Time passed differently when every day hurt.
Not in the terrible sense of the first weeks, when Kael had woken every morning feeling as if a horse had trampled him. But in the way pain became... familiar. Comforting, even. A constant reminder that he was doing something. Changing something.
Becoming something.
Week Two
Kael completed thirty push-ups before his arms gave out.
It wasn't fifty. It wasn't even forty. But it was thirty more than he could have done three months ago without ever having tried.
"Better," Torin grunted, walking past him. "Still pathetic, but better."
Kael allowed himself a small smile as he stood. Coming from Torin, "still pathetic" was practically a compliment.
In practice combat that day, he managed to block three consecutive strikes before his opponent—a thirteen-year-old boy named Davos with a recent scar on his cheek—knocked him down.
Three blocks. Fifteen seconds standing.
Progress.
"Not bad, runt," Davos said afterward, offering him a hand up. "Next time maybe you'll last twenty seconds."
"I'll aim for twenty-five," Kael responded, accepting the hand.
Davos laughed. It was the first time anyone besides Favius had treated him as something more than the small child getting in the way at the training yard.
It felt good.
One Month
The five laps around the main yard no longer felt like imminent death.
Kael still finished in the last three, still gasped like a fish out of water, but he no longer saw black spots in his vision. No longer felt his lungs would explode.
They just burned. Burned a lot.
But it was a burn he could handle.
During a sword drill, Favius paired him with Mika, a fourteen-year-old quiet boy who rarely spoke but moved with practical efficiency Kael envied.
"First Guard," Mika said in monotone voice. "Show me."
Kael slid into position. Feet apart. Weight forward. Sword up at diagonal angle.
Mika walked around him, evaluating.
"Not bad. Your shoulders are still too tense, but the base is solid."
"How do I fix it?"
"Breathe. Tense shoulders come from holding your breath." Mika demonstrated, his own shoulders visibly dropping as he exhaled. "Combat is breathing. Forget that and everything else fails."
Kael tried. Inhaled deep, exhaled slow, feeling tension drain from his shoulders.
"Better," Mika approved. "Now do it a thousand more times until you don't have to think about it."
That day, Kael turned nine.
Nobody knew except Sareth, who appeared in his room that night with a small book wrapped in simple cloth.
"Happy birthday," he said shyly. "It's about war strategies. I thought... you know, with the training and all..."
Kael took the book, feeling something warm expand in his chest.
"Thanks, Sareth."
"Was the day good?"
"Torin called me 'less useless than usual.' So yes, it was good."
Sareth laughed nervously.
"That's... good, right?"
"Coming from Torin, it's practically a celebration."
Two Months
Kael connected his first clean hit in combat.
It was against an eleven-year-old initiate who'd gotten too confident, lowering his guard for half a second. Kael's practice sword hit his side with a satisfying thwack that resonated across the entire yard.
The boy staggered, surprised.
Kael was surprised too.
Then he was knocked down three seconds later, but it didn't matter. He'd connected a hit. A real one.
"FINALLY!" Torin shouted from across the yard. "The runt has claws!"
Several initiates applauded ironically. Kael stood, smiling despite the new bruise blooming on his hip.
Small victories.
During a water break, Davos dropped down beside him, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"You're improving, runt."
"Kael. My name is Kael."
"I know. But runt is funnier." Davos elbowed him. "Accept the nickname. It means people notice you."
"What if I don't want to be noticed as 'runt'?"
"Then become something else." Davos shrugged. "But until then, runt works."
Kael considered this.
"What's your nickname?"
"Scar Face."
"That's terrible."
"I know." Davos touched his scar with something like pride. "But it's mine."
Third Month
"You're not good yet," Torin said after a combat where Kael had lasted a full minute and a half. "But you're no longer a complete disaster. Progress."
Coming from Torin, it was like receiving a medal.
Kael had become part of the training yard's rhythm. He was no longer "the small kid who shouldn't be here." He was "Kael" or "runt" (courtesy of Davos) or "the stubborn one" (courtesy of Mika, who apparently appreciated obstinacy).
His muscles no longer screamed every morning. They just whispered complaints he could easily ignore.
His hands had calluses where blisters used to be.
His body moved with muscle memory he didn't have to consciously think about.
He felt... different.
Not stronger than Rylan. He probably never would be.
But definitely stronger than the child he'd been three months ago.
Breakfast had developed its own strange routine.
Kael arrived late more often now, hair still damp from washing off morning training sweat. He slid into his seat with movements that would have been clumsy before but now flowed with practical efficiency.
Elyn noticed. Not always. But more than before.
