The training hall had been sealed since before the twins were born.
Its doors—black iron reinforced with pale stone—opened only once each decade, and only for those the Lady of Blackwood deemed ready. Sunlight filtered through high, narrow windows, catching dust motes suspended in the air like frozen sparks.
Vincent stepped inside first.
The room smelled of oil, old metal, and stone that had absorbed centuries of intent. Weapon racks lined the walls—blades of every form, some simple, some ornate, all perfectly maintained. The floor bore faint scars where countless repetitions had been carved into the same movements, over and over, until instinct replaced thought.
Melaina followed, her gaze already scanning, assessing.
Elysia Seraphina Blackwood stood at the center.
"This," she said calmly, "is where childhood ends."
She gestured to the racks. "Choose."
Vincent did not hesitate.
He walked past heavy greatswords, ignored curved sabers and spears, and stopped before a modest stand holding a jian—straight, double-edged, balanced for precision rather than force. He lifted it carefully, testing the weight, the center of balance, the quiet responsiveness of the blade.
"It requires control," Elysia observed.
"Yes," Vincent replied. "And honesty."
She nodded once.
Melaina took longer.
She passed blades meant to dominate, weapons designed to overwhelm. Her attention lingered on flexibility, on distance, on motion. At last, she reached a case mounted higher than the rest.
Inside rested a chakram—a single circular blade, elegant and deceptively simple.
She lifted it, spinning it once across her palm. The weapon sang softly as it moved.
"Risky," Elysia said.
Melaina smiled faintly. "Only if you hesitate."
Elysia's expression softened—not approval, but recognition.
"Good," she said. "You've chosen weapons that reflect who you are—not who you wish to be."
She turned then, her tone sharpening.
"From today onward, you will train formally. Structure replaces instinct. Discipline replaces indulgence."
The twins straightened.
"You have both done things as children," Elysia continued, "that others spend lifetimes failing to accomplish. That will not continue."
Melaina frowned. "Why?"
"Because," Elysia said evenly, "childhood bends rules."
She walked the length of the hall, her steps echoing.
"What you did before—acts of will without cost—were permitted because your bodies had not yet claimed ownership of your power. Once you awaken fully, every action will carry consequence."
Vincent absorbed this in silence.
"You will not be able to act on impulse," Elysia went on. "You will not be able to declare and expect the world to obey. Spirit responds differently once it recognizes you as complete."
She stopped before them.
"As children, the world indulged you," she said. "As awakened beings, it will judge you."
The air shifted.
Elysia raised her hand, and the room responded.
Light gathered—not violently, not suddenly—but with deliberate precision. Lines formed in the air, shaping into a controlled manifestation that hovered, waiting.
"This," she said, "is instruction."
She released the construct gently. It dissipated without ripple.
"You will learn magic now not as expression," she said, "but as language. Every spell has grammar. Every technique has cost. Power is no longer something you are—it is something you must manage."
Melaina's grip tightened on the chakram. "And if we don't?"
Elysia met her gaze. "Then you will break yourselves long before anyone else has the chance."
She gestured toward opposite ends of the hall.
"Vincent—forms. Precision. Footwork before force."
"Melaina—trajectory. Recall. Control without fixation."
They moved without argument.
Vincent raised the jian, assuming the first stance Elysia demonstrated. His movements were slow, exacting. Each step was measured, each angle deliberate. Sweat came quickly—not from strain, but concentration.
Melaina flicked the chakram outward.
It spun, arced, and returned—clean, controlled.
Elysia watched both, her expression unreadable.
"This is not a return to what you were," she said quietly. "It is preparation for what you will no longer be allowed to do."
The twins trained until their arms trembled.
Until mistakes appeared.
Until correction replaced confidence.
And as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the ancient floor, one truth became clear:
What they had once done freely would now have to be earned.
And the world would no longer forgive excess.