The first morning of Soma Locke's new training regimen began with a wooden sword striking him directly across the backside.
"OW! YOU MISERABLE OLD BASTARD!"
Igor stood behind him, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Your guard was open."
"My back was turned!"
"Then stop showing your arse to someone holding a weapon."
"I was picking up my waterskin!"
"Wonderful. I'm sure your enemies will politely wait while you have a drink."
Soma rubbed his backside, glaring at the one-eyed veteran. Three weeks had passed since the ambush, and the healers had finally approved his return to light training. Apparently, Igor interpreted light training as an opportunity to remind him how much he'd missed being struck with a wooden sword.
Nearby, Jaspar watched with his arms folded while Kara lounged against the equipment shed, eating an apple.
"Is this how you always teach him?" Kara asked.
"Usually," Igor replied.
"Does it work?"
"Occasionally."
Soma pointed his practice sword at them. "I can hear every word."
"Good," Jaspar said, stepping forward. "Then listen carefully. Your father has approved the next stage of your education. That means we're going to stop treating your training like a collection of separate lessons."
Soma straightened.
"You've learned the fundamentals of combat from Igor. You've studied history, government, and military tactics with your tutors. Now you'll learn how those subjects fit together outside the manor."
"Finally."
Jaspar raised an eyebrow. "Don't sound so excited, boy. Most of what I'm going to teach you is unpleasant."
Kara grinned. "And some of it involves fire."
Soma looked at her suspiciously. "Please tell me you aren't responsible for the safety procedures."
"Of course I am."
"That's deeply concerning."
She barked a laugh.
Igor tossed Soma his waterskin.
"Enough talking. Back to work."
Soma caught it, took a drink, and carefully moved out of the veteran's reach before turning around.
Igor grinned.
"Look at that. He's learning."
The first year was not glorious.
It was exhausting, occasionally humiliating, and filled with an astonishing number of lessons that began with Jaspar declaring Soma's plans inadequate.
During one exercise, the captain ordered him to lead three Vanguard trainees into a wooded training area to rescue an injured civilian.
Soma studied the terrain, divided the responsibilities, and established a route that avoided the narrowest sections of the forest. It was a reasonable plan, and he felt quite pleased with himself.
Then Jaspar changed the conditions.
One trainee developed a simulated leg injury. Another announced that their medical supplies had been lost. The third received secret instructions to question Soma's orders and delay their progress.
By the time they reached the casualty, Soma was considering whether strangling one's own teammates counted as a leadership failure.
"Well?" Jaspar asked when they returned.
Soma dropped his pack.
"I have several complaints."
"Excellent. Let's hear them."
"Your trainees are insufferable, your scenario contains an unreasonable number of disasters, and I'm beginning to suspect you deliberately enjoy making my life miserable."
Jaspar smiled.
"Immensely."
Soma stared at him.
Gods above. He's Igor with better posture.
But when the captain reviewed the exercise, Soma discovered something important. His original plan hadn't been poor. It simply lacked alternatives for when things went wrong.
And things, according to Jaspar, had a remarkable talent for going wrong.
Over the following months, Soma learned to prepare contingencies, recognize when an objective was no longer worth the risk, and rely on the judgment of those working beside him. Jaspar also began teaching him to distinguish between being obeyed because of his title and being followed because others trusted his decisions.
That distinction proved considerably harder to master.
Kara's lessons were no gentler.
On their first morning together, she handed Soma an enormous smithing hammer.
He nearly dropped it.
"Too heavy?" she asked.
"Not at all."
"Good. Lift it."
He tried.
The hammer barely moved.
Kara grinned and exchanged it for a smaller one.
"First rule of smithing, lad. Use what you can control. Nobody gives a damn how impressive your hammer looks if you can't hit the bloody metal."
Soma spent the next several months learning the fundamentals of metallurgy, equipment maintenance, and workshop safety. He ruined more metal than he cared to admit, burned his fingers twice, and produced an early practice knife so crooked that Kara refused to classify it as a weapon.
"What the hell is that?" she demanded.
"A dagger."
"Looks like a depressed spoon."
"An experimental design."
"Experimental garbage."
He laughed and returned to the anvil.
By the end of his eleventh year, Soma had forged a serviceable utility blade. It was plain, slightly imperfect, and entirely his own work.
Kara examined it for several minutes before offering a grudging nod.
"Not bad."
Soma froze.
"Was that praise?"
"Don't get used to it."
He grinned.
Apparently every mentor in my life attended the same academy of emotional repression.
His lessons with Preston changed just as dramatically.
