ask me in two months.
They reached the doors leading to the east wing. Favius stopped.
—A piece of advice —he said—. When you get knocked down tomorrow—and you will get knocked down—roll into the blow, not away from it.
—That's counterintuitive.
—I know. That's why it works. It breaks their momentum and gives you half a second to recover. Half a second is all you need sometimes.
—Thank you.
—Don't thank me yet. Tomorrow will be worse.
—Worse than today?
—Much worse. —Favius smiled—. Your body doesn't even know what hit it yet. Tomorrow, every muscle will scream. And then you'll have to train anyway.
—Great.
Favius studied him for a moment longer.
—Why did you really come? —he asked—. You're the Grand Duke's son. You could study, learn politics, stay home. But you come here to get broken. Why?
Kael considered lying. Giving some noble answer about honor or duty.
But something about Favius—his raw honesty, his acknowledgement of his own limitations—demanded truth.
—Because being just the son who reads books isn't enough in a family of warriors —he said—. I'll never be Rylan. I'll never be the heir. But I can be dangerous enough that people think twice before discarding me.
Favius nodded slowly.
—Honest. I like it. —He turned to leave, then stopped—. Hey, Kael. One more thing.
—Yes?
—Don't compare yourself to Rylan. It's a lost battle. Instead, compare yourself to who you were yesterday. If you're a little better every day, eventually you get somewhere.
—Where?
—I don't know yet. —Small smile—. But I bet it's more interesting than being a copy of someone else.
He left, leaving Kael alone in the hallway.
Kael walked back to his room, every step agony. Everything hurt: legs, arms, back, abdomen, even muscles he didn't know existed. He had blisters on his hands, a bruise forming on his right rib, and he'd probably lost a little skin from his face when he crashed into the gravel.
But he had survived.
First day. Done.
Sareth was waiting outside his door, eyes wide with worry.
—How was it? —he asked immediately.
—Horrible —Kael admitted, opening his door.
—Are you going back?
Kael stopped in the doorway. He turned to look at his brother, and despite the exhaustion, despite the pain, he smiled.
—Tomorrow. And every day after.
—Why? If it's so horrible...
—Because horrible doesn't mean impossible. —Kael stepped into his room—. It just means hard. And nothing easy has ever gotten me anywhere.
He closed the door softly, leaving Sareth in the hallway with a thoughtful expression.
He collapsed onto his bed—his narrow, uncomfortable bed, with rough sheets—and looked at the stone ceiling.
Favius is right, he thought. I'm the worst one there. By far. But he was too once. And if he could get better... then there's hope.
Not hope of being Rylan. But of being something different.
Something useful. Something dangerous.
Something mine.
Thunder rumbled over the mansion, rattling the windows. Kael closed his eyes, feeling every muscle protest, every bruise pulse.
And he smiled.
First day, he thought as darkness claimed him. Only a thousand more to go.
But I'll be there for every one.
Because that's what you do when you're not the chosen one, the prodigy, the perfect one.
You just don't quit.
Never.