The mountain was as cold as Modred remembered.
Even with the late morning sun warming the tree line, the wind carried a bite that cut through his clothes as he climbed higher.
Pines leaned over the narrow path, branches whispering in the breeze. Moss covered the old stones, and the earth smelled clean, nothing like the smoke of the barracks.
Modred looked in their wooden house and scalded the last ridge and found what he was looking for.
Igred was asleep.
The old man lay sprawled across the thick branch of a warped pine, arms folded, cloak fluttering gently in the wind. His snores blended with the mountain breeze, deep and steady.
Modred sighed.
"Unbelievable."
He picked up a loose stone, weighed it in his palm... then tossed it away.
Naah. Too easy.
Instead, he marched up to the tree trunk, cracked his knuckles, and slammed his fist into it.
The entire tree shuddered.
Igred jolted awake with a snarl, nearly slipping off the branch.
"You stupid brat!" he barked, scrambling to steady himself. "Trying to kill an old man!?"
Modred crossed his arms. "Guess I didn't hard enough."
Igred dropped from the branch, landing with a heavy thud in front of him. His eyes were sharp despite the messy hair and the half-sleeping posture.
"You've got some nerve waking me like that."
Modred didn't flinch. His tone shifted, serious and cold.
"I came because I need you to train me."
Igred blinked once. Twice.
"Train you in what? Manners?"
"Arcana," Modred answered.
The old man's expression changed as the cold air hung in enough for the wind to catch it. "Arcana, huh."
Modred nodded. His jaw was set, his gaze unwavering.
"I want strength. The kind I'll need to enter the Academy."
Igred's lift of the chin froze halfway. "You really are a pain in the ass," he muttered in a low voice. Then Igred straightened, brushed off his cloak, and spoke with the tone of someone accepting a weight they had hoped never to carry.
He stepped back, planting his heel firmly into the earth. "Watch closely."
Igred raised his hand. The air around them shifted instantly-temperature rising, a thin spark snapped between his fingers. Then, a burst of fire erupted from his palm, roaring from the air itself, dark red at its heart, its heat distorting the air.
The heat hit Modred like a physical force, forcing his lungs to seize for a second.
He closed his fist. The flame died instantly.
Igred lowered his hand. His voice remained calm, "Every Vayne is born capable of pyromancy; it's much stronger than your average fire elemental. We call it hellfire since it's hotter and harder to control."
He tapped a finger against his temple. "To be able to master pyromancy and tame hellfire, one needs balance and discipline. Without those, you won't stand a chance."
Modred took a step forward. "Then teach me both."
Igred scoffed, with a slight change in his expression. "So impatient. Fine. Sit."
Modred sat in the cold stone.
"Close your eyes," Igred instructed. "And listen."
Modred obeyed.
"Arcana comes from the core. Every living being has one - a vessel for life force, granted to each individual by the gods. Each living being has a specific type of core and can handle one elemental. Only a few are born with the capability of handling more than one elemental in their cores. If your core loses all the Arcana, then you're dead." Igred explained.
Modred nodded once.
"To unlock your core. It needs intense concentration and focus," Igred continued. "Follow the warmth inward. Don't chase the flame. Sense it."
Modred breathed slowly, the cold air filling his lungs as he inhaled.
At first-nothing. Just his heartbeat. His breath. The wind brushing the pine needles.
Then-a faint pressure deep in his back. A small ember hidden in the dark flickered slightly.
Igred leaned forward slightly. "You're doing good, kid. Now reach it."
Modred exhaled, extending his own breath toward the warmth. It resisted-like pushing a locked door. He pushed harder. The ember snapped open-just a crack.
Heat shot through his arm, and a tiny flame appeared on his palm.
Modred opened his eyes slowly, the flame burning gently in his hand. His eyes burned with joy and determination.
"Not bad," Igred muttered. "Not good either. But enough."
Modred smirked. "Didn't think I'd do it this fast?"
"Shut up."
The flame guttered out, leaving only the cold mountain air between them.
Modred lifted his chin. "What now?"
Igred didn't answer him verbally. He tossed him two wooden swords.
Modred caught them, with a surprised expression on his face.
"You always said you wanted to use two swords like me, right?" Igred said. "Then swing until your arms get limb."
Modred gripped both hilts. "Easy."
Igred stepped back.
"Begin."
Modred moved, two blades cutting through the air in a rhythm that strained muscle and bone.
Left strike.
Right horizontal cut.
Cross through.
Low guard.
High guard.
Over and over until sweat stung his eyes.
Igred watched, arms crossed. "For a first attempt..." He scratched his chin. "...you're not completely hopeless."
Modred didn't stop swinging.
By the time Modred dragged himself back into the Division Four barracks, the sky was already sinking into a deep purple. Sweat clung to his skin, his shirt plastered against his back, every muscle burning from the relentless training under Igred.
Arthur was sitting on an old crate near the door, sharpening a small dagger. He didn't look up immediately, letting Modred slump against the wall and slide down to the floor.
"You look like you got chewed up and spat out," Arthur said mildly.
Modred exhaled a rough breath. "Your grandfather doesn't hold back."
"That he doesn't." Arthur sheathed the dagger. "But you're walking, so that counts for something."
Modred closed his eyes for a moment, letting his breathing settle… then his stomach growled so loudly a few cadets snorted.
Arthur finally stood and tossed him a waterskin. "Drink. And get up. We're not staying here tonight."
Modred cracked one eye open. "Why? More training?"
"No." Arthur jerked his head toward the door. "There's a town a short walk from here. Today's the last night of their festival."
