Night had fallen over Stormvale like a heavy cloak, bringing with it the familiar cold from the sea and the distant sound of waves breaking against cliffs. Kael sat on his bed, still dressed in training clothes that smelled of sweat and earth, staring at the window where the moon barely illuminated the clouded sky.
He couldn't get what he'd seen that morning out of his head.
Rylan. Apprentice fifth layer. The power that had emanated from him—that electric blue light that had made even the strongest observers involuntarily retreat. The way he'd moved Favius as if he were made of paper. The absolute difference between a real warrior and... what Kael currently was.
'Apprentice first layer,' he thought with that particular mix of realism and contained frustration he'd learned to cultivate. 'Four complete layers of difference. Years of training. The gap between us is an abyss.'
But abysses could be crossed. Slowly. With time and strategy.
'Rylan has brute strength. But strength isn't the only type of power.'
A soft knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. Three quick taps, almost inaudible. The pattern Mira used.
"Come in," he said in low voice.
The door opened just enough for Mira to slide inside, closing it quickly behind her. Her face was pale even in the gloom, eyes moving nervously like a frightened animal.
"Young Kael," she whispered, hands twisting in her apron. "I can't continue... the Grand Duke returned this afternoon. If they discover me bringing you information..."
"I know, Mira." Kael stood, keeping his voice soft, reassuring. "You've done more than enough. I won't ask for more."
She seemed to collapse slightly with relief, but then hesitated.
"But... there's something else. One last thing. I thought I should tell you."
Kael waited, letting silence push her to continue.
"Merchant Ferris. The grain one." The words came quickly now, as if she wanted to be rid of them. "I saw him yesterday in the lower city. There's a bar near the docks, 'The Rusty Anchor'. My cousin works there. He says Ferris goes every third day, always at dusk. He drinks until late, talks too much when he's drunk."
Kael felt something cold and satisfied settle in his chest.
'Ferris. Finally.'
"Thank you, Mira." He approached his chest, pulled out a small pouch of coins—part of his monthly allowance he rarely used. "Take this. For everything."
"I can't—"
"You can." He pressed the pouch into her trembling hands. "And one more thing. Could you tell Ser Aldric I need to speak with him tomorrow morning? Before training."
Mira nodded quickly, hiding the coins in her apron.
"Yes, young Kael. I'll tell him."
She left as silently as she'd arrived, leaving Kael alone with his thoughts and information worth much more than the coins he'd just given.
He approached the window, looking toward the distant city where lights flickered like fallen stars.
'The Rusty Anchor. Every third day. Tomorrow is the third.'
'Time to see if information really becomes power.'
He smiled in the darkness, small and cold.
The next morning, Kael stood before his father's office door with a strange sensation in his stomach. It wasn't exactly nervousness—he'd learned to control that—but something more like anticipation.
He didn't come here often. Almost never, actually. This was Varen's domain, where he made decisions affecting five million souls, where he received captains and minor nobles and resolved disputes that could end in blood.
He knocked on the door. Twice, firm.
"Come in."
He pushed the door. The office was exactly as he remembered from the few times he'd been here: large but functional, walls covered with maps of Stormvale and neighboring territories, shelves with documents and some strategy books. A ceremonial Drayvar armor in the corner, more symbol than equipment. And at the center, a dark oak desk where Varen was leaning over parchments with concentrated expression.
He looked up when Kael entered, and there was a flash of surprise—genuine but quickly controlled.
"Kael." Not a question, just recognition. "Do you need something?"
"I come to ask permission, father."
Varen put down his quill, giving him complete attention now. It was rare for any of Syra's children to ask him something directly.
"Permission for what?"
"I want to go to the city. Buy a gift for Favius." Kael kept his voice firm, direct. "He's injured from yesterday's training. With Rylan."
Silence stretched for three complete heartbeats. Varen looked at him with those gray eyes that saw too much, evaluating.
"A gift?" he finally repeated.
"He showed courage. Real courage. He kept fighting even when he knew he couldn't win." Kael held his father's gaze. "I think that deserves recognition."
Something crossed Varen's face—surprise? approval?—too fast to catalog completely.
"That's..." He stopped, as if searching for words. "That shows character. Good."
He took a parchment, wrote something quickly.
"Take a guard. You don't go to the city alone."
"I'd prefer it to be Ser Aldric, if possible."
Varen looked up again, eyebrow rising slightly.
"Why him specifically?"
Kael had prepared this answer.
"I get along better with him. He's taught me some basic things when I started training. I think... I trust him."
It wasn't completely a lie. Aldric was predictable now, controllable. And that was a form of trust.
Varen nodded slowly.
"Permitted. But you return before dusk. And Aldric doesn't lose sight of you."
"Thank you, father."
Kael turned to leave, but Varen's voice stopped him.
"Kael."
He turned.
