The dawn arrived slowly over Stormvale, creeping across the horizon as if the sky itself hesitated to light another day. Rylan Drayvar opened his eyes before the first ray of sun touched his window, not out of studied discipline, but because his body simply demanded it. Five months in Vaeloria had reprogrammed something fundamental in him, as if the imperial capital had readjusted his internal clock to a pace that allowed no laziness.
He rose with a fluid motion that would have been impossible six months prior. The bed was too soft, almost offensively comfortable.
'Everything is too soft here,' he thought as his feet touched the cold stone floor. 'Too safe. As if Stormvale were asleep and I was the only one awake.'
He dressed with the efficiency of someone who had learned to prepare for combat in under a minute. Reinforced leather pants that smelled faintly of salt and use, a simple tunic with no unnecessary embroidery, and worn boots that knew the shape of his feet better than any servant. Nothing ostentatious. War clothes, not an heir playing at soldier.
He tied his hair back in front of the mirror, a practical, not vain, gesture, observing the face that stared back. It was different from the one he had left. Harder in the lines around his eyes, his jaw more defined by months of clenching his teeth during training that bordered on torture. Small scars, one on his right eyebrow and another barely visible on his chin, told stories of lessons learned with blood and pain.
'Fifteen years old,' he thought without melancholy or particular pride. Just the statement of a fact. 'I am no longer a child. I cannot be.'
He adjusted his belt with automatic movements, checking that the ceremonial Drayvar dagger was in place. He wouldn't use it today, for training required real steel without the weight of family symbols, but wearing it was a constant reminder. Of who he was. Of what he was supposed to be. That every action, every word, and every breath was judged against the impossible standard of three hundred years of dead Drayvar warriors who looked down on him from portraits and statues, waiting for him to measure up.
'Or fail trying.'
He left his room. The hallway was empty, silent except for the distant echo of servants beginning their morning routines somewhere deep within the mansion. Too early for most. Perfect for him.
The gardens were covered in dew when he crossed into the training yard. He passed the statues of ancient Drayvars, warriors who had earned their places in stone with spilled blood and won battles, and their elongated shadows followed him like silent ghosts. He knew their names, their battles, and the legends that had elevated them from mortal flesh to eternal marble.
'Someday,' he thought with the simple certainty of someone who had never contemplated another possibility. 'Someday I will be there too. Or I will die trying. There is no third option.'
"Good morning."
Rylan stopped with the smoothness of a warrior trained not to show surprise. Kael stood by the edge of the path as if he had grown there, silent and observant, waiting for him with a patience that seemed too adult for his nine years. His younger brother wore worn but clean training clothes, his hair still dripping wet and his boots covered in a dust that spoke of hours already invested.
'He had already been training,' Rylan realized with something akin to approval. 'Before dawn. Alone.'
"Good morning, Kael," he replied, keeping his tone neutral but not hostile.
Five months had changed the boy in ways Rylan was only beginning to catalog. He was no longer the small shadow who hid in the margins of the family breakfast, existing in that uncomfortable space between the visible and the ignored. He was still small—nine years did not make you big no matter how much you trained—but he stood differently now. Shoulders straighter, chin lifted, and eyes that looked straight ahead instead of averting their gaze.
'The training works,' he thought simply. 'Good. We need warriors, not shadows.'
"Are you finished with your morning session?" he asked, resuming his walk toward the yard with Kael falling into step beside him uninvited.
The gesture would have been presumptuous six months ago. Now it felt appropriate. As if Kael had earned the right to walk beside him instead of behind.
"Just basic forms," Kael said with a voice that didn't seek to impress.
"I wanted to warm up before Torin arrived. The first repetitions always are the most important."
"You're very dedicated."
"As necessary."
It was a direct answer without false modesty or a plea for praise. Rylan approved silently, feeling that small knot of satisfaction that came from seeing someone of your blood refusing to be weak.
"Are you going to train with Torin?" Kael asked after a moment of comfortable silence.
"Yes."
Rylan flexed his fingers, feeling the hunger building in his chest like a beast waking after a long fast.
"Five months without real combat. Only exhibitions and politics disguised as duels where no one really bleeds. I need steel that bites."
"Do you want to train with us?"
The question was casual, spoken in a tone that suggested he wouldn't care about the answer either way. But there was something more there, genuine curiosity perhaps, or simply the recognition that he was offering something without expecting anything in return. Rylan glanced at him as they walked. Kael maintained a perfectly neutral expression, but there was interest in his focused attention.
'It's rare that he approaches like this,' Rylan thought. 'Before, we didn't speak beyond obligatory formalities at family meals. But he's training now. Earning his place with sweat instead of expecting it by blood.'
'I respect that. Even if I don't know exactly what to think of him yet.'
