The main garrison yard at Stormvale was a place of constant noise, dust, and bruised egos. It was here that the soldiers of House Drayvar were forged, under the critical eye of veterans and the relentless southern sun.
But in recent months, the dynamic of the yard had changed.
There was a new group. They were not ordinary recruits. They were "Kael's group."
The term had begun as a mockery. A ten-year-old boy, absent for months, couldn't have a real "group." But the taunts had quickly faded when the results began to show.
There were two at the core: Favius and Mika. They did not wear the standard guard uniform. They wore simple, unadorned gray training tunics, but they moved with a clear hierarchy: Favius was the visible force, Mika was the shadow that managed everything else.
They did not follow the usual routines. Torin had designed a different regimen for them: extreme endurance training in the mornings, no-rules combat in the afternoons, and basic tactics study at night. It was not training for mansion guards. It was training for something more.
And it worked.
Today was a practice day before the final trials. All cadets and apprentices would face the instructors in individual combat. Performance would determine which order of knights they would be assigned to.
Lyssara Drayvar watched from the wooden railing that separated the officers' area from the combat arena. Beside her, Sareth watched with a mixture of fascination and terror.
Below, in the sandy circle, Favius was facing one of the instructors.
Favius was enormous. A wall of muscle and bone that moved with an alarming speed for his size. His hair was drenched with sweat, plastered to his forehead, and his gray eyes shone with an intensity that made some apprentices avoid his gaze.
He was no longer the boy who lived in Rylan's shadow. Now he was something different. Tougher. More dangerous.
His opponent was a mid-rank instructor.
The instructor attacked first. A clean, diagonal slash, aiming for Favius's shoulder. Fast, technical, with no wasted movement.
Favius blocked. The impact echoed across the yard like thunder.
Cling.
The instructor felt the vibration shoot up his arm. His eyes widened slightly.
'What strength.'
'This boy hits like... like Rylan.'
Favius pushed. It wasn't a desperate move. It was pure force channeled with control, reinforced by a constant flow of Aether running through his arms and shoulders.
The instructor took a step back, adjusting his stance. It wasn't shameful to retreat from that force.
"Good," the instructor said, evaluating. "You have strength. Let's see if you have the skill."
He changed tactics. Instead of meeting Favius's force directly, he moved laterally, looking for the flanks. He launched a series of quick attacks, testing the boy's defense.
Favius did not pursue. He held his position, rotating on his axis, blocking or deflecting each blow with brutal economy. His technique was not elegant. It was functional. Every movement maximized his strength advantage while minimizing his openings.
'He's been trained,' the instructor acknowledged internally. 'It's not just muscle. He has control. His Aether is flowing correctly.'
The instructor launched a more committed attack, a vertical slash aimed at breaking Favius's guard with force.
Favius did not block. He deflected the blow with a circular movement of his bastard sword, letting the instructor's momentum pass by, and counter-attacked.
His blