The thunder woke Kael before the sun.
It wasn't unusual. In Stormvale, storms arrived with the regularity of the tides, bringing with them the smell of salt and iron that permeated every stone of the Drayvar manor. Kael lay still under the rough sheets, watching the shadows dance on his small room's ceiling as the sea roared against the cliffs.
Dawn had not yet arrived when he finally opened his eyes completely.
He didn't need the sunlight or the sound of servants moving through the halls. His body simply knew. As if every nerve had been waiting for this moment, tense and alert even in sleep.
He rose without a sound, his bare feet touching the cold stone. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the moon filtering through the curtainless window. Outside, the sea roared against the cliffs with its perpetual violence, and the wind howled like something alive and hungry.
'First day,' he thought as he dressed with deliberate movements. A simple tunic, dark wool trousers, boots that were still slightly too small. Nothing fancy. Nothing that screamed "son of the Grand Duke."
Just clothes that could be ruined.
He looked at himself in the small cracked mirror next to his trunk. An eight-year-old boy looked back: thin, normal for his age, with gray eyes too serious for his face. There was nothing imposing about him. Nothing to suggest power or destiny.
'Good,' he decided. 'Let them underestimate me. It's easier to surprise when no one expects anything.'
He left his room without waking Sareth. His brother needed the sleep more than he needed to know Kael was leaving. Besides, he didn't want questions. He didn't want to have to explain why he was doing this.
Because honestly, he still wasn't completely sure himself.
The training yard was shrouded in gloom when Kael arrived. Sea mist had crept over the walls, curling around the practice posts and dummies like spectral fingers. The air smelled of salt, iron, and old sweat absorbed into the dirt after years of men bleeding onto it.
Kael stopped at the edge, looking at the empty space. In a few hours, this place would be filled with sound: steel against steel, cries of exertion, Master Torin's rough corrections. But now, in the stillness before dawn, it was almost peaceful.
Almost.
He walked toward the center, his boots crunching softly against the gravel. He stood where Rylan had been days ago, where the electric blue Aether had shone around his practice sword with such ease it seemed to breathe.
'I will never have that,' Kael knew. 'Not like that. Not with that intensity. My resonance was moderate. Average.'
'But maybe I don't need to be exceptional with Aether. Maybe I just need to be good enough not to die if someone tries to kill me.'
It was a modest goal. Almost pathetic in its lack of ambition.
But it was honest.
"Did you arrive early to impress or because you couldn't sleep?"
Kael spun around, his hand flying instinctively to where a sword would be if he had one.
Master Torin was standing in the yard's entrance arch, his arms crossed over his chest. His leather training armor reflected the faint moonlight, and his eyes, dark as river stones, studied him with an impassive expression.
'How long has he been there?'
"I couldn't sleep, Master Torin," Kael admitted.
"Nerves or excitement?"
"Both."
Torin grunted, a sound that could have been approval.
"At least you're honest. Half the idiots who train here would lie and say they aren't afraid."
He walked toward the center of the yard, his steps heavy.
"Fear is good. Fear keeps you alert. It's only when fear paralyzes you that it kills you."
He stopped in front of Kael, looking down at him.
"Last chance to withdraw. Once we start, there's no turning back for at least a week. Understood?"
"Understood."
"You are going to bleed."
"That's fine."
"You are going to cry."
"Probably."
"You are going to want to quit every damned day for the first month."
Kael held his gaze.
"But I won't."
There was a long moment of silence. Then Torin nodded, something akin to respect briefly crossing his face.
"We shall see."
The sound of footsteps interrupted the moment. They both turned to see figures emerging from the mist: the other initiates, arriving in groups of two or three, yawning and rubbing sleep from their eyes.
Kael watched them approach, cataloging each one.
The biggest was immediately obvious: a fifteen-year-old boy with already broad shoulders from several years of constant training, brown hair cut in a military style, and the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly where they stood in the hierarchy. Not at the top—he would never be the best, his expression made that clear—but high enough to be respected.