"Sure," he said simply, without elaborating.
"Do the initiates train at this hour?"
"Some. Favius always arrives early. Davos and Mika too," Kael paused briefly.
"Master Torin is pushing them harder lately. I think he's preparing them for something."
"For what?"
"He doesn't say. But I heard the captains talking about movements on the northern border. Could be nothing. Or it could be a problem growing."
Rylan felt his interest sharpen. Kael paid attention to things most people ignored: hallway conversations, behavioral patterns, the small signs that preceded big changes.
"Good," was all he said.
They reached the yard just as the sun broke, bathing the open space and illuminating a thousand marks of countless battles etched into the earth, scars of the yard that spoke of spilled blood and lessons learned with pain.
Master Torin was in the center as always, performing forms with a sword that moved as a natural extension of his body. Fifty years of experience condensed into every precise movement, every controlled breath. There was no waste in his movements, no doubt whatsoever. Only efficiency perfected into a deadly art.
He stopped when he saw them approach, lowering his sword with the grace of someone who had made that same gesture ten thousand times.
"Lord Rylan," he greeted with respect without being servile. Torin had never been servile, not even when speaking to the Grand Duke himself.
"I didn't expect to see you so early. I thought you would need at least a day to recover from the journey."
"Training doesn't wait for you to be rested," Rylan replied with a tone that allowed no debate.
"And five months of good eating in Vaeloria made me slow. I need to remember what real hunger feels like."
Something akin to approval, or perhaps just the satisfaction of seeing that his lessons had been etched in, crossed the instructor's weathered face.
"Are you looking for a private session, or did you come to watch your brothers tear each other apart?"
"I thought I'd join the group session."
Rylan looked around the yard where Favius had just appeared at the east entrance, followed by three other initiates who dragged their feet with that particular mix of determination and terror that came from knowing that pain was inevitable.
"If it doesn't disrupt your plans."
Torin raised an eyebrow with something that might have been amusement.
"It does not disrupt. But let your title not confuse things—there will be no special treatment. If you enter my yard, you are one more soldier. Nothing less. Nothing more."
"I wouldn't expect anything else," Rylan said, and he meant it.
"Good."
Torin struck the ground with his sword pommel twice, the universal signal.
"Then start warming up. All of you. Twenty minutes of forms. If I see laziness, I'll add twenty more."
Rylan moved toward the weapon rack as he felt the gazes following him like a physical weight. The initiates watched him with that uncomfortable mix of curiosity and nervousness that came from training alongside someone who could technically order their executions if he were annoyed enough. Only Kael seemed completely calm, moving toward his practice sword with the casual familiarity of months of identical routine. He picked it up without looking, its weight and balance already memorized by infinite repetition.
Rylan selected his own weapon, real steel and not practice wood. It was perfectly balanced for his reach and strength, sharp enough to cut but not to kill with accidental contact. Heavy in the right way, as a sword meant to teach you what combat was truly like should be. He spun it once, twice, three times. The metal sang in the morning air, a pure, clear note that resonated in his chest like a second heartbeat.
'This,' he thought with a satisfaction that was almost spiritual. 'This is what I needed. Not politics, not fake smiles, not pretenses. Just steel speaking truths that words never could.'
He began with basic forms: First Guard, Second Guard, transitions he had practiced a thousand times until they stopped being thoughts and became reflexes etched into muscle and bone. His feet moved with a muscle memory more reliable than consciousness. Breath accompanying every movement: inhale on guard, exhale on attack. The world narrowed to steel and movement. Nothing else existed.
After fifteen minutes that felt like seconds and hours at the same time, Torin struck his sword against the ground with a metallic sound that cut the air.
"Enough warming up. Practice bouts. Pair up according to level or someone will end up dead, and I'll have to explain it to the Grand Duke."
The initiates moved with a well-practiced routine, flowing to their habitual partners with minimal chatter. Kael with another boy of similar size. Two more forming their own pair. The yard reorganizing into makeshift combat circles. And Favius, tall for his fifteen years and with a physique that spoke of obsessive training, walked directly toward Rylan with steps that feigned confidence but showed nervousness in his overly tense shoulders.
"Lord Rylan," he said in a firm voice but with a trace of tremble beneath it.
"Would you allow me a practice duel?"
'He wants to test his strength against mine,' Rylan understood immediately. 'He wants to know where he stands. If all that training means something.'
'Good. That's exactly what I would do.'
"Real steel?" Rylan asked directly.
"If you allow it," Favius lifted his chin a millimeter.
"Real steel is real steel. No pretenses of wood trying to be serious."
"I accept."
Rylan spun his sword once, testing the familiar weight.
"Aether permitted?"
"I would prefer it," Favius smiled, a tense but genuine expression.