"It's good that you think of your training companions. That's... that's a leader's quality."
The words fell in the air between them—awkward, unpracticed, but genuine.
"Thank you, father," Kael repeated, and this time it meant something different.
He left the office with the written permission in hand and a strange warm sensation in his chest that he quickly buried under cold calculation.
'First time he's said something like that. First time he really notices me.'
'Useful. Very useful.'
The main courtyard was bathed in morning light when Kael emerged. Aldric was already there, waiting beside two horses with neutral expression that didn't quite hide his irritation.
"Young Kael," he said with tone pretending respect. "Mira told me you needed to see me."
"Yes. We're going to the city. You and I." Kael showed him Varen's permission. "My father approved."
Aldric read the parchment, jaw tightening.
"A gift for the boy your brother almost killed yesterday?"
"Precisely."
Before Aldric could respond, voices approached from the training yard. Davos and Mika—two of the initiates who trained with Kael—appeared in city clothes instead of practice gear.
"Kael!" Davos smiled broadly. He no longer called him shorty. "We heard you're going to the city. Can we come?"
Mika, thinner and quieter, nodded enthusiastically.
Kael considered quickly. More people meant less suspicion. And these two were... manageable.
"Sure. As long as Ser Aldric has no objection."
Aldric grunted something that might have been assent.
Ten minutes later, the four were riding down the main road toward Stormvale city. Sea wind brought the smell of salt and fish, and the sun painted the coastal landscape in golden tones.
"So," Davos said with youthful enthusiasm, "what will we buy Favius? I saw his face when Rylan hit him. I thought he was dead."
"I hope he won't need last rites when he wakes up," Mika added with dark humor.
"The healer says he'll be fine in two weeks. Broken ribs but nothing mortal," Kael responded automatically.
"Still, what a way to end a duel." Davos whistled. "Your brother is a monster. In a good way."
"Yes," Kael agreed simply.
They rode in comfortable silence for a few more minutes. The city grew on the horizon—gray stone walls, watchtowers, the distant bustle of an important commercial center.
"So," Davos broke the silence again, "what will we buy? A new practice dagger? Or maybe—"
"We're not buying a gift."
The words fell in the air like stone in still water.
Silence.
"What?" Mika finally said.
Kael turned his horse slightly to look at his companions.
"I have another plan. I need you to trust me."
Davos and Mika exchanged confused looks. Aldric, who had been quiet until now, let out something between sigh and bitter laughter.
"Little demon," he murmured, but not with anger. Almost with... resignation? "I knew there was something more."
"What plan?" Davos asked, now more cautious.
"You'll see when we arrive. But I need you to do exactly what I say. Can you do that?"
The two boys looked at each other again. Then, slowly, they nodded.
"I suppose... yes," Mika said.
"Good."
Kael spurred his horse, accelerating toward the city gates now close. The docks stretched in the distance, ship masts swaying with the waves.
And somewhere among those narrow streets and cramped buildings, in a bar called The Rusty Anchor, there was a corrupt merchant who didn't know this night would be very different from previous ones.
Kael smiled, small and cold, as the city gates opened to receive them.
The forest north of the Drayvar mansion was dense and silent, the kind of silence that only comes when you're completely alone. Lyssara had found this clearing three months ago—small, hidden, perfect for what she needed.
Perfect for training without anyone seeing her.
The mid-morning sun filtered through the leaves, painting the ground in patterns of light and shadow. Lyssara moved through basic forms with a sword she'd stolen from the armory—too heavy for her but usable. First Guard. Transition to Second. Diagonal cut.
Sweat ran down her forehead. Her training tunic—simple, dark, nothing identifying her as a Grand Duke's daughter—was soaked.
'Twenty more repetitions,' she thought, biting down pain in her muscles. 'Just twenty more and—'
"Not bad."
Lyssara froze.
The voice came from behind. Deep. Unmistakable.
She turned slowly, heart pounding against ribs.
Varen Drayvar stood at the clearing's edge, arms crossed, expression impassive. He wore travel clothes—just returned from some inspection, probably.
His gray eyes studied her with intensity making it hard to breathe.
'How long has he been there?' she thought with panic rising in her throat. 'Of course. Guards. Spies. He's probably been watching me since day one.'
"Father," she managed to say, keeping her voice firm with effort. "I didn't expect—"
"Clearly." Varen walked toward her with measured steps. "How long?"
"What?"
"How long have you been coming here?"
Lyssara gripped her sword's handle.
"Three months."
"And you thought I wouldn't know?"
Something broke inside her—not sadness but fury. Fury at being watched like an experiment. Fury at three months of solitary effort. Fury at being treated like a chess piece in her mother's plans.
"Look, father!" The words came out before she could stop them, voice breaking with emotion she could no longer contain. Tears burned in her eyes but she refused to let them fall. "I've reached Apprentice second layer. Alone. Without teachers. Without help. Without anyone."