Several others followed: boys between ten and fourteen, all larger than Kael, all moving with the ease of those who already knew the routine. Some noticed him and looked with curiosity. Others with barely disguised contempt. Most simply paid him no mind.
Until one, maybe twelve years old, with a fresh scar on his cheek, stopped in front of him.
"How old are you, dwarf?"
"Eight."
The boy whistled.
"I started at ten and almost died the first month."
He looked Kael up and down.
"Good luck. You're going to need it."
He walked away before Kael could respond.
Favius was the last to approach. He stood next to Kael, not looking at him directly, his eyes fixed on Torin.
"You're Rylan's brother," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Half-brother," Kael corrected.
"Does it matter?"
"To me, it does."
Favius glanced at him, evaluating him.
"Fair enough."
Pause.
"I'm Favius. We're probably third cousins or something. Family is complicated."
"It is."
"Did you come to prove something or are you just bored?"
Kael considered the question. There were many answers he could give. Political answers. Calculated answers.
But there was something about Favius's blunt frankness that demanded honesty.
"I came because just being the son who reads books isn't enough in a family of warriors."
Favius nodded slowly.
"Respectable."
A small smile.
"Stupid, but respectable."
Before Kael could answer, Torin's voice thundered over the yard.
"FORMATION!"
The initiates immediately lined up, with practiced movements that Kael lacked. He stumbled to the end of the line, feeling clumsy and out of place.
Torin walked in front of them with slow, deliberate steps, hands behind his back, eyes sweeping over every face.
"Some of you already know this. One of you does not."
His gaze stopped on Kael.
"So I will say it once: I do not care who your father is. I do not care what blood runs in your veins. I do not care if yesterday you were prince or beggar. Here, you are all the same: pathetically weak until you prove otherwise."
He walked toward Kael, stopping directly in front of him.
"You. What is your name?"
"Kael Drayvar, Master Torin."
"Here you are just Kael. No titles. No 'son of'."
He leaned closer.
"And if you throw up during training, do it out of my sight. If you cry, go home. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good."
He straightened up, addressing everyone again.
"Warm-up: five laps around the main yard. Then body exercises. Then sword forms. Then sparring. You have ten seconds to start running or I add a lap."
The initiates exploded into movement.
Kael ran.
He had no idea where the "main yard" was, but he followed the others, his lungs already beginning to burn after the first minute.
'This is going to be a disaster,' he thought as he watched Favius and the others pull away from him with insulting ease.
'But at least it will be my disaster.'
By the end of the second lap, Kael's lungs were burning as if he had swallowed embers. By the third, his legs were shaking. By the fourth, every breath was a knife in his chest.
He finished the fifth lap long after everyone else was already resting, hunched over, hands on his knees, trying not to pass out.
"Pathetic," he heard someone murmur.
He had no breath to answer. He wasn't sure he cared.
Torin appeared over him.
"Can you continue?"
Kael nodded, unable to speak.
"Then continue. Push-ups. Fifty."
Kael dropped to the ground, placing his hands in position. He pushed up.
One. Two. Three.
His arms shook.
Four. Five. Six.
He heard stifled laughter.
Seven. Eight.
On the ninth, his arms gave out. He crashed onto the dirt, his nose hitting gravel.
"Get up!" Torin barked.
Kael forced himself up again. Nine. Ten.
He fell again.
"Get up."
By the time he reached fifteen, his whole body was screaming. The other initiates were already at thirty, forty, some close to fifty.
Kael made it to twenty before he literally couldn't lift himself anymore.
"Enough," Torin said, not kindly but not cruelly either. "Sit-ups. Fifty."
They were worse. Much worse.
Kael managed twenty-three before his core muscles simply stopped working, muscles shaking uselessly as he lay on the dirt, staring at the sky that was slowly turning grey with dawn.
'This is worse than I imagined,' he thought between gasps. 'And we're barely starting.'
Squats were a different torture: not the acute exhaustion of push-ups, but the slow, constant burn of leg muscles forced past their limit. Kael did thirty before his legs literally gave out under him, sending him tumbling onto the dirt in an undignified heap.