"Otherwise, I won't know where I truly stand. It wouldn't be worth anything."
"Good attitude. I like that."
Rylan walked toward the main combat circle, the largest one, marked with whitened stones that had seen more blood than anyone would admit in polite conversation.
"Master Torin, will you supervise?"
Torin was already moving toward the edge with an impassive expression but alert eyes that missed no detail.
"First serious blood wins. Nothing mortal; if anyone crosses that line, I'll throw them out of the yard permanently. Nothing after the stop signal, or I'll chain both of you up and let you reflect on discipline. Perfectly understood?"
"Understood," they both said in unison.
The other initiates formed a semicircle around them like an audience hungry to see something interesting. Kael stood next to Torin, watching with that particular stillness that meant he was cataloging every detail for later analysis.
Rylan took position at one end of the circle and Favius at the other. Thirty feet of marked earth between them, a distance that would feel like miles or centimeters depending on how the combat unfolded.
Rylan slid into First Guard, a stance as familiar as breathing. Weight distributed perfectly, sword angled, protecting the center line while allowing for instant attack or defense. Favius mirrored the stance but more aggressively, leaning forward, with his weight inclined toward his toes. Ready to explode forward in attack. Hunger written in every line of his body.
'Let's see what you've got,' Rylan thought without complicated words. Just professional curiosity.
Torin raised his hand, holding it in the air for three seconds that stretched infinitely.
"Begin!"
Favius attacked immediately with impressive speed. A diagonal cut from the upper right, designed to force a high guard and open the abdomen. Rylan blocked with an economical movement. The impact vibrated through his arms with a force that genuinely surprised him. Favius had strength, good strength backed by solid technique. But not enough. Not yet.
Rylan pushed outward with a controlled burst of force, forcing Favius to retreat two quick steps to avoid risking a complete loss of balance. He attacked without pause with a horizontal cut at mid-height, seeking exposed ribs. Favius barely blocked, his feet slipping on the loose earth as he absorbed the impact that resonated in his guard.
Exchange. Attack. Parry. Counterattack. The rhythm built, and steel sang against steel with a music only warriors fully understood.
And then Rylan felt it: a subtle change in the air. Favius's Aether awakening. Electric blue, the color of a storm, the color of Drayvar blood, it shone along his blade like lightning captured in metal. It started faint but intensified quickly as Favius channeled energy from his core, through nodes that probably still hurt with every use, manifesting in a steel that suddenly weighed more and cut deeper.
'Third-layer Apprentice,' Rylan cataloged with genuine approval. 'Impressive.'
Favius pressed with new confidence, and the attacks accelerated: faster, stronger, every blow backed by Aether amplifying his muscles beyond normal human limits. His face was a mask of fierce concentration, and his eyes shone with a determination that bordered on madness.
Rylan blocked every attack with economical precision. He parried and redirected without real effort yet.
'Good technique,' he thought as their swords danced. 'Especially the transitions between guards. Torin taught him well. But predictable. Every movement telegraphs the next if you know what to look for.'
"You've improved," Rylan said as their swords clashed at an angle that sent sparks flying.
"I can see months of work in every strike. But it won't be enough."
And he released his own Aether.
The effect was dramatic and instantaneous. An electric blue exploded around him, not the faint glow of an Apprentice struggling with control, but the bright, intense light of a fifth-layer Apprentice who had mastered manifestation to the point of second nature. The air crackled with enough energy to make the hair on the spectators' arms stand on end. An invisible pressure pushed outward in a wave that made the weaker observers involuntarily take a step back.
He felt the Aether running through his veins like liquid fire: familiar, powerful, his own. Every muscle suddenly stronger, every reflex faster. The world marginally slowing down as his perception sharpened to levels that seemed superhuman because technically they were.
He pushed. It wasn't a full attack, just a controlled shove backed by the absolute difference in power.
Favius flew back three full meters, his feet leaving furrows in the dirt as he desperately fought to maintain balance. His Aether flickered wildly, almost breaking under the pressure of the superior aura that was crushing him. But he didn't fall. Somehow he stabilized, planting his feet with pure determination to compensate for the technical deficit. His eyes, wide open now and with pupils dilated by adrenaline and something akin to ecstasy, shone with an emotion that was almost manic.
"Like this!" Favius yelled, his voice cracking with intensity.
"This is what I needed! This is real!"
He attacked again without strategy or refinement. Only pure hunger and unleashed fury. Rylan met every blow with the precision that came from having faced opponents a thousand times more dangerous in Vaeloria. Their swords were a symphony of metal telling the story of master and student, strength and determination, reality crushing hope.
