Dawn arrived slowly over Stormvale, crawling across the horizon as if the sky itself hesitated to illuminate another day. Rylan Drayvar opened his eyes before the first sunbeam touched his window—not from studied discipline but because his body simply demanded it. Five months in Vaeloria had reprogrammed something fundamental in him, as if the imperial capital had reset his internal clock to a rhythm that admitted no laziness.
He rose in one fluid movement that would have been impossible six months ago. The bed was too soft, almost offensively comfortable.
'Everything here is too soft,' he thought as his feet touched the cold stone floor. 'Too safe. As if Stormvale were asleep and I were the only one awake.'
He dressed with the efficiency of someone who'd learned to prepare for combat in less than a minute: reinforced leather pants smelling faintly of salt and use, simple tunic without unnecessary embroidery, worn boots that knew the shape of his feet better than any servant. Nothing ostentatious. War clothes, not an heir playing soldier.
He tied his hair back before the mirror—a practical gesture, not vain—and the face looking back was different from the one he'd left behind. Harder in the lines around the eyes, jaw more defined from months of clenching teeth during training that bordered on torture. Small scars—one on the right eyebrow, another barely visible on the chin—telling stories of lessons learned with blood and pain.
'Fifteen years old,' he thought without melancholy or particular pride. Just statement of fact. 'I'm not a child anymore. I can't be.'
He adjusted his belt with automatic movements, verifying the ceremonial Drayvar dagger was in place—he wouldn't use it today, training required real steel without the weight of family symbols—but carrying it was constant reminder. Of who he was. Of what he should be. Of how each action, each word, each breath was evaluated against the impossible standard of three hundred years of dead Drayvar warriors watching from portraits and statues, waiting for him to measure up.
'Or fail trying.'
He left his room, the hallway was empty, silent except for the distant echo of servants beginning their morning routines somewhere deep in the mansion. Too early for most. Perfect for him.
The gardens were covered in dew when he crossed toward the training yard.
He passed by the statues of ancient Drayvars—warriors who'd earned their places in stone with spilled blood and won battles—and their elongated shadows followed him like silent ghosts. He knew their names. Their battles. The legends that had elevated them from mortal flesh to eternal marble.
'Someday,' he thought with the simple certainty of someone who'd never contemplated another possibility. 'Someday I'll be there too. Or die trying. There's no third option.'
"Good morning."
Rylan stopped with the smoothness of a warrior trained not to show surprise. Kael stood beside the path's edge as if he'd grown there—silent, observant, waiting for him with patience that seemed too adult for nine years. His younger brother wore worn but clean training clothes, hair still damp and dripping water, boots covered in dust speaking of hours already invested.
'He'd already been training,' Rylan understood with something like approval. 'Before dawn. Alone.'
"Good morning, Kael," he responded, keeping his tone neutral but not hostile.
Five months had changed the boy in ways Rylan was barely beginning to catalog. He was no longer the small shadow hiding at the margins of family breakfasts, existing in that uncomfortable space between visible and ignored. He was still small—nine years didn't make you big no matter how much you trained—but he stood differently now. Straighter shoulders. Chin raised. Eyes that looked straight instead of deflecting.
'Training works,' Rylan thought simply. 'Good. We need warriors, not shadows.'
"Finished your morning session already?" he asked, resuming his path toward the yard with Kael falling into step beside him uninvited.
The gesture would have been presumptuous six months ago. Now it felt... appropriate. As if Kael had earned the right to walk beside him instead of behind.
"Just basic forms," Kael said with voice not seeking to impress. "I wanted to warm up before Torin arrived. The first repetitions are always the most important."
"Dedicated."
"Necessary."
Direct answer without false modesty or seeking praise. Rylan approved without words, with that small knot of satisfaction that came from seeing someone of your blood refusing to be weak.
"Are you training with Torin?" Kael asked after a moment of comfortable silence.
"Yes." Rylan flexed his fingers, feeling hunger building in his chest like a beast waking after long fast. "Five months without real combat. Just exhibitions and politics disguised as duels where nobody truly bleeds. I need steel that bites."
"Want to train with us?"
The question was casual, spoken with tone suggesting he wouldn't care about the answer one way or another. But there was something more there—genuine curiosity, perhaps, or simply recognition that he was offering something without expecting anything in return.
Rylan looked at him sideways as they walked. Kael maintained perfectly neutral expression, but there was interest there. Focused attention.
'It's strange that he approaches like this,' Rylan thought. 'Before we barely spoke beyond obligatory formalities at family meals. But he's training now. Earning his place with sweat instead of waiting for it by blood.'
'I respect that. Even if I don't know exactly what to think of him yet.'