No one laughed this time. It was too pitiful to be funny.
When Torin finally called the end of the body exercises, Kael was covered in sweat and dirt, his hands shaking, with muscles he never knew he had now screaming their existence.
And half the training was still left.
"Swords!" Torin yelled.
The initiates got up, some with fluid movements, others, including Kael, with considerable effort. They walked to the racks where wooden practice swords were lined up: blunted weapons but still capable of breaking bones if used with enough force.
Kael picked one up. It was heavier than he expected, balancing awkwardly in his hand.
"Pair up," Torin ordered. "Favius, with the new one. The rest know what to do."
Favius approached with a practice sword resting comfortably on his shoulder. He stood in front of Kael, studying him.
"Have you held a sword before?"
"Not really," Kael admitted.
"Perfect."
Favius sighed.
"Okay. Stance first. Watch."
He slid into position: feet shoulder-width apart, weight on the balls of his feet, sword held in a diagonal guard across his body.
"This is First Guard. The most basic position. Try it."
Kael tried. His feet were too close together. His weight was on his heels. His sword was too low.
"No, not like that."
Favius approached, pushing Kael's foot out with his own.
"Wider. Imagine you're on ice and trying not to slip. You need a stable base."
Kael adjusted.
"Better. Now your weight. Forward, onto the balls of your feet. Do you feel the difference?"
Kael nodded. It felt less stable, but more ready to move.
"Good. Now the sword. Higher. You're not resting, you're defending. If I swing at your head right now, can you block?"
Kael raised his sword. Favius made a slow, lazy swing. Kael blocked it, barely.
"There. That's First Guard."
Favius backed up.
"Now do that a thousand times until your muscles remember without thinking."
"Why are you helping me?" Kael suddenly asked.
Favius stopped, considering the question.
"Because I was the worst one here when I started five years ago."
A shrug.
"And because someone helped me then. Paying it forward, I guess."
"Who helped you?"
"It doesn't matter. He left."
A dark expression crossed his face.
"Now practice your damned stance."
They spent the next hour working on basic forms: First Guard, transition to Second Guard, simple attacks, blocks. Kael's arms shook constantly, his grip slipping with sweat, but Favius was patient.
Not kind. Not condescending. Just patient.
"Why do you hate Rylan?" Kael asked during a brief water break.
Favius almost choked.
"What makes you think I hate him?"
"Your face every time someone mentions his name."
"Observant."
Favius took another drink.
"I don't hate him. I just..."
Pause.
"Do you know what it feels like to be near someone who is everything you want to be but never will?"
"Yes," Kael said softly. "Yes, I do."
Favius looked at him, really looked at him, and something akin to understanding passed between them.
"Rylan is perfect," Favius finally said. "Strong, talented, praised by everyone. And I am... average. Decent. 'Good effort, Favius.' 'Keep trying, Favius.' But never 'exceptional'."
"Then don't try to be Rylan," Kael suggested. "Be something different."
"Like what?"
"I don't know yet. But there has to be something."
Favius snorted, but there was a small smile on his face.
"You're weird."
"I know."
The practice sparring was exactly the disaster Kael expected.
His first opponent was a twelve-year-old boy with thin but surprisingly quick arms. Torin blew the whistle.
The boy attacked.
Kael tried to block.
He failed.
The wooden sword hit his side hard enough to knock him down, pain exploding in his ribs.
Eight seconds. The bout lasted eight seconds.
"Get up!" Torin yelled. "Again."
Kael got up, sharp pain in his side. He put himself on guard.
The whistle blew.
This time he lasted fifteen seconds before being knocked down.
'Progress,' he thought ironically as he spat out dirt.
"Enough!" Torin pointed at him. "You. Kael. You stay an extra half hour. You need to learn how to FALL without killing yourself."
Some of the initiates laughed. Favius didn't laugh. He just nodded, as if he had expected exactly that.
The extra half hour was brutal in a different way. Not the sharp violence of sparring, but the monotonous repetition of learning to roll, to bend, to absorb impacts without breaking.
Torin knocked him down again and again, showing him how to fall correctly.