Favius's face was a mask of fierce concentration. Sweat ran in rivers, his teeth were clenched until his jaw trembled, and his eyes burned with a refusal to give up even when every fiber of his being screamed that he was completely outmatched.
'He wants to win,' Rylan realized with something akin to respect. 'Not just test. Not just learn. He genuinely believes he can beat me. That stupid, beautiful arrogance of youth that doesn't yet know that some gaps aren't crossed by merely wanting it.'
'Good. Let me show you where you truly stand.'
Rylan switched to true offense. The attacks accelerated with feints within feints, combinations he had learned from imperial masters in Vaeloria, techniques that took years to master and he was only just beginning to understand. Favius fought bravely to keep pace. He blocked three attacks with a technique that would have impressed most, but he missed the fourth. Rylan's sword grazed his shoulder, not deep enough for a serious wound, but enough to mark the flesh and send a clear message.
Favius backed away, panting like a dog after a long run. And then he did something that took Rylan completely by surprise. He deliberately closed his eyes. In the middle of combat. A suicidal act in any way except... he inhaled deeply, his chest expanding with a breath that seemed to pull air from somewhere deeper than his lungs.
When he opened his eyes, his Aether pulsed differently. More focused, less savage. As if something had clicked in his understanding.
'He is learning,' Rylan realized with a flash of genuine respect. 'In the middle of combat. Adapting under pressure. That is... that is real talent. Raw, but there.'
'Excellent.'
Favius attacked with improved technique, a low attack forcing a low guard, and immediately cut high before Rylan could fully readjust. The timing was almost perfect. Rylan blocked because he had to, but the blow pushed hard enough for the edge to graze his forearm. Blood. A small red line appearing against the pale skin.
The spectators gasped collectively. Rylan felt something warm expand in his chest, not anger, but the pure satisfaction of seeing potential manifesting in real time.
"Well done," he said, and it wasn't condescension.
"That was a real, clean hit."
Favius smiled wildly, an expression split between pride and the terror of what he had just done. And he pressed his advantage because he was young, stupid, and brave. But his Aether was visibly weakening now. Five minutes of absolute intensity exhausted reserves that were still developing. His movements were marginally slowing, and the blue glow flickered like a candle in the wind.
Rylan had expected exactly this.
"Enough," he said in a voice that cut off all argument.
He invoked the Third Form of the Storm, a technique Torin had taught him years ago and which he had perfected in a hundred bouts. His Aether roared brighter, channeling completely into every fiber of his being. Not just into the sword. All of him becoming a weapon.
He did not attack with the sword. He spun. An Aether-powered side kick. His boot connected with Favius's abdomen. The sound was horrible, like dry wood breaking under absolute pressure. Ribs giving way. Multiple. Breaking cleanly under a force that would have killed if Rylan hadn't controlled the strike with millimeter precision.
Favius flew back five full meters in a parabolic trajectory almost beautiful in its violence, hitting the ground with an impact that raised a cloud of dust and knocked all the air out of his lungs in an audible explosion. He writhed immediately, instinctively wrapping his arms around his broken ribs, his face pale with pain and shock. He coughed a wet, terrible sound, and blood splattered from his lips. Red. Bright. Too bright against the dark earth.
An absolute silence fell over the yard. No one moved. No one breathed. The moment crystallized in collective memory. Rylan walked toward him with measured steps, his sword still in hand but pointing down, signaling the combat was over. He crouched beside the fallen boy, looking directly into his tear-filled eyes of pain.
"Good duel," he said in a firm voice that admitted no pity or apology.
"You showed courage. You learned under pressure. Those things are worth more than brute force."
Favius looked at him, unable to speak from the pain that stole his breath, but he nodded. A small shake of the head that was acceptance and gratitude mingled. Rylan stood up, turning to Torin.
"Take him to the healer. Broken ribs, probably three or four. Lungs intact if he's lucky."
"Yes, Lord Rylan."
Torin signaled, and two guards ran to help Favius, lifting him carefully as he groaned in agony but did not cry.
'Brave until the end,' Rylan thought. 'Truly brave. That boy will go far if he survives long enough.'
The initiates now looked at him with an expression that mixed fear and admiration in proportions that varied according to temperament. Some pale as ghosts, others with eyes bright with barely contained excitement. Rylan wiped his sword with a cloth someone silently offered him, sheathing it with a movement that spoke of a thousand identical repetitions.
'This is what I am,' he thought with an absolute clarity that admitted no doubt or regret. 'Steel and honor. Force applied with purpose. Not cruelty, but not gentleness either. Just truth cutting through illusions.'
'This is what it is to be Drayvar.'
He walked away from the combat circle as the morning sun bathed the yard in a golden light that made every drop of sweat and blood gleam like jewels scattered on an altar of violence.
Yes. It felt very, very good to be home.