"Sure," he said simply, without elaborating. "The initiates train at this hour?"
"Some do. Favius always arrives early. Davos and Mika too." Kael made brief pause. "Master Torin has been pushing them harder lately. I think he's preparing them for something."
"For what?"
"He doesn't say. But I heard the captains talking about movements on the northern border. Could be nothing. Or could be trouble growing."
Rylan felt interest sharpening. Kael paid attention to things most ignored—conversations in hallways, patterns in behaviors, the small signals that preceded big changes.
"Good," was all he said.
They arrived at the yard just as the sun broke, bathing the open space and illuminating a thousand marks from countless combats carved in the earth—scars of the yard speaking of spilled blood and lessons learned with pain.
Master Torin was at the center as always, performing forms with sword moving like natural extension of his body. Fifty years of experience condensed in each precise movement, each controlled breath. There was no waste in his movements. No doubt. Only efficiency perfected until becoming lethal art.
He stopped when he saw them approach, sword lowering with the grace of someone who'd made that same gesture ten thousand times.
"Lord Rylan." Respectful greeting without being servile. Torin had never been servile, not even when speaking with the Grand Duke himself. "I didn't expect to see you so early. I thought you'd need at least a day to recover from the journey."
"Training doesn't wait until you're rested," Rylan responded with tone admitting no debate. "And five months eating well in Vaeloria made me slower. I need to remember what real hunger is."
Something like approval—or perhaps just satisfaction at seeing his lessons had stuck—crossed the instructor's weathered face.
"Are you looking for a private session or did you come to watch your brothers tear each other apart?"
"I thought I'd join the group session." Rylan looked around the yard where Favius had just appeared through the east entrance, followed by three other initiates dragging their feet with that particular mix of determination and terror that came from knowing pain was inevitable. "If it doesn't interrupt your plans."
Torin raised an eyebrow with something that might have been amusement.
"It doesn't interrupt. But don't let your title confuse things—there'll be no special treatment. If you enter my yard, you're just another soldier. Nothing less. Nothing more."
"I wouldn't expect anything else," Rylan said, and he meant it.
"Good." Torin struck the ground with his sword's pommel twice—universal signal. "Then start warming up. All of you. Twenty minutes of forms. If I see laziness, I'll add another twenty."
Rylan moved toward the weapons rack while feeling gazes following him like physical weight. The initiates watched him with that uncomfortable mix of curiosity and nervousness that came from training alongside someone who could technically order their executions if sufficiently annoyed.
Only Kael seemed completely calm, moving toward his practice sword with the casual familiarity of months of identical routine. He took it from the rack without looking at it, weight and balance already memorized by infinite repetition.
Rylan selected his own weapon—real steel, not practice wood. Perfectly balanced for his reach and strength. Sharp enough to cut but not to kill with accidental contact. Heavy in the right way, as a sword pretending to teach you what combat really was should be.
He spun it once, twice, three times. The metal sang in the morning air—pure and clear note resonating in his chest like a second heartbeat.
'This,' he thought with satisfaction that was almost spiritual. 'This is what I needed. Not politics nor false smiles nor pretensions. Just steel speaking truths that words never could.'
He began with basic forms—First Guard, Second Guard, transitions he'd practiced a thousand times until they stopped being thoughts and became reflexes carved in muscle and bone. Feet moving with muscle memory more reliable than consciousness. Breathing matching each movement—inhale in guard, exhale in attack.
The world reduced to steel and movement. Nothing else existed.
After fifteen minutes that felt like seconds and hours at the same time, Torin struck his sword against the ground with metallic CLANG that cut through the air.
"Enough warmup. Practice combats. Pair up according to level or someone will end up dead and I'll have to explain it to the Grand Duke."
The initiates moved with well-practiced routine, flowing toward their usual partners with minimal chatter. Kael with another boy of similar size. Two more forming their own pair. The yard reorganizing into improvised combat circles.
And Favius—tall for fifteen years old, with physique speaking of obsessive training—walked directly toward Rylan with steps pretending confidence but showing nervousness in shoulders too tense.
"Lord Rylan," he said, voice firm but with trace of tremor underneath. "Would you permit me a practice duel?"
'He wants to test his strength against me,' Rylan understood immediately. 'He wants to know where he stands. If all that training means anything.'
'Good. That's exactly what I would do.'
"Real steel?" Rylan asked directly.
"If you permit." Favius raised his chin a millimeter. "Real steel is real steel. No pretenses of wood feigning seriousness."
"I accept." Rylan spun his sword once, testing familiar weight. "Aether allowed?"