That particular morning, her eyes stopped on a new bruise blooming on Kael's jaw—courtesy of Davos and a miscalculated block—and something crossed her face.
"You're training with Torin."
It wasn't a question. It was neutral observation, like someone noting it had rained or the bread was cold.
"Yes," Kael responded, because lying was useless when he had evidence literally marked on his face.
Elyn nodded once and returned to her meal.
That was all. No approval, no disapproval. Just acknowledgment that he existed and was doing something.
It was more than he'd received in months.
Kael decided not to analyze too much whether that was good or bad.
Sareth, sitting beside him, whispered: "Rylan must be arriving at Vaeloria now. The journey takes almost three months."
"Do you think he likes it?"
"Probably." Sareth poked at his breakfast without much appetite. "It's... everything he was always meant to be. The heir visiting the imperial capital. Meeting the Emperor."
There was something sad in his voice. Not envy, exactly. Just... melancholy.
"You'd never want that," Kael observed quietly. "All that attention, all that pressure."
"No." Sareth smiled weakly. "But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be the type of person who does want that."
"Exhausting, probably."
"Probably."
Kael looked around the table. Elyn ate with mechanical precision. Sareth pushed food around his plate. And Lyssara's chair...
Was empty.
"Where's Lyssara?" he asked before he could stop himself.
Elyn didn't even look up.
"Private etiquette lessons."
Kael blinked.
Lyssara. Etiquette. Two things that don't go together in any universe.
"Etiquette lessons?" Sareth repeated, sounding as skeptical as Kael felt. "But she..."
"She needs appropriate preparation for her eventual marriage," Elyn interrupted with a tone that closed any discussion. "A noble lady's education is multifaceted."
Kael exchanged a glance with Sareth.
"Lie," both their eyes said.
But neither questioned it aloud. Elyn wasn't the type of person whose statements you challenged directly.
Later, as he walked toward the training yard, Kael briefly wondered where Lyssara really was.
Then decided it wasn't his problem. Everyone had their secrets. He had his training, Sareth had his friendship with Carmen, and Lyssara had... whatever it was.
Probably something more interesting than etiquette lessons.
The afternoon training was in full swing when Kael arrived.
The sun had reached its zenith, turning the yard into an oven that cooked sweat into everyone's skin. The initiates moved through their exercises with tired determination, the kind that comes from doing the same thing every day until the body simply accepts suffering as normal.
"Practice combats!" Torin shouted. "Pair up. Kael, with Davos. Favius, with Mika. The rest know what to do."
Kael took his practice sword—lighter now, or perhaps his arms were simply stronger—and faced Davos.
The older boy smiled, spinning his own sword with casual familiarity.
"Ready for your daily beating, runt?"
"I prefer to call it 'intensive endurance training.'"
"Call it whatever you want. You'll still end up eating dirt."
"Son of a bitch."
Torin blew the whistle.
Davos attacked first, a side swing Kael blocked with First Guard. The impact resonated in his arms but he held position.
"Better!" Davos shouted, attacking again.
Block. Parry. Retreat. Counterattack that Davos deflected easily.
They lasted almost two minutes before Davos finally found an opening and connected a clean hit on Kael's side. Not hard enough to break anything, but enough to send sharp pain radiating from his ribs.
Kael fell, rolling instinctively—thanks, Torin—and getting up again before Davos could capitalize.
The whistle blew. End of combat.
"Two minutes, four seconds," Torin announced. "Your best time, Kael."
"Does that mean I'm no longer completely useless?"
"It means you're slightly less useless." Torin almost smiled. Almost. "Progress."
During the water break, the group gathered in the shade of the east wall, everyone gasping and soaked with sweat.
Favius dropped down beside Kael, passing him his canteen when Kael's emptied.
"You're improving. Davos really had to work to knock you down today."
"I worked a bit," Davos admitted, touching his side where Kael had connected one of his counterattacks. "The runt almost broke my rib."
"Almost doesn't count," Kael responded, drinking water. "Either I break your rib or I don't."
General laughter.
Mika, who rarely contributed to conversations, spoke in his usual monotone voice:
"Sound combat philosophy. Binary. I like it."
"Does anyone know when the shell heir returns?" Davos asked suddenly, wiping sweat from his forehead.
There was a moment of confused silence.
"The what?" Mika asked.
"The shell heir. You know. Rylan." Davos made a vague gesture with his hand. "Elyn treats him like he's made of expensive porcelain. Shell heir."
Kael almost choked on his water. Favius burst out laughing.
"That's... surprisingly accurate," Favius said between laughs.
"Right?" Davos looked pleased with himself. "Came up with it this morning."