Twice each week, Soma accompanied his father to administrative meetings, supervised inspections, and occasional visits to Highmere's outer districts.
At first, much of the work seemed disappointingly ordinary.
Road maintenance. Trade disputes. Grain allocations. Sanitation. Contracts.
Then Soma remembered the families he'd seen during the journey toward Haven Port.
He remembered Jaspar asking why certain streets remained broken while fountains glittered in the noble quarters.
And he began to understand that ordinary problems were rarely small to the people living through them.
During one inspection, residents petitioned Preston over a drainage channel that had remained damaged for months.
The maintenance funds had already been approved.
Soma examined the records.
Then examined them again.
"Father, there's something wrong."
Preston looked over his shoulder.
"What have you found?"
"The contractor was paid for three phases of repairs, but the inspection reports only confirm that the first was completed."
The Archduke's expression hardened.
Further investigation revealed inflated invoices and work that had never been performed. The matter was referred to the proper authorities, and the repairs were completed under new supervision.
Several weeks later, an elderly woman approached Soma near the restored street.
"Thank you, young lord."
He blinked.
"For what?"
"My grandchildren can walk to school without climbing through filthy water."
Soma looked toward the channel.
For the first time, he understood that protecting people didn't always require a sword.
Sometimes it required asking an inconvenient question about a ledger.
At eleven, Soma accompanied Jaspar on his first supervised civilian assignments.
They escorted supply wagons, helped locate missing livestock, cleared fallen trees, and investigated reports of low-ranked beasts near farming settlements.
Soma initially found the work rather underwhelming.
He'd spent years reading about extraordinary creatures, ancient ruins, and legendary adventurers.
Now he stood ankle-deep in mud while a farmer complained about a missing goat.
Jaspar noticed his expression.
"Disappointed?"
Soma sighed. "I imagined my first expedition would involve something more impressive."
"Like what?"
"A monster. A mysterious ruin. Perhaps an ancient artifact."
"Instead, you've got a goat."
"An exceptionally uncooperative goat."
Jaspar pointed toward the farmer, who stood nearby holding a small child.
"That animal helps feed his family. Finding it matters more to him than whatever treasure you're imagining."
Soma fell silent.
Then he tightened his boots.
"Right. Let's find the little bastard."
Three hours later, they discovered the goat wedged between two fallen logs.
Soma returned covered in mud, scratches, and a substance he refused to identify.
The farmer nearly cried with relief.
Jaspar said nothing.
He didn't need to.
Soma understood.
By twelve, the assignments carried greater responsibility.
Soma learned to identify creature tracks, evaluate terrain, and recognize the difference between a dangerous beast and an animal defending its territory.
Uncle Zane's bestiaries became invaluable.
One afternoon, Soma crouched beside enormous tracks near a forest clearing.
"Three toes. Deep impressions. Something heavy."
Jaspar nodded.
"Keep going."
"The spacing suggests it wasn't running."
"Good."
Soma followed the impressions toward a patch of flattened grass and stopped.
Smaller tracks marked the earth nearby.
His expression changed.
"Offspring."
"Exactly."
Jaspar folded his arms.
"Now tell me why charging into those bushes would be a terrible idea."
Soma sighed.
"Because nothing says welcome quite like threatening someone's children."
The captain smiled.
They withdrew without disturbing the creatures.
No dramatic battle occurred. No monster was slain.
And Soma considered it one of his more successful assignments.
He was beginning to appreciate that knowing when not to fight could be just as important as knowing how.
Not every encounter ended peacefully.
During a patrol near an isolated village, a pack of predatory beasts emerged from the tall grass and rushed a livestock enclosure.
Jaspar had assigned Soma to observe, maintain communication, and support the Vanguard from a protected position.
Then a young farmer stumbled into the creatures' path.
Soma saw the danger first.
"LEFT SIDE!"
A nearby knight turned.
Too late.
The creature lunged.
Soma drew his bow and released.
The arrow struck its shoulder, breaking its momentum long enough for the knight to intercept it.
One clean sword stroke ended the attack.
The farmer survived.
Yet Soma remained motionless, staring at the fallen creature.
His hands trembled.
He remembered the bandit on the forest road.
The blood.
The terrible sensation of his blade finding flesh.
Jaspar approached.
"You all right?"
Soma swallowed.
"I remembered the ambush."
The captain nodded.
"That happens."
"I thought I'd be past it by now."
"Why?"
"It's been nearly two years."
Jaspar rested a hand against his shoulder.
"Time doesn't erase everything, boy."
Soma looked toward the farmer embracing his family.
"Then what am I supposed to do?"
"Remember why you acted. Learn what you can. And don't convince yourself that feeling something makes you weak."
