The departure was silent.
Rylan Drayvar watched the iron gates of Drayvar Manor close behind him with a dull thud that echoed in his chest. There were no fanfares. There were no massive farewells. Only the metallic clang of the gate and the salty wind of the dawn whipping his face.
Fifteen veterans. One Master-at-Arms. And him.
Seventeen warriors mounted on warhorses, setting out toward the Edge Mountains to hunt bandits. Five days of travel. One week to find and eliminate the threat. Five days back. Twenty days total, maybe twenty-five if the weather complicated things.
Rylan tightened the reins on Thunder, the black steed his father had given him years ago, and spurred the animal. The horse snorted and accelerated its trot, positioning itself near Torin at the head of the column.
The old warrior rode with the posture of someone who had spent more time in a saddle than in any bed. His light armor—reinforced leather with steel plates on the shoulders and chest—shone dully under the grayish light of dawn. He wore no cloak. None of them did. Cloaks were for nobles who strolled through golden halls, not for warriors going to get their hands dirty.
On his chest, engraved with brutal precision, rested the symbol of House Drayvar: a black spear piercing a storm of silver lightning bolts.
Torin did not turn his head when Rylan aligned himself beside him. He just kept his gaze forward, with that stony expression that seemed chiseled into his face.
Rylan said nothing. There was nothing to say yet.
As the column descended through the wide streets of Stormvale's Upper Level, Rylan allowed his mind to briefly wander back to the duel. To Kael. To that moment when he had lost control and used his Aether first, breaking the rules he himself had accepted.
He did not think of it with bitterness. He thought of it with cold analysis.
'What did I do wrong?'
'I let him provoke me. I let my emotions dictate my actions.'
'Kael knew exactly what to say to destabilize me. And I fell for it like an idiot.'
'Never again.'
This expedition would be his correction. His chance to prove that he was more than an impulsive heir. That he was worthy of the steel he wore at his hip and the symbol he wore on his chest.
Five days to get there. Enough time to learn. Enough time to change.
Stormvale awakened around them like a massive, living organism.
The city was a marvel of military architecture and economic prosperity, built on three levels that descended toward the harbor like a giant's steps. More than five million souls lived, worked, and died under the banner of the storm, and each level had its own character, its own rhythm, its own essence.
The Upper Level—where Drayvar Manor was located—was the political and military heart of the region. The gray stone constructions rose like individual fortresses, separated by wide streets paved with cobblestones that shone damply from the constant sea breeze. The black slate roofs reflected Stormvale's characteristic leaden sky, and at every strategic corner, patrols of soldiers from the Steel Legions marched with the discipline that defined House Drayvar.
The noble mansions lined both sides of the main street like steel teeth, each competing in size and ostentation, but none dared to eclipse the Drayvar residence. It was the unwritten law: the Storm dominated everything, and everyone knew it.
While the column descended toward the Middle Level, the landscape gradually changed. The fortified mansions gave way to commercial buildings of three and four stories, with reinforced wooden facades and leaded windows displaying the interiors of shops, workshops, and administrative offices.
This was the merchant district, the economic heart where guilds of smiths, carpenters, tailors, and merchants of all types maintained their businesses. Despite the early hour, many were already opening their doors. The sound of hammers hitting anvils began to resonate from the forges, and the smell of the air changed drastically.
The sea salt now mixed with the smoke of the forges, tanned leather, fresh-baked bread, and the sweat of thousands of people beginning their workday.
A group of smiths opened the doors of a massive workshop, revealing anvils that still glowed red from the night's work. A master craftsman—a man with arms like tree trunks and a soot-stained leather apron—looked up upon seeing the column pass. His gaze fell upon the Drayvar emblem engraved on the armor, and without hesitation, he struck his chest with a closed fist in a military salute.
"May the Storm protect you!"
Other workers did the same. Carpenters. Tailors. Grain merchants. All recognized the symbol. All knew what it meant.
Rylan did not return the salutes. It was not necessary. The column did not stop for ceremonies.
They continued descending toward the Lower Level, where the harbor stretched out like a net of wood and rope over the dark waters of the Southern Sea.
Here, the noise was deafening.
The constant crash of waves against the wooden docks. The hoarse cries of longshoremen loading sacks of grain and barrels of wine onto merchant galleons. The sharp creak of sails being hoisted on dozens of masts. The rhythmic hammering of ship carpenters repairing hulls damaged by the southern storms.
Hundreds of ships jammed the harbor—from small fishing vessels with ragged nets to three-masted merchant galleons carrying goods toward Vaeloria and beyond—all operating under the permission of House Drayvar. Without that permission, no ship traded in these waters. It was that simple.
