Night had fallen over Stormvale like a heavy cloak, bringing with it the familiar cold of the sea and the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs. Kael sat on his bed, still dressed in his training clothes that smelled of sweat and dirt, staring at the window where the moon barely illuminated the cloudy sky.
He couldn't get what he had seen that morning out of his head.
Rylan. Fifth-layer Apprentice. The power that had emanated from him, that electric blue light that had involuntarily made even the strongest observers step back. The way he had moved Favius as if he were made of paper. The absolute difference between a real warrior and... what Kael currently was.
'First-layer Apprentice,' he thought with that particular mixture of realism and contained frustration he had learned to cultivate. 'Four full layers of difference. Years of training. The gap between us is an abyss.'
But abysses could be crossed. Slowly. With time and strategy.
'Rylan has brute strength. But strength is not the only kind of power.'
A soft tap on the door pulled him from his thoughts. Three quick, almost inaudible knocks. The pattern Mira used.
"Come in," he said softly.
The door opened just enough for Mira to slip inside, quickly closing it behind her. Her face was pale even in the gloom, her eyes darting nervously like a startled animal.
"Young Kael," she whispered, her hands twisting in her apron.
"I can't continue... the Grand Duke returned this afternoon. If they find out I'm bringing you information..."
"I know, Mira."
Kael stood up, keeping his voice soft, reassuring.
"You've done more than enough. I won't ask anything else of you."
She seemed to collapse slightly with relief, but then hesitated.
"But... there's something else. One last thing. I thought I should tell you."
Kael waited, letting the silence urge her to continue.
"The merchant Ferris. The grain one," the words rushed out now, as if she wanted to be rid of them.
"I saw him yesterday in the lower city. There's a bar near the docks, 'The Rusted Anchor'. My cousin works there. He says Ferris goes every third day, always at nightfall. He drinks late, talks too much when he's drunk."
Kael felt something cold and satisfied settle in his chest.
'Ferris. Finally.'
"Thank you, Mira."
He walked to his chest and took out a small bag of coins, part of his monthly allowance he rarely used.
"Take this. For everything."
"I can't..."
"You can," he pressed the bag into her trembling hands.
"And one more thing. Could you tell Ser Aldric that I need to speak with him tomorrow morning? Before training."
Mira nodded quickly, hiding the coins in her apron.
"Yes, Young Kael. I will tell him."
She left as silently as she had arrived, leaving Kael alone with his thoughts and a piece of information worth much more than the coins he had just given away. He walked to the window, looking out at the distant city where lights flickered like fallen stars.
'The Rusted Anchor. Every third day. Tomorrow is the third.'
'Time to see if information truly becomes power.'
He smiled in the darkness, a small, cold gesture.
The next morning, Kael stood before the door of his father's study with a strange feeling in his stomach. It wasn't exactly nervousness—he had learned to control that—but something closer to anticipation. He didn't come here often. Almost never, in fact. This was Varen's domain, where he made decisions that affected five million souls, where he received captains and minor nobles and resolved disputes that could end in bloodshed.
He knocked on the door. Twice, firm.
"Come in."
He pushed the door open. The study was exactly as he remembered from the few times he had been here: large but functional, with walls covered in maps of Stormvale and neighboring territories, shelves lined with documents and a few strategy books. A ceremonial Drayvar armor set in the corner, more symbol than gear. And in the center, a dark oak desk where Varen was hunched over parchments with a concentrated expression.
He looked up when Kael entered, and there was a flash of genuine but quickly controlled surprise.
"Kael," it wasn't a question, just recognition. "Do you need something?"
"I've come to ask permission, Father."
Varen put down his quill, giving him his full attention now. It was rare for any of Syra's children to ask him for something directly.
"Permission for what?"
"I want to go into the city. To buy a gift for Favius," Kael kept his voice firm, direct.
"He was injured in yesterday's training. With Rylan."
The silence stretched for three full heartbeats. Varen looked at him with those gray eyes that saw too much, evaluating.
"A gift?" he finally repeated.
"He showed courage. Real courage. He kept fighting even when he knew he couldn't win," Kael held his father's gaze.
"I believe that deserves recognition."
Something crossed Varen's face. Surprise? Approval? Too quick to fully categorize.
"That is..." he paused, as if searching for words.
"That shows character. Good."
He took a parchment and wrote something quickly.
"Take a guard. You are not going into the city alone."
"I would prefer it to be Ser Aldric, if possible."
Varen looked up again, raising an eyebrow slightly.
"Why him specifically?"
Kael had prepared this answer.
"I get along better with him. He taught me some basic things when I first started training. I think... I trust him."
It wasn't entirely a lie. Aldric was predictable now, controllable. And that was a form of trust. Varen nodded slowly.
"Permitted. But you return before nightfall. And Aldric does not let you out of his sight."
"Thank you, Father."
Kael turned to leave, but Varen's voice stopped him.
"Kael."
He turned around.