Soma took a slow breath.
He had grown stronger.
But he was grateful that becoming stronger hadn't meant forgetting.
At thirteen, Soma began receiving greater responsibility during supervised expeditions.
He assisted in organizing supply escorts, planning safer travel routes, and coordinating small groups of recruits during rescue exercises.
His reputation spread slowly through the villages surrounding Highmere.
Not because he defeated legendary monsters.
Not because of his father's title.
But because he returned.
When he promised to investigate a damaged bridge, he followed up.
When a merchant reported repeated trouble along a supply route, Soma listened.
When the Vanguard completed an assignment, he asked whether the people affected actually received the help they needed.
One afternoon, a blacksmith offered to repair Soma's equipment without charge.
"Consider it a thank-you, young lord."
Soma shook his head.
"You've got a business to run. I'll pay."
The blacksmith laughed.
"Stubborn little bastard, aren't you?"
"An unfortunate family trait."
The man grinned and accepted the coins.
Soma left with repaired equipment and an invitation to return whenever he liked.
He preferred that sort of gratitude to a formal ceremony.
His family noticed the changes.
Stephan began involving him in more complicated discussions about trade and logistics. Simon challenged his assumptions during political debates, forcing him to defend his conclusions instead of relying on clever answers.
Scott regularly dragged him into sparring matches, while Sara criticized his posture and reminded him that an educated noble shouldn't look as though he'd slept in a haystack.
Sean remained a menace.
And Serena continued sneaking into his room to borrow books, although she'd grown considerably more selective about which ones she returned.
Samantha, meanwhile, had recovered fully from the ambush.
She accompanied him whenever his duties required it, occasionally reminding him to eat, sleep, or stop turning every problem into a personal responsibility.
One evening, she found Soma reviewing supply reports long after midnight.
"You're supposed to be resting."
"I am resting."
"You're working."
"Mentally resting."
She confiscated the documents.
"Soma."
He sighed.
"Fine."
She smiled.
"You're becoming more mature."
"An alarming development."
"Very."
He looked up.
"Am I still annoying?"
"Immensely."
"Excellent. I was worried I'd lost my charm."
At fourteen, Soma completed the finest weapon he'd ever forged.
It was a black-steel short sword, carefully balanced for his increasingly capable frame.
He'd spent months working on its design, selecting materials, shaping the blade, and refining the grip under Kara's supervision.
The finished weapon wasn't legendary.
It possessed no extraordinary enchantments.
But it was durable, precise, and dependable.
Kara tested it herself.
She inspected the edge, examined the balance, and studied the workmanship.
Then she looked at Soma.
"Well."
He waited.
"It's not shit."
Soma stared.
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"Don't get emotional."
"Master Kara, I may need a moment."
She smacked the back of his head.
"Idiot."
Soma laughed.
Then carefully sheathed the sword.
He valued it more than anything he might have purchased.
Not because of what it could do.
Because he knew how much work had gone into making it.
That autumn, a severe storm swept across Cyradon.
Heavy rain damaged roads, flooded low-lying neighborhoods, and destroyed several homes near Highmere's outer market district.
The city's emergency crews were stretched thin.
Soma volunteered to help coordinate a relief effort.
Jaspar brought Vanguard escorts.
Kara gathered craftsmen and tools.
Igor appeared without invitation.
Soma stared at him.
"What are you doing here?"
The veteran scowled.
"You think I can't swing a hammer?"
"I assumed productive labor was against your religion."
"Keep talking, brat. I'll build you a coffin."
For three days, they worked alongside residents, soldiers, and laborers.
Soma helped distribute supplies, organize repairs, and identify families needing immediate assistance. He carried materials until his shoulders ached and spent an afternoon entertaining frightened children while their parents worked.
On the final evening, a young boy approached him beside a repaired house.
"Are you really the Archduke's son?"
Soma nodded.
"Unfortunately."
The boy frowned.
"Unfortunately?"
"My father's mustache is an inherited curse."
The child giggled.
Then looked toward the house.
"Why did you help us?"
Soma considered the question.
"Because you needed help."
"But you're a noble."
Soma smiled.
"That shouldn't make a difference."
The boy stared at him.
Then grinned.
It was a small moment.
One Soma nearly forgot.
But the people of the outer districts didn't.
The nickname began spreading several weeks later.
At first, Soma heard fragments of it during his visits.
A merchant spoke of the young noble who'd helped restore the roads.
A farmer described the boy who traveled with Vanguard soldiers but remembered the names of ordinary laborers.
An adventurer recalled how Soma had helped organize the rescue of an injured companion instead of seeking glory in a fight.