"I'd prefer so." Favius smiled, expression tense but genuine. "Otherwise I won't know where I really stand. It wouldn't serve any purpose."
"Good attitude. I like that."
Rylan walked toward the main combat circle—the largest, marked with whitened stones that had seen more blood than anyone would admit in polite conversation.
"Master Torin, will you supervise?"
Torin was already moving toward the edge with impassive expression but alert eyes missing no detail.
"First serious blood wins. Nothing mortal—if either of you crosses that line, I throw you out of the yard permanently. Nothing after stop signal or I chain you both and let you reflect on discipline. Perfectly understood?"
"Understood," both said in unison.
The other initiates formed a semicircle around them like audience hungry to see something interesting. Kael stood beside Torin, observing with that particular stillness meaning he was cataloging every detail for later analysis.
Rylan took position at one end of the circle. Favius at the other. Thirty meters of marked earth between them—distance that would feel like kilometers or centimeters depending on how this developed.
Rylan slid into First Guard—stance as familiar as breathing. Weight distributed perfectly. Sword at angle protecting center line while allowing instantaneous attack or defense.
Favius mirrored the stance but more aggressive, more forward, weight leaning toward his toes. Ready to explode forward in attack. Hunger written in every line of his body.
'Let's see what you have,' Rylan thought without complicated words. Just professional curiosity.
Torin raised his hand, holding it in the air for three seconds that stretched like rubber—
"Begin!"
Favius attacked immediately with impressive speed.
Fast. Diagonal cut from upper right designed to force high guard and open abdomen.
Rylan blocked with economical movement.
CLANG.
The impact vibrated through his arms with force that genuinely surprised him. Favius had strength—good strength backed by solid technique.
But not enough. Not yet.
Rylan pushed outward with controlled explosion of force, forcing Favius to retreat two quick steps or risk losing balance completely.
He attacked without pause—horizontal cut at mid-height seeking exposed ribs.
Favius blocked, barely, feet sliding in loose earth while absorbing impact that resonated in his guard.
Exchange. Attack. Parry. Counterattack. Rhythm building.
Steel singing against steel with music only warriors fully understood.
And then Rylan felt it—subtle change in the air.
Favius's Aether awakening.
Electric blue—color of storm, color of Drayvar blood—shone along his blade like captured lightning in metal. It began faint but intensified rapidly as Favius channeled energy from his core, through nodes that probably still hurt with each use, manifesting in steel that suddenly weighed more and cut deeper.
'Apprentice third layer,' Rylan cataloged with genuine approval. 'Impressive.'
Favius pressed with new confidence, attacks accelerating—faster, stronger, each blow backed by Aether amplifying muscles beyond normal human limits. His face was a mask of fierce concentration, eyes shining with determination bordering on madness.
Rylan blocked each attack with economical precision. Parried. Redirected. Without real effort yet.
'Good technique,' he thought as their swords danced. 'Especially the transitions between guards. Torin taught him well. But predictable. Each movement telegraphs the next if you know what to look for.'
"You've improved," Rylan said as their swords clashed at angle sending sparks flying. "I can see months of work in every strike. But it won't be enough."
And he released his own Aether.
The effect was dramatic and instantaneous.
Electric blue exploded around him—not the faint glow of Apprentice struggling with control but bright and intense light of Apprentice fifth layer who'd mastered manifestation until making it second nature. The air crackled with enough energy to make hairs stand on spectators' arms. Invisible pressure pushed outward in wave that made weaker observers retreat an involuntary step.
He felt Aether run through his veins like liquid fire—familiar, powerful, his. Each muscle suddenly stronger. Each reflex faster. The world slowing marginally while his perception sharpened to levels seeming superhuman because technically they were.
He pushed.
Not full attack. Just controlled push backed by absolute difference in power.
Favius flew backward three complete meters, feet leaving furrows in earth while desperately struggling to maintain balance. His Aether flickered wildly, almost breaking under pressure of superior aura crushing it.
But he didn't fall. Somehow he stabilized, planting feet with pure determination compensating for technical deficit.
His eyes—wide open now, pupils dilated with adrenaline and something like ecstasy—shone with excitement that was almost manic.
"Yes!" Favius shouted, voice breaking with intensity. "This is what I needed! This is real!"
He attacked again without strategy or refinement. Just pure hunger and unleashed fury.
Rylan met each blow with precision coming from having faced opponents a thousand times more dangerous in Vaeloria.
Their swords danced—symphony of metal telling story of master and student, strength and determination, reality crushing hope.
CLANG CLANG CLANG.
Favius's face was a mask of fierce concentration. Sweat running in rivers. Teeth clenched until jaw trembled. Eyes burning with refusal to surrender even when every fiber of his being screamed he was completely outmatched.