Beyond the commercial docks, protected by stone walls reinforced with iron and guarded by armed crossbowmen, stretched the private docks of the Drayvar family.
There, anchored in perfect formation, rested the war triremes: long, narrow ships painted in black and silver, with iron rams on their bows that could cleave an enemy ship in half with a single thrust. Their sails were furled, but even motionless, they projected a menacing presence.
These were the ships that kept the southern trade routes safe. The ones that hunted the pirates who dared to challenge Drayvar dominance over the Southern Sea. The ones that reminded everyone that the Storm did not only roar on land.
The air here smelled of fresh fish, rotting seaweed, hot pitch, and the raw life of thousands of sailors, fishermen, prostitutes, and merchants who made this place their home.
The column traversed the harbor without stopping, crossing the enormous stone bridge that connected Stormvale to the inland road. Behind them, the city continued to awaken, indifferent to their departure, as if seventeen warriors going to hunt bandits were barely a footnote in the daily rhythm of the Empire.
The main road leading inland was wide and well-maintained, a vital artery of commerce connecting the coast with the southern farmlands. On both sides, wheat fields stretched like a golden ocean under the rising sun, occasionally interrupted by wooden windmills that creaked with every gust of wind.
The column advanced in silence for the first few hours. There was no conversation. There were no jokes. Only the rhythmic sound of the horses' hooves striking the compacted earth and the occasional creak of the saddle leather.
Rylan appreciated the silence. It gave him time to process, to organize his thoughts, to prepare himself mentally.
They passed merchant caravans heading toward Stormvale, laden with sacks of grain, barrels of inland wine, and boxes of fabrics imported from Nareth. The merchants moved off the road when they saw the military column, bowing respectfully to the storm emblem engraved on the armor.
No one blocked the path of the Steel Legions. No one dared.
Peasants worked the fields on both sides of the road, harvesting the wheat with sharp sickles under the increasingly high sun. Some stopped to observe the column pass, and when their eyes settled on the Drayvar symbol, they bowed their heads in respect.
As they progressed, the landscape began to reveal more than just wheat fields. In the distance, Rylan could see fortified villages and small stone castles dotting the horizon: the fiefdoms of distant cousins and minor branches of House Drayvar, each administering their own lands under the authority of the Grand Duke.
Some were barely watchtowers with low walls, home to sworn knights who protected the trade routes. Others were more substantial counties, with their own garrisons and extensive fields that paid tribute to Stormvale.
All bore the storm emblem. All served the House.
These were the lands his family protected. These were the people who depended on the strength of House Drayvar to live in relative peace.
Rylan did not think of it with pride. He thought of it with weight.
'This is what it means to be the heir.'
'Not just power. Responsibility.'
After four hours of constant travel, the landscape began to change. The wheat fields gave way to rolling hills covered in tall grass and thorny bushes. The road remained wide, but rock formations began to appear on the sides, like gray teeth emerging from the earth.
It was then they saw the South Gate.
Rylan had heard of it, but had never seen it in person. And when it finally appeared on the horizon, he understood why it was considered one of House Drayvar's defensive masterpieces.
The South Gate was not simply a checkpoint. It was a complete fortress.
Two gray stone towers rose on both sides of the road, each thirty meters high, connected by a massive wall that completely blocked the passage. The stone had been cut and assembled with military precision, with no visible mortar, each block fitting perfectly with the next. At the top of the towers, jagged battlements offered cover for archers and crossbowmen, and Rylan could see the silhouettes of the guards patrolling with discipline.
The gate itself was an impressive work of engineering: two doors of reinforced wood banded with black iron, each thick enough to withstand a battering ram for hours. Above the gate, carved into the stone several centimeters deep, rested the Drayvar emblem: the spear and the storm, larger than a man, visible from hundreds of meters away.
On both sides of the main wall, secondary stockades of wood and stone extended, protecting larger structures: barracks for the garrison, stables for the patrol horses, warehouses for provisions, additional watchtowers. Everything was designed to withstand a prolonged siege if necessary.
The garrison here was not small. It was at least four hundred men.
When the column approached, the gate was already opening. Guards on the towers had seen the emblem on the armor from afar and knew exactly who they were.
A garrison captain—a middle-aged man in full plate armor and a scar across his forehead—came out to meet them. He stopped in front of the column and struck his chest with his fist in an impeccable military salute.
"Master Torin! Young Lord Rylan!" His voice was firm, professional. "It is an honor. The gates are open. Do you require anything before continuing?"