"Rylan," Mika said with patient voice, like explaining something to a small child. "His name is Rylan."
"I know what his name is. But shell heir sounds better. More... descriptive."
Kael found himself smiling despite himself. There was something liberating about how Davos just said things without filter.
"Probably within three months," Favius answered, returning to the original question. "Journeys to Vaeloria take time. Two months there, two months back if there's good weather."
"Have you ever been there?" Kael asked.
"Once. When I was ten." Favius looked into the distance, remembering. "It's... overwhelming. Too many people. Too much everything. Buildings so tall you have to bend your neck to see the tops. Streets so full you get lost in the crowd."
"Did you hate it?"
"No." Favius shrugged. "But it made me realize I'll never belong there. Not like Rylan. He was born for that. For the halls of power, Council meetings, all the imperial pomp."
"I realized that a long time ago too," Kael said quietly.
"And that's why you train?" Davos asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. "Because you can't be heir?"
"I train because I want to be better than my yesterday's version."
"That's... surprisingly deep," Mika commented.
"Or surprisingly normal," Kael added.
"Both," Favius concluded. "Definitely both."
"ENOUGH PHILOSOPHY!" Torin's voice cut through the yard like a whip. "If you have breath to talk, you have breath to run! Five laps! NOW!"
Group complaints rose, but everyone stood anyway.
Kael ran beside Favius, his legs pumping with rhythm he'd memorized after months of repetition. For the first time since starting training, he wasn't the last to finish.
He finished in the middle of the group, with Davos and Mika still behind him.
Small victory, but real.
When the training session finally ended and the initiates began to disperse, Favius hung back, waiting for Kael to finish storing his practice sword.
"Belated birthday, by the way," he said casually. "Nine years old, right?"
Kael looked at him surprised.
"Two weeks ago. How'd you know?"
"Heard your brother mention it in the library."
"Sareth."
"That one." Favius nodded. "Seems like a good person."
"He is. Too good for this family."
Favius gave him a strange look but didn't ask. He'd learned over the past months that Kael didn't talk much about his family beyond what was necessary.
"Anyway," Favius stretched, joints cracking. "Same time tomorrow. Try not to die in your sleep. It'd be inconvenient to have to train another runt from scratch."
"Your compassion moves me."
"I know. It's a gift."
After training, Kael looked for Lyssara.
Not for any particular reason. Just... curiosity.
She wasn't in the secondary library where Sareth usually studied. She wasn't in her room—Kael verified by casually passing through the west wing and noting her door was open with the room empty. She wasn't in any of the dining halls or common rooms.
He found Sareth in the main library, bent over a tome of military strategy—probably the book he'd gifted him—with Carmen sitting across the table, their heads close as they murmured about something.
Kael approached silently, smiling at how Sareth straightened nervously when he noticed him.
"Have you seen Lyssara?" he asked without preamble.
"Not since yesterday," Sareth answered. "Why?"
"Just curious. Elyn said she had etiquette lessons."
Carmen made a sound that might have been stifled laughter.
"Lyssara? Etiquette?" She shook her head. "She hates etiquette. Last year she argued with the instructor about why noble women should learn fencing instead of embroidery. Almost got her fired."
"I know," Kael said. "That's why it's weird."
"Maybe she just wants to avoid family lunch," Sareth suggested. "I wouldn't blame her."
"Maybe."
But something in Kael's tone made it clear he didn't believe it.
He left Sareth and Carmen with their studies and with the blush Sareth still couldn't control when the girl looked directly at him, and returned to his own room.
The secret clearing was empty except for Lyssara, the tree she'd marked as practice target, and the dense silence of the forest that muffled any sound.
Perfect.
The practice sword was heavier than she'd expected when she stole it—"borrowed it," she corrected mentally—from the arsenal two months ago. But her arms had gotten used to the weight. They still trembled after five minutes of intensive practice, but she no longer dropped the sword accidentally.
Progress.
Lyssara moved through the forms she'd memorized watching Rylan over the years. First Guard. Transition to Second Guard. Basic attack connecting with the marked tree, bark jumping with each impact.
Ten times this week, she counted mentally. Twenty last month. One hundred since I started.
And I'm still terrible.
The admission hurt more than any aching muscle.
She failed a movement, almost fell, the sword slipping in her sweaty grip.
Shit.
She allowed herself to curse here. Nobody heard her. Nobody knew this clearing existed, this secret, this version of her that didn't fit the perfect mold of "Miss Lyssara Drayvar, promising daughter of House Drayvar."
She forced herself to repeat the movement. Once. Twice. Ten times. Until her arms screamed and sweat ran down her back, soaking her simple dress—the one she wore specifically because she could move in it without restrictions of lace and corsets.
