Isaiah learned very quickly that the Gentleman's Covenant did not believe in warm-ups.
No stretching.
No sparring.
No inspirational speeches about grit or glory.
Instead, they took his name.
Not officially.
Just... socially.
By the third morning, no one called him Isaiah Saul anymore.
They called him Lion.
Not with pride.
Not with mockery.
With caution.
He stood barefoot in the Training Cloister, a wide circular room open to the sky. The floor was layered stone, worn smooth by centuries of stillness. Around the edges, Covenant members sat cross-legged in silence, eyes closed, breathing in slow, synchronized rhythms.
Isaiah shifted uncomfortably.
"So... uh," he whispered to the Smiling Gentleman, who lounged nearby eating something suspiciously crunchy, "when do we start?"
The Smiling Gentleman didn't look at him.
"We already did," he said.
Isaiah frowned. "I've been standing here for twenty minutes."
"Exactly."
Isaiah opened his mouth to argue
and stopped.
Something felt wrong.
No, not wrong.
Different.
His chest felt... crowded.
Like too many thoughts were standing too close together.
The Smiling Gentleman finally glanced at him.
"Tell me what you're feeling."
Isaiah hesitated. "Pressure."
"Where?"
"Here." He pressed a hand against his sternum.
The Smiling Gentleman nodded. "Good. Don't move it."
"...What?"
"Don't push it away. Don't name it. Don't dramatize it."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Just let it exist."
Isaiah laughed nervously. "That sounds unhealthy."
"Running from it is worse," the Smiling Gentleman replied casually. "That's how you end up with accidental massacres."
That shut Isaiah up.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
Isaiah's breathing grew uneven. His hands trembled slightly. Memories tried to crawl up his spine, the night, the argument, the fall.
His instinct screamed at him to shut it down.
To lock it away.
To survive.
"Stay," the Smiling Gentleman said softly.
The word hit harder than a shout.
Isaiah stayed.
The pressure in his chest deepened, not exploding, not easing.
Condensing.
Around them, the other Covenant members began to shift.
Some frowned.
Some leaned subtly away.
A few opened their eyes.
Isaiah felt it then.
A presence.
Not projected.
Not released.
Just... acknowledged.
The air felt heavier near him, like grief had mass.
One of the seated members exhaled sharply.
Another clenched their jaw.
Isaiah panicked. "I'm sorry, I'm not doing this on purpose."
"Stop apologizing," the Smiling Gentleman snapped, not angry, just firm.
"Pain doesn't need permission."
He stood now, moving closer.
"This is the first rule, Lion," he said.
"Your DOMA isn't a weapon. It's a conversation."
Isaiah swallowed hard.
"My chest feels like it's collapsing."
"Good," the Smiling Gentleman said. "That means you're listening instead of performing."
Suddenly, the pressure vanished.
Not released.
Withdrawn.
Isaiah staggered forward, catching himself on his knees, gasping.
The Smiling Gentleman crouched beside him.
"Lesson one," he said quietly.
"You don't summon power."
Isaiah looked up, eyes glassy.
"Then how do you use it?"
The Smiling Gentleman smiled, not playful this time.
"You survive it."
Across the cloister, unseen by Isaiah, the Quiet King watched from the shadows.
His cane rested against his leg.
Nocturne remained silent.
But attentive.
Covenant Training Doctrine
The Covenant does not sharpen blades.
It teaches hands to stop shaking.
A DOMA uncontrolled seeks release.
A DOMA understood seeks restraint.
Power that rushes is afraid.
Power that waits is dangerous.