Then, one afternoon, Soma entered a crowded market and heard someone shout.
"IT'S HIM!"
He stopped.
Oh, no.
"The Crownless Dawn!"
Several people turned.
Soma blinked.
"The what?"
A small girl rushed toward him.
"That's what everyone's calling you!"
He stared.
"That sounds like a particularly dramatic breakfast pastry."
She burst out laughing.
Jaspar stood nearby, looking infuriatingly entertained.
"Don't look at me, boy."
Soma turned back to the girl.
"Why Crownless Dawn?"
"Because you help people!"
"Lots of people help people."
She shook her head.
"My grandfather says you're like the sunrise."
Soma frowned.
"The sunrise?"
"Because when things are bad, you come and make them better!"
He fell silent.
The girl smiled up at him.
"And you don't act like you need a crown to do it."
Something tightened in Soma's chest.
He looked around.
The merchants.
The laborers.
The guards.
The families passing between market stalls.
People he'd spent years learning to understand.
People who had gradually begun trusting him.
He hadn't earned their affection through extraordinary power.
He'd earned it by showing up.
By listening.
By caring whether their lives improved after he left.
Jaspar stepped beside him.
"Well?"
Soma looked up.
"What?"
"Going to tell them you hate it?"
He considered the question.
Then smiled.
"No."
The captain nodded.
"Good."
Soma looked toward the girl.
"Thank you."
She beamed.
Then sprinted away, shouting his new name through the market.
Jaspar watched her go.
"Crownless Dawn, huh?"
Soma sighed.
"That's going to be embarrassing."
"Probably."
"You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
The night before his fifteenth birthday, Soma stood alone in the training yard.
Highmere slept beneath a clear sky scattered with stars, and the Citadel rose above the capital like an impossible spear reaching toward the heavens.
Five years had passed since the ambush.
Five years of training, mistakes, injuries, laughter, and difficult lessons.
He had grown considerably.
His shoulders were broader, his movements more controlled, and the practice sword he'd used as a child now looked almost comically small in his hand.
He turned it over thoughtfully.
"Feeling sentimental?"
Igor's voice came from behind him.
Soma glanced over his shoulder.
The veteran approached carrying two steaming cups of tea.
"You're getting predictable, old man."
"And you're getting taller."
"One of my many accomplishments."
Igor handed him a cup.
They stood together beneath the stars.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then Soma looked toward his mentor.
"Do you think I'm ready?"
Igor snorted.
"For what?"
"My Awakening."
The old veteran considered the question.
Then shrugged.
"No."
Soma stared.
"Excuse me?"
"Nobody's completely ready for something they've never experienced."
"That's reassuring."
"Wasn't supposed to be."
Igor looked toward the Citadel.
"But you've done the work."
Soma followed his gaze.
"You've trained. You've studied. You've learned when to swing a sword and when to keep the damned thing sheathed."
The veteran paused.
"And you've learned that being strong doesn't make you worth more than everyone standing beside you."
Soma looked down at his tea.
Igor's voice softened.
"That's more important than you realize, brat."
For a long moment, Soma said nothing.
Then he smiled.
"Thank you, Igor."
The veteran grunted.
"Don't get sentimental."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Good."
Soma took a sip.
Then looked toward his mentor.
"One question."
"What?"
"Now that I'm almost fifteen, can I finally beat you in a spar?"
Igor stared.
Then threw back his head and roared with laughter.
"NOT A FUCKING CHANCE!"
Soma grinned.
"Had to ask."
The veteran shook his head.
"Still an annoying little shit."
"And yet you've spent eleven years training me."
"Biggest mistake of my life."
They laughed together beneath the stars.
High above the sleeping capital, the Citadel disappeared into the clouds.
Tomorrow, Soma Locke would turn fifteen.
Soon, the mana limiter he'd lived with since infancy would finally be removed.
His Awakening awaited.
He didn't know what class he would receive or what powers might emerge.
But he knew who he wanted to become.
Someone his family could trust.
Someone his friends could rely on.
Someone the people of Cyradon could turn to when they needed help.
Soma looked toward the magnificent tower.
For the first time, he wasn't approaching the unknown simply because he wanted to discover what waited beyond it.
He had something worth protecting.
And somewhere along the way, the people he'd spent years serving had given him a name he never expected to earn.
The Crownless Dawn.
Soma smiled.
"Well," he murmured, "let's see what tomorrow brings."
Beside him, Igor finished his tea.
"Hopefully fewer bloody surprises than your tenth birthday."
Soma laughed.
"Considering my luck? Don't count on it."