Dawn had reached the rooftops when Lucien, Elaira, and Rogan reached the clearing, the backyard.
There was mist over the grass, thin and cold, clinging to their boots as they stepped through it. The forest surrounding the clearing was quiet—no birdsong yet, no breeze strong enough to stir the leaves.
Then—
Footsteps.
Steady. Unhurried.
The mist scattered as if pushed aside by something heavier than air.
Darius Arcelion emerged from between the trees, his presence calm and grounded, like a man who had walked onto far more dangerous fields without hesitation.
He stopped a few paces away and looked at them.
"Good," he said. "You're all early."
Lucien straightened instinctively.
Rogan inclined his head respectfully.
Elaira stood composed, hands folded lightly in front of her.
Behind them, Seris leaned against a tree, cup in hand, eyes half-lidded with amusement.
"I'm just here to watch you suffer," she said cheerfully.
Lucien ignored her.
Darius clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the clearing once, as if committing it to memory.
"Before I teach you how to fight," he said, "you must understand what you carry."
He tapped his chest once.
"Your Sword Spirit is not a weapon."
The words landed quietly—but heavily.
He paused.
"It is a second life woven into your first."
The clearing stilled.
Mist hung unmoving. Even Seris stopped sipping her drink.
"When your Sword Spirit awakened at fifteen," Darius continued, voice patient but firm, "it bound itself to your heartbeat. To your breath. To your will."
He raised a finger.
"If your Spirit is destroyed… drained… or shattered—"
The pause stretched.
"You die," he finished. "Instantly."
Rogan exhaled slowly, shoulders tightening.
Elaira nodded once. She already knew this.
Lucien swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
Seris muttered, "Well. That's motivating."
Darius continued as if she hadn't spoken.
"Sword Spirits are manifestations of will, memory, instinct, and ancestral trace," he said. "They may look like blades, beasts, shields, runes, or something stranger."
He gestured loosely.
"Shape does not matter."
He pointed at each of them in turn.
"What matters is traits and resonance. That is what determines how you fight—and how you survive."
Elaira spoke softly, tone thoughtful.
"Resonance refers to the elements or energies the spirit harmonizes with."
"Correct," Darius said without hesitation. "Wind. Fire. Frost. Stone. Light. Shadow. And countless combinations."
Rogan frowned slightly.
"And traits?"
"Traits define personality, behavior, and specialty," Darius replied. "Fast. Defensive. Aggressive. Supportive. Deceptive. Suppressive. Thousands of possibilities."
He extended one hand.
A subtle ripple of metal shimmered across his arm—not flashy, not violent. It felt heavy. Grounded. Absolute.
"My spirit," he said, "is the Ironbound Warden."
Behind him, a faint outline manifested.
A massive shield-like form, shaped from spectral steel and living earth. It didn't gleam. It didn't roar.
It simply existed.
Solid.
Unyielding.
Lucien felt a chill crawl up his spine—not fear, but awe.
"Its traits," Darius continued calmly, "are defensive, stable, unshakable."
The ground beneath his boots seemed denser somehow.
"Its resonance is Earth and Steel."
The air pressed—not aggressively, but undeniably.
"Its purpose," he finished, "is to protect."
Then the spirit faded, leaving only silence behind.
Lucien released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Darius turned back to them.
"Now," he said, "answer me this."
He pointed at Rogan.
"If a Sword Spirit dies, what happens to its wielder?"
Rogan answered immediately.
"The wielder dies too."
Darius nodded. "Good. And why?"
Elaira stepped forward slightly.
"Because the spirit is formed from the wielder's own life-force."
"Correct."
Darius's gaze shifted to Lucien.
"And tell me—why must a climber understand their Spirit's traits before entering the Tower?"
Lucien inhaled slowly.
"Because if you enter without knowing what your spirit wants," he said carefully, "you're walking blind."
Darius smiled.
"Exactly."
He folded his arms.
"Welcome to day one," he said. "Today, you learn who your spirits are."
The morning air sharpened as the sun climbed higher, burning away the last of the mist. Every sound felt crisp—footsteps on grass, fabric shifting, breath moving in and out.
Darius stood before them, hands resting on his thighs, the faint presence of his Ironbound Warden still lingering like weightless metal dust.
"You understand the theory," he said. "Now let's see how much your bodies understand."
Lucien tightened his grip on the wooden sword.
Rogan planted his feet more firmly.
Elaira lifted her chin, calm and attentive.
Darius raised two fingers.
"Manifest your spirits," he instructed. "Only the first veil."
They exchanged looks.
The first veil was the most basic expression of a Sword Spirit—no form, no danger. Just aura.
Elaira stepped forward first.
A soft wind curled around her ankles, light and controlled. Her movements gained a subtle fluidity, as if the air itself guided her steps. Her eyes brightened faintly, silver–lavender hues catching the light.
Rogan followed.
His aura settled low and steady, like a rhythmic pulse in the ground beneath him. His stance deepened, balance sharpening until even the breeze could not sway him.
Then Lucien stepped forward.
A whisper of cold brushed the clearing.
Barely there. Like the first breath before winter.
A shimmer traced the edges of his silhouette—nothing visible, nothing concrete, yet unmistakably present.
Elaira glanced at him, sensing something quiet but deep.
Rogan raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself.
Darius smiled.
"Good," he said. "Now… movement."
He picked up a stick and drew three intersecting lines in the dirt.
"You will move as one," he said. "Not three fighters—one flow."
He tapped the lines.
"The Tower rewards teams who breathe together."
Seris sipped her drink from her rock.
"Oh boy," she muttered. "Here comes the choreography."
Darius ignored her.
"Elaira," he said, "take point.
Rogan, anchor the right.
Lucien, follow the left line and connect their momentum."
Lucien frowned slightly.
"Connect?"
"You'll understand," Darius replied, "if you stop thinking."
Lucien closed his mouth.
They took their positions.
Elaira at the front.
Rogan to the right.
Lucien slightly behind and left.
"Begin."
Elaira moved first.
Her steps were light, almost soundless. Rogan followed, grounding her path with steady counterbalance. Lucien slipped into motion beside them, uncertain—
Their auras brushed.
Wind guided strength.
Strength stabilized motion.
Lucien's quiet chill threaded between them, syncing pace and breath.
For a brief moment—
They moved as a single shape.
Lucien exhaled.
"Oh," he murmured. "I get it."
Darius's eyes sharpened with approval.
"That," he said, "is synergy."
They repeated the drill.
Again.
And again.
Sweat began to form on their brows. Muscles burned. Mistakes crept in.
Elaira adjusted first.
Rogan compensated.
Lucien learned when to follow—and when to lead without forcing it.
The lines in the dirt blurred beneath their steps, but the rhythm stayed.
Finally, Darius raised a hand.
"Enough."
The three stopped, breathing hard but smiling.
Elaira spoke softly.
"You adapted quickly, Lucien."
Rogan nodded."You found our pace."
Lucien smiled, chest heaving.
Darius crossed his arms.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we see how you handle real opponents."
Seris groaned dramatically.
"Fantastic. Bruises."
Lucien wiped sweat from his brow, heart thrumming—not with fear, but excitement.
This was only the beginning.