'He wants to win,' Rylan understood with something like respect. 'Not just test. Not just learn. He really believes he can beat me. That stupid and beautiful arrogance of youth that doesn't know yet that some gaps aren't crossed just by wanting it.'
'Good. Let me show you where you really stand.'
Rylan shifted to true offensive.
Attacks accelerated—feints within feints, combinations he'd learned from imperial masters in Vaeloria, techniques requiring years to master and he was barely beginning to understand.
Favius fought valiantly to maintain rhythm. He blocked three attacks with technique that would have impressed most.
He failed the fourth.
Rylan's sword grazed his shoulder—not deep enough for serious blood but enough to mark flesh and send clear message.
Favius retreated, panting like a dog after long run.
And then he did something that took Rylan completely by surprise.
He deliberately closed his eyes. In the middle of combat. Suicidal in any way except—
He inhaled deeply, chest expanding with breath seeming to pull air from somewhere deeper than lungs.
When he opened his eyes, his Aether pulsed differently. More focused. Less wild. As if something had clicked in his understanding.
'He's learning,' Rylan understood with flash of genuine respect. 'In the middle of combat. Adapting under pressure. That's... that's real talent. Raw but there.'
'Excellent.'
Favius attacked with improved technique—low attack forcing low guard, then immediately cut high before Rylan could fully readjust. Timing almost perfect.
Rylan blocked because he had to, but the blow pushed enough for edge to graze his forearm and—
Blood. Small red line appearing against pale skin.
The spectators gasped collectively.
Rylan felt something warm expand in his chest—not anger but pure satisfaction of seeing potential manifesting in real time.
"Well done," he said, and it wasn't condescension. It was genuine recognition from warrior to warrior. "That was a real strike. Clean."
Favius smiled wildly—expression split between pride and terror at what he'd just done.
And he pressed his advantage because he was young and stupid and brave.
But his Aether was visibly weakening now. Five minutes of absolute intensity depleting reserves still developing. Movements slowing marginally. Blue glow flickering like candle in wind.
Rylan had expected exactly this.
"Enough," he said with voice cutting all argument.
He invoked Third Form of the Storm—technique Torin had taught him years ago and that he'd perfected in a hundred combats.
His Aether roared brighter, channeling completely into every fiber of his being. Not just sword. All of him becoming weapon.
He didn't attack with sword.
He spun. Side kick powered by concentrated Aether.
His boot connected with Favius's abdomen.
The sound was horrible—CRACK—like dry wood breaking under absolute pressure.
Ribs giving way. Multiple. Breaking cleanly under force that would have killed if Rylan hadn't controlled the blow with millimetric precision.
Favius flew backward five complete meters, parabolic trajectory almost beautiful in its violence, hitting the ground with impact that raised dust cloud and expelled all air from his lungs in audible explosion.
He writhed immediately, arms wrapping around broken ribs by instinct, face pale with pain and shock. He coughed—wet and terrible sound—and blood splattered from his lips. Red. Bright. Too bright against dark earth.
Absolute silence fell over the yard.
Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. The moment crystallizing in collective memory.
Rylan walked toward him with measured steps, sword still in hand but pointing downward—combat finished. He crouched beside the fallen boy, looking directly into pain-filled eyes.
"Good duel," he said with firm voice admitting no pity or apology. Just respect between warriors who'd spilled blood together. "You showed courage. You learned under pressure. Those things are worth more than brute strength."
Favius looked at him, unable to speak with pain stealing his breath, but nodded. Small head movement that was acceptance and gratitude mixed.
Rylan stood, turning toward Torin.
"Take him to the healer. Broken ribs, probably three or four. Lungs intact if he's lucky."
"Yes, Lord Rylan." Torin signaled and two guards ran to help Favius, lifting him carefully while he groaned in agony but didn't cry.
'Brave to the end,' Rylan thought. 'Truly brave. That boy will go far if he survives long enough.'
The initiates now looked at him with expression mixing fear and admiration in proportions varying by temperament. Some pale as ghosts. Others with eyes bright with barely contained excitement.
Rylan cleaned his sword with cloth someone silently offered, sheathing it with movement speaking of a thousand identical repetitions.
'This is what I am,' he thought with absolute clarity admitting no doubt or regret. 'Steel and honor. Strength applied with purpose. Not cruelty but not gentleness either. Just truth cutting illusions.'
'This is being Drayvar.'
He walked away from the combat circle while morning sun bathed the yard in golden light making every drop of sweat and blood shine like jewels scattered on altar of violence.
Yes.
It was very, very good to be home.