"Don't resist the fall. Use it. Roll with it. Turn momentum into movement."
Kael tried. He failed. Tried again.
By the time Torin finally let him go, the sun was fully up, the other initiates had long since left, and every part of Kael's body was a bruise waiting to happen.
He stood up, swaying slightly.
"Tomorrow, same time," Torin said. "Don't be late."
"Yes, Master Torin."
Kael started to walk away and almost fell when a hand grabbed his shoulder.
Favius was there.
"You stayed," Kael said, surprised.
"Torin did this to me too when I started."
Favius released his shoulder.
"I thought you might need help walking back. You look like you're about to pass out."
"I'm fine."
"Liar."
But there was something akin to respect in Favius's voice.
"Come on. I'll show you the shortcut to the main rooms."
They walked in silence for a moment, Kael limping slightly, everything hurting.
"Why did you really stay?" he finally asked.
Favius shrugged.
"Because you survived. Most eight-year-olds would have cried and gone home hours ago. You stayed. That's... something."
"Something good?"
"Ask me in two months."
They reached the doors leading to the east wing. Favius stopped.
"A tip," he said. "When they knock you down tomorrow, and they will, roll into the hit, not away from it."
"That's counterintuitive."
"I know. That's why it works. It breaks their momentum and gives you half a second to recover. Half a second is all you need sometimes."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Tomorrow will be worse."
"Worse than today?"
"Much worse."
Favius smiled.
"Your body doesn't know what happened to it yet. Tomorrow, every muscle will scream. And then you'll have to train anyway."
"Great."
Favius studied him for a moment longer.
"Why did you really come?" he asked. "You're the Grand Duke's son. You could study, learn politics, stay at home. But you come here to get broken. Why?"
Kael considered lying. Giving some noble answer about honor or duty.
But something about Favius, his raw honesty, his recognition of his own limitations, demanded the truth.
"Because just being the son who reads books isn't enough in a family of warriors," he said. "I'll never be Rylan. I'll never be the heir. But I can be dangerous enough that people think twice before discarding me."
Favius nodded slowly.
"Honest. I like it."
He turned to leave, then stopped.
"Hey, Kael. One more thing."
"Yes?"
"Don't compare yourself to Rylan. It's a losing battle. Instead, compare yourself to who you were yesterday. If you're a little better every day, eventually you get somewhere."
"Where?"
"I don't know yet."
A small smile.
"But I bet it's more interesting than being a copy of someone else."
He left, leaving Kael alone in the hallway.
Kael walked back to his room, every step an agony. Everything hurt: legs, arms, back, core, even muscles he didn't know existed. He had blisters on his hands, a bruise forming on his right rib, and he had probably lost a bit of skin from his face when he crashed onto the gravel.
But he had survived.
Day one. Complete.
Sareth was waiting outside his door, his eyes wide with worry.
"How was it?" he asked immediately.
"Horrible," Kael admitted, opening his door.
"Are you going back?"
Kael stopped on the threshold. He turned to look at his brother, and despite the exhaustion, despite the pain, he smiled.
"Tomorrow. And every day after."
"Why? If it's so horrible..."
"Because horrible doesn't mean impossible."
Kael stepped into his room.
"It just means difficult. And nothing easy has ever gotten me anywhere."
He closed the door softly, leaving Sareth in the hall with a thoughtful expression.
He collapsed onto his bed, his narrow, uncomfortable bed with rough sheets, and looked at the stone ceiling.
'Favius is right,' he thought. 'I am the worst one there. By far. But he was too once. And if he could improve... then there is hope.'
'Not hope of being Rylan. But of being something different.'
'Something useful. Something dangerous.'
'Something mine.'
Thunder rumbled over the manor, shaking the windows. Kael closed his eyes, feeling every muscle protest, every bruise throb.
And he smiled.
'First day,' he thought as darkness claimed him. 'Only a thousand more to go.'
'But I will be there for every one.'
'Because that's what you do when you aren't the chosen one, the prodigy, the perfect one.'
'You simply don't quit.'
'Never.'