She took a step toward him, sword still in hand.
"I deserve to be a warrior. Just like Rylan. Just like any of my brothers. I'm not just a tool for political marriages!"
Tears fell now, hot against cold cheeks.
Silence.
Varen looked at her with expression she couldn't read—surprise? disappointment? something else?
"I'll make you a proposal."
Lyssara blinked, confused by the change in direction.
Varen unsheathed his sword—bright steel that had seen a thousand battles.
"If you manage to land one hit on me. Just one. I'll train you formally. Not as a lady. As a warrior of House Drayvar."
Lyssara's heart leaped.
"And if I fail?"
"Then you'll accept the path your mother has chosen for you without further complaints."
It was a trap. Obviously a trap. Varen was Master fourth layer. She was barely Apprentice second. The difference was abysmal.
But it was her only chance.
"I accept."
"Good." Varen moved his sword to his left hand. "I'll use only one hand. No Aether. You have until you give up."
Lyssara slid into guard, controlled breathing, Aether awakening—weak compared to what she'd seen in Rylan yesterday, but hers. Pulsing. Alive.
"Whenever you're ready," Varen said.
Lyssara attacked.
Fast. Horizontal cut at mid-height.
Varen blocked with casual ease, sword barely moving.
She attacked again. Low attack. High attack. Feint and real cut.
Every strike met. Every attack blocked.
Without effort.
Like adult playing with child.
'Faster,' she thought with desperation growing. 'I need to be faster.'
She channeled more Aether. Her muscles burned with energy. Speed increased.
She attacked—ten strikes in five seconds. Each different. Each designed to exploit openings that didn't exist.
Varen blocked them all.
With one hand.
Moving nothing but his wrist.
Without even breathing harder.
Lyssara retreated, gasping. Sweat soaking her tunic. Muscles trembling with exhaustion from pushing Aether beyond her limits.
"Again," she growled.
She attacked. Combinations she'd memorized from books. Techniques she'd observed in training guards.
Nothing worked.
Varen was a wall. Immovable. Unreachable.
Her Aether depleted. Her arms could barely lift the sword.
One last desperate attempt—she attacked with everything she had, screaming with frustration and determination.
Varen blocked. Pushed gently.
She fell backward, landing on the ground with impact that knocked the air from her lungs.
The sword flew from her hand, falling in grass with final sound.
Silence.
Lyssara lay there, staring at sky through leaves. Tears running freely now—not from physical pain but from total helplessness. From knowing she'd given everything and it hadn't been enough.
'I couldn't,' she thought as weight crushed her chest. 'Not one hit. Not one.'
'I failed.'
"Get up."
Lyssara didn't move.
"I said get up."
With effort she felt in every fiber of her being, she pushed herself to sitting position. She kept eyes down, unable to look at him. Unable to see disappointment or worse—pity.
"I failed," she whispered.
"Yes."
The word was like physical blow.
Varen walked toward her. He crouched, gray eyes studying her.
"You failed because you're weak. Your Aether is weak. Your technique is amateur. Your strength is insufficient."
Each word stabbed.
"But—" Varen continued, voice not changing tone— "you came here every day for three months. Alone. Without teacher. Without guidance. And you learned enough not to embarrass yourself completely."
Lyssara looked up, confused.
"That shows determination. Will." Varen stood, extending his hand. "And those things can be trained."
She took his hand, still not understanding. He pulled her up with one tug.
"You'll train formally," Varen said. Not proposal. Declaration. "With tutors. With your brothers when they're available. Without hiding in forests like a criminal."
The shock was so complete Lyssara almost fell again.
"Really?"
"I don't repeat words."
"But... what about mother?"
Varen was already turning to leave.
"I'll speak with her."
Three words. Firm. Final.
He walked away through the trees without looking back, leaving Lyssara alone in the clearing with fallen sword and heart beating wildly with something that might have been hope.
Varen Drayvar was a man of few words and fewer visible emotions. But as he walked back toward the mansion, his mind processed what he'd seen.
Lyssara had hunger. Real. Dangerous if left without direction. Better to channel it. Mold it.
Stormvale was vast—five million souls, coasts needing constant defense, territories requiring regular inspection. Politics consumed time that should be dedicated to training.
He was Master fourth layer. Competent. Respected.
But his father had been Archon.
And enemies didn't wait. The Empire didn't forgive weakness. If he fell before preparing strong heirs, House Drayvar would fall with him.
'Rylan has strength,' he thought as the mansion appeared through the trees. 'Kael has something... different. I still don't know what.'
'Lyssara has hunger.'
'Sareth...'
He sighed. Not everyone could be warriors.
But everyone could be useful. Somehow.
As long as he lived, he would prepare them.
All of them.
Because that's what it meant to be a father in a House of war.
Not love.
Preparation.
For the world that would devour them if they weren't strong enough.