Torin briefly shook his head.
"Nothing, Captain. We proceed toward the mountains. Maintain vigilance on the roads."
"Always, Master."
The captain stepped aside, and the column passed through the gate without stopping. Rylan briefly turned his head to observe the interior of the fortification as they passed: soldiers training in a drill yard, armorers sharpening swords, a smith hammering red-hot metal in an open forge.
Everything functioned with the precision of a clock.
When they left the South Gate behind, the landscape changed again. The road became narrower, more irregular. The hills grew steeper, and trees began to appear: oaks twisted by the constant winds, with branches that looked like skeletal fingers pointing toward the sky.
They were leaving behind the lands directly controlled by Stormvale. From here, the territory became wilder, more dangerous.
It was Torin who finally broke the silence.
"Rylan."
The heir turned his head toward him.
"Yes, Master?"
"What is your current Aether level?"
"Fifth-layer Apprentice," Rylan answered without hesitation. There was no reason to withhold information. "I've been training core circulation since I was ten. I can maintain basic imbuement in combat for fifteen minutes if I fight intensely. Twenty if I control myself."
Torin nodded slowly, as if processing every word.
"And how long do you think you can maintain that imbuement in real combat?"
Rylan frowned.
"In the training yard I can..."
"I didn't ask you about the training yard," Torin interrupted with a firm voice. "I asked you about real combat. Do you have experience in real combat?"
There was an awkward silence.
"No," Rylan finally admitted.
"Then you don't know how long you can maintain it."
It was not a question. It was a statement of fact.
Captain Aldwen trotted up until he aligned himself with them, his horse moving with the ease of someone who had spent decades mounted.
"The boy has a good level for his age, Master," Aldwen said in a neutral tone. "Fifth-layer Apprentice at fifteen is respectable. But he lacks what all Apprentices need to become Knights."
Rylan looked at the veteran captain attentively.
"What is it that I lack?"
Torin answered before Aldwen.
"Real combat experience. Instincts pushed to the maximum. And Aether concentration in precise joints."
Rylan frowned.
"I don't understand. I already know how to imbue my strikes. I already know how to circulate my Aether correctly."
"Knowing how to do it in a training yard is one thing," Torin replied. "Doing it while someone is trying to kill you is completely different. In the yard, you have time to think. You have space. You have rules. In real combat, you have none of that. You only have chaos, fear, and the seconds that separate life from death."
Aldwen nodded.
"The leap from Apprentice to Knight is not just accumulating more Aether in your core. It is learning to use it instinctively, without thinking. Your body must react before your mind. And that is only learned when your life is at stake."
Rylan processed the words in silence for several seconds.
"And the concentration in precise joints?"
"Right now, when you imbue your strikes, what do you do?" Torin asked.
"I direct my Aether from my core toward my arms and concentrate it in my fists before striking."
"Exactly. You imbue the entire arm. That works, but it is inefficient. You waste energy."
Torin raised his own hand, flexing his fingers slowly.
"A Knight does not imbue the entire arm. He imbuues only the key joints at the exact moment: the shoulder to generate speed, the elbow to transfer force, the wrist for precision, and the knuckles at the instant of impact. Four specific points, coordinated in a fraction of a second. That is what separates an Apprentice's strike from a Knight's strike."
Rylan looked at his own hand, trying to visualize what Torin was describing.
"That sounds... complicated."
"It is," Aldwen confirmed. "That's why most Apprentices never advance. They don't have the mental discipline to control their Aether with that precision under pressure. And when they try to force it without being ready, they tear their internal nodes and are crippled for life."
A shiver ran down Rylan's back.
"How do you learn it then?"
"Practice," Torin replied simply. "Constant repetition until your body does it without thinking. And real combat. Lots of real combat. Because only when your life is at stake does your body learn to move correctly."
"This expedition," Aldwen continued, "is your chance to force that learning. The bandits in the mountains are not going to stop and wait for you to perfect your technique. They are going to try to kill you. And if you are not ready, you will die. But if you survive... you will come out of this much closer to being a Knight."
Rylan nodded slowly, feeling the weight of the words.
"I understand."
"No," Torin said firmly. "You don't understand yet. But you will. When you are bleeding in the mud and a bandit is about to run you through with a spear, then you will understand. And in that moment, you either react correctly and live, or you don't and you die. It is that simple."
There was no cruelty in Torin's words. Only cold, honest reality.
Rylan did not respond. He just nodded and looked forward, toward the road that stretched out before them.
'Five days to reach the mountains.'
'Five days to prepare.'
'And then... real combat.'