"It is good that you think of your training companions. That... that is a leader's quality."
The words fell into the air between them, awkward, unpracticed, but genuine.
"Thank you, Father," Kael repeated, and this time it meant something different.
He left the study with the written permission in hand and a strange warm sensation in his chest that he quickly buried beneath cold calculation.
'First time he's said something like that. First time he's truly noticed me.'
'Useful. Very useful.'
The main courtyard was bathed in morning light when Kael emerged. Aldric was already there, waiting next to two horses with a neutral expression that failed to completely conceal his irritation.
"Young Kael," he said with a tone that aimed for respect.
"Mira told me you needed to see me."
"Yes. We are going to the city. You and I," Kael showed him Varen's permission.
"My father approved."
Aldric read the parchment and his jaw tightened.
"A gift for the boy your brother nearly killed yesterday?"
"Precisely."
Before Aldric could reply, voices approached from the training yard. Davos and Mika, two of the initiates who trained with Kael, appeared in city clothes instead of practice gear.
"Kael!" Davos smiled broadly, no longer calling him a dwarf.
"We heard you're going to the city. Can we come?"
Mika, thinner and quieter, nodded eagerly. Kael considered quickly. More people meant less suspicion. And these two were... manageable.
"Of course. As long as Ser Aldric has no objection."
Aldric grunted something that might have been assent.
Ten minutes later, the four of them were riding down the main road toward Stormvale city. The sea wind brought the smell of salt and fish, and the sun painted the coastal landscape in golden hues.
"So," Davos said with youthful enthusiasm.
"What are we going to buy Favius? I saw his face when Rylan hit him. I thought he was dead."
"I hope he won't need that last sentence when he wakes up," Mika added with dark humor.
"The healer says he'll be fine in two weeks. Broken ribs but nothing mortal," Kael replied automatically.
"Still, what a way to end a duel," Davos whistled.
"Your brother is a monster. In a good way."
"Yes," Kael simply agreed.
They rode in comfortable silence for a few more minutes. The city grew on the horizon with its gray stone walls, watchtowers, and the distant bustle of a major commercial center.
"So," Davos broke the silence again.
"What are we buying him? A new practice dagger? Or maybe...?"
"We are not going to buy a gift."
The words fell into the air like a stone in still water. Silence.
"What?" Mika finally said.
Kael turned his horse slightly to look at his companions.
"I have another plan. I need you to trust me."
Davos and Mika exchanged confused glances. Aldric, who had been quiet until now, let out something between a sigh and a bitter laugh.
"Little devil," he muttered, but not with anger. Almost with... 'resignation?'
"I knew there was something else."
"What plan?" Davos asked, now more cautious.
"You'll see when we arrive. But I need you to do exactly as I tell you. Can you do that?"
The two boys looked at each other again. Then, slowly, they nodded.
"I guess... yes," Mika said.
"Good."
Kael spurred his horse, accelerating toward the city gates that were now close. The docks stretched out in the distance with the masts of ships swaying with the waves. And somewhere among those narrow streets and cramped buildings, in a bar called The Rusted Anchor, there was a corrupt merchant who didn't know that tonight would be very different from the others. Kael smiled, small and cold, as the city gates opened to receive them.
The forest north of Drayvar manor was dense and silent, the kind of silence that only comes when you are completely alone. Lyssara had found this clearing three months ago: small, hidden, perfect for what she needed. Perfect for training without anyone seeing her.
The mid-morning sun filtered through the leaves, painting the ground in patterns of light and shadow. Lyssara moved through basic forms with a sword she had stolen from the armory, too heavy for her but usable. First Guard. Transition to Second. Diagonal cut. Sweat ran down her forehead. Her training tunic, simple, dark, nothing to identify the daughter of a Grand Duke, was soaked.
'Twenty more repetitions,' she thought, enduring the pain in her muscles. 'Just twenty more and...'
"Not bad."
Lyssara froze. The voice came from behind. Deep. Unmistakable. She turned slowly, her heart pounding against her ribs. Varen Drayvar stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed and expression impassive. He wore travel clothes; he had just returned from some inspection, probably. His gray eyes studied her with an intensity that made it difficult to breathe.
'How long has he been there?' she thought, panic rising in her throat. 'Of course. Guards. Spies. He's probably been watching me since the first day.'
"Father," she managed to say, keeping her voice firm with effort.
"I didn't expect..."
"Clearly," Varen walked toward her with measured steps.
"How long?"
"What?"
"How long have you been coming here?"
Lyssara tightened her grip on her sword.
"Three months."
"And you believed I wouldn't know?"
Something broke inside her, not sadness, but fury. Fury at being watched like an experiment. Fury at three months of solitary effort. Fury at being treated like a chess piece in her mother's plans.
"Look, Father!" the words came out before she could stop them, her voice cracking with an emotion she could no longer contain. Tears burned in her eyes but she refused to let them fall.