Modred raised a brow. "Festival? In this dump of a region?"
Arthur smirked. "Even people living under noble boots need something to forget their misery."
A couple of nearby cadets perked up when they heard the word festival, whispering among themselves. Division Four rarely got chances like this—most days were work, drills, and the constant reminder that they sat at the bottom of the Ardes food chain.
Modred wiped sweat from his brow. "What's the catch?"
"No catch," Arthur said. "Taren's already waiting outside. You two have been training nonstop for days. If you keep this pace, you'll break before you ever reach the Academy."
Modred pushed himself to his feet with a low grunt. "Fine. But if this place is boring, I'm blaming you."
Arthur shrugged. "You'll survive."
They stepped out into the cooling dusk. Taren waved from the gate, a nervous energy in his posture — he had washed up, changed clothes, and even looked presentable, something rare in Division Four.
"You're alive!" Taren called.
"Barely," Modred replied.
…Where's Dante?" he asked.
Arthur sighed. "Being angry somewhere."
Modred grinned wickedly. "Good. Let's ruin his night."
He stood up and stomped toward the far corner of the barracks where Dante sat sharpening his axe, scowling at the world like it offended him personally.
"Oi," Modred said. "We're going to the festival."
"No," Dante replied immediately.
Modred put a hand on his shoulder.
Dante slapped it off.
"No."
Modred leaned close with a smirk. "Come, or I'll tell everyone Division Four's 'strongest prodigy' got dropped in three seconds by a grandma in the archives."
Arthur's eyes widened.
Taren gasped.
Dante froze.
"…You wouldn't."
"I already started," Modred said.
Dante grabbed his cloak, face red. "Fine! But if I hear any shady rumours about me, I'm breaking your spine."
"Perfect," Modred said
They passed a row of old trees as the first lanterns of the town came into view. The festival stretched along the main street — ribbons tied between rooftops, food stalls glowing under warm light, merchants shouting as sparks from fire dancers burst into the air. Children ran between the crowds with wooden masks, while tired workers drank away the weight of their lives.
Arthur watched him quietly. "Strange, right? To see people laughing when the world's this rotten."
Modred didn't answer. He stepped forward into the lights, drawn in despite himself.
And among the crowd—Lysara, tall and composed with her dark-blonde hair and cold sliver eyes, sharpening throwing knives at a bench.
Arthur blinked. "…She's here?"
"She beats us here every time," Taren whispered.
Lysara glanced at them, then nodded once at Modred and Arthur.
Her eyes lingered on Dante.
Dante looked away so hard he nearly twisted his neck.
Modred grinned. "Someone's blushing."
Dante punched him in the ribs.
Modred spotted a drinking stall crowded with rowdy townsfolk.
A wicked idea sparked.
He grabbed Dante by the shoulder. "Oi. Let's have a Contest."
"No," Dante said.
Modred smirked. "Afraid?"
Dante's eye twitched. "Fine. Line it up."
Taren whispered to Arthur, "This is a bad idea."
Arthur nodded. "Absolutely."
Five minutes later—Dante and Modred slammed mugs onto the table.
Foam spilled.
The crowd shouted for more.
A drunk old man laughed. "These boys are crazy!"
Modred wiped his mouth. "You keep up well, Dante."
Dante glared. "I'll outdrink you and bury you."
Ten minutes later-Both were drunk.
Fifteen minutes later—Modred stood on a table, pointing at Taren dramatically.
"TAREN!" he shouted. "YOU—DRINK—NOW!"
Taren held his hands up. "No, I'm good—"
"NO! WE ARE BROTHERS AREN'T WE?!" Modred yelled, chasing him through the crowd.
"He's fast! Why is he so fast!?" Taren screamed.
Arthur watched with a hand over his face. "We should stop them."
Lysara sipped juice. "No. Let it happen."
A group of festival girls spotted Arthur."Oh—hello…" one said, fanning herself.
"Look at his eyes…" another giggled.
"He's so tall," a third whispered.
Arthur stepped back. "No."
They moved forward.
Arthur stepped back more. "No."
They surrounded him.
Modred ran past, drunk out of his mind.
He pointed at Arthur."OI—ARTHUR'S GETTING DRAGGED! SERVES YOU RIGHT, PRETTY BOY!"
Arthur sent him a murderous glare. "MODRED, I SWEAR—!"
But he was dragged away by the girls who insisted he dance, drink, pose for sketches, and probably breathe.
Modred continued running after Taren like a lunatic."TAREN! YOU DRINK OR WE'RE NOT BROTHERS ANYMORE!"
"That's not how that works!!" Taren yelled, dodging between stalls.
Dante groaned, drunk. "I hate both of you."
Modred whirled and tackled Dante instead, grabbing his cloak.
"YOU—DRINK—AGAIN!"
Dante yelled as he fell, "MODRED I SWEAR I WILL KILL—"
They rolled across the dirt.
Taren fell trying to run.
Arthur escaped the girls by ducking under a food stall.
And Lysara…Just kept eating bread.
Later, when the crowd thinned, Modred sobered up a bit and sat on a hill overlooking the festival. Taren sat beside him, exhausted. Dante leaned against a tree, pretending not to be drunk.
Arthur limped up last, hair messed up by the girls.
Modred snorted. "Told you he'd get mobbed."
Arthur sighed. "I hope you train half as hard as you drink."
Taren nudged Modred. "You're insane, you know that?"
"Good," Modred said quietly. "Normal is boring."
The night wind cooled their faces. The festival lights flickered below like scattered stars.