Mother says noble girls learn politics, embroidery, music, she thought bitterly as she hit the tree with extra force. Tools for advantageous marriages.
Rylan learns war because he's the heir.
Kael now also trains, apparently. The forgotten son decides he wants to be seen.
And I...
She hit the tree again, bark exploding.
I train in secret because if mother discovers I prefer swords to dresses, she'll lock me in etiquette lessons until I forget how to hold a weapon.
She stopped, gasping, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.
She looked at her hands: no calluses yet (she washed them obsessively, wore gloves when she could), blisters forming that she carefully hid under those same gloves in the mansion, muscles aching in ways nobody noticed because she'd learned long ago not to show weakness.
I'm better than Kael, she reminded herself. Obviously. He's just a brat I have in my hands.
Pause. Consideration.
But I'm below Rylan.
Brutal honesty with herself. One of the few things she allowed herself.
Far below. He has years of advantage, better training, stronger Aether, dedicated instructors.
But the gap can be closed. It has to be able to close.
She sat against the marked tree, catching her breath, sword resting in her lap. Her fingers traced the patterns in the wood worn by months of repeated strikes.
To be Head of House Drayvar, I need to surpass Rylan.
Not in politics. There I'm already better. I can manipulate a conversation, read between lines, plant doubts with innocent questions.
But in this. In the sword. In what really matters in this family of warriors.
Because if I'm only the smart daughter, I'll be married for alliance. Sold to the highest bidder who strengthens House Drayvar's connections.
If I'm the warrior daughter, I can claim the position.
She stood, shaking dirt and dry leaves from her dress. She cleaned the sword with the cloth she'd brought—stained with sweat and bark—and stored it in the hollow of the nearby tree, carefully covered with branches and moss.
Nobody would find it. She'd verified dozens of times.
She put clean gloves over her blisters, hiding the evidence. She smoothed her dress, adjusted her hair. With each action, she transformed:
From warrior in training → Noble daughter returning from etiquette lessons
It was a role she'd perfected. Straight posture but not rigid. Serene expression but not empty. Measured steps suggesting education but not arrogance.
Kael trains with Torin, she thought as she walked back toward the mansion through the forest. Openly. With permission. The other initiates probably know him, accept him.
The mansion appeared through the trees, its dark towers outlined against the gray evening sky. From here, it looked almost beautiful. Imposing. Powerful.
Someday, Lyssara knew, that mansion would be hers.
Not Rylan's. Not Kael's. Not any of the men who assumed power belonged to them by default of birth.
Hers.
I just need time, she reminded herself as she emerged from the forest, transforming her expression into a perfectly neutral mask. And patience.
And for Rylan to make a mistake.
She smiled as she crossed the gardens toward the east entrance, passing servants who didn't even look up.
Invisible in her visibility. Another useful trick.
Eventually, everyone makes mistakes.
Even perfect heirs.
Because they've never really had to fight for anything.
And that, thought Lyssara as she entered the mansion with the perfect posture of a noble lady who'd just finished her etiquette lessons, is their greatest weakness.
They just don't know it yet.
She passed Ama Maren in the main hallway. The older woman nodded with respect.
"Miss Lyssara. Were your lessons fruitful?"
"Very fruitful, Ama Maren," Lyssara responded with the polite smile she'd perfected. "The instructor says my progress is... notable."
"I'm glad to hear it."
Lyssara continued toward her room, with measured steps, with controlled breathing despite her lungs still burning from training.
Only when she closed her room door and threw the bolt did she allow herself to collapse against the wood, gasping.
Her legs trembled. Her arms ached. Every muscle protested.
But it was worth it.
Everything is worth it, she thought as she forced herself to walk toward her private bath. Every strike. Every fall. Every hour stolen in secret.
Because someday, when I'm good enough, I'll reveal this.
And mother won't be able to do anything about it.
She removed her gloves, revealing the red blisters on her palms. They needed treatment, but it would have to wait until everyone was asleep. She couldn't risk some servant seeing and asking questions.
She looked at herself in the full-length mirror in her room. Dress wrinkled from sweat and movement. Hair disheveled that she'd have to fix before dinner. Face flushed from exertion.
But her eyes...
Her eyes shone with determination that no amount of makeup or elegant dresses could completely hide.
Because hunger doesn't sleep. Doesn't rest. Doesn't accept 'no' as an answer.
And I, she promised herself as she began fixing her appearance for dinner, am hungrier than anyone in this damned mansion.
They just don't know it yet.
And by the time they realize...
It will be too late.