"I have reached Second-layer Apprentice. Alone. Without masters. Without help. Without anyone."
She took a step toward him, sword still in hand.
"I deserve to be a warrior. The same as Rylan. The same as any of my brothers. I'm not just a tool for political marriages!"
The tears fell now, hot against her cold cheeks. Silence. Varen looked at her with an expression she couldn't read. Surprise? Disappointment? Something else?
"I will make you a proposition."
Lyssara blinked, confused by the change in direction. Varen unsheathed his sword, bright steel that had seen a thousand battles.
"If you manage to land a single blow on me. Just one. I will train you formally. Not as a lady. As a Drayvar House warrior."
Lyssara's heart leaped.
"And if I fail?"
"Then you will accept the path your mother has chosen for you without further complaints."
It was a trick. It was obviously a trick. Varen was a Fourth-layer Master. She was barely a Second-layer Apprentice. The difference was abysmal. But it was her only chance.
"I accept."
"Good," Varen moved his sword to his left hand.
"I will only use one hand. No Aether. You have until you give up."
Lyssara slid into a guard, her breathing controlled and her Aether awakening; weak compared to what she had seen in Rylan yesterday, but hers. Pulsing. Alive.
"Whenever you want," Varen said.
Lyssara attacked. Fast. A horizontal cut at medium height. Varen blocked with casual ease, the sword barely moving. She attacked again. Low attack. High attack. Feint and real cut. Every blow met. Every attack blocked. Effortlessly. Like an adult playing with a child.
'Faster,' she thought, desperation growing. 'I have to be faster.'
She channeled more Aether. Her muscles burned with energy and the speed increased. She attacked ten times in five seconds. Each blow different. Each one designed to exploit an opening that didn't exist. Varen blocked them all. With one hand. Without moving more than his wrist. Without even breathing harder.
Lyssara backed away, gasping, sweat soaking her tunic and her muscles trembling with the exhaustion that came from pushing Aether past its limits.
"Again," she growled.
She attacked. Combinations she had memorized from books. Techniques she had observed the guards practicing. Nothing worked. Varen was a wall. Immovable. Unreachable. Her Aether ran out and her arms could barely lift the sword. A final desperate attempt: she attacked with everything she had, screaming with frustration and determination. Varen blocked and gently pushed.
She fell backward, landing on the ground with an impact that knocked the air out of her lungs. The sword flew from her hand, falling into the grass with a final sound.
Silence. Lyssara lay there, looking at the sky through the leaves. Tears streaming freely now, not from physical pain, but from total helplessness. From knowing she had given everything and it hadn't been enough.
'I couldn't do it,' she thought as the weight crushed her chest. 'Not one blow. Not one.'
'I failed.'
"Get up."
Lyssara didn't move.
"I said get up."
With an effort she felt in every fiber of her being, she pushed herself to a seated position. She kept her eyes down, unable to look at him. Unable to see disappointment or, worse, pity.
"I failed," she whispered.
"Yes."
The word was like a physical blow. Varen walked toward her and crouched, studying her with his gray eyes.
"You failed because you are weak. Your Aether is weak. Your technique is amateur. Your strength is insufficient."
Every word stabbed.
"But," Varen continued, his voice unchanged,
"you came here every day for three months. Alone. Without a master. Without a guide. And you learned enough not to completely embarrass yourself."
Lyssara looked up, confused.
"That shows determination. Will," Varen stood up, extending his hand.
"And those things can be trained."
She took his hand, still not understanding. He pulled her up with a jerk.
"You will train formally," Varen said. It was not a proposition. It was a declaration.
"With tutors. With your brothers when they are available. Without hiding in forests like a criminal."
The shock was so complete that Lyssara almost fell again.
"Seriously?"
"I do not repeat words."
"But... what about Mother?"
Varen was already turning to leave.
"I will speak with her."
Three words. Firm. Final. He walked away among the trees without looking back, leaving Lyssara alone in the clearing with the fallen sword and her heart beating wildly with something that might have been hope.
Varen Drayvar was a man of few words and even fewer visible emotions. But as he walked back toward the manor, his mind processed what he had seen. Lyssara had hunger. Real. Dangerous if left undirected. Better to channel it. To mold it. Stormvale was vast: five million souls, coastlines needing constant defense, territories requiring regular inspection. Politics consumed time that should be dedicated to training.
He was a Fourth-layer Master. Competent. Respected. But his father had been Archon. And enemies did not wait. The Empire did not forgive weakness. If he fell before preparing strong heirs, House Drayvar would fall with him.
'Rylan has strength,' he thought as the manor appeared through the trees. 'Kael has something... different. I don't know what yet.'
'Lyssara has hunger.'
'Sareth...'
He sighed. Not everyone could be a warrior. But everyone could be useful in some way. As long as he was alive, he would prepare them. All of them. Because that was what it meant to be a father in a House of war. Not love. Preparation. For the world that would devour them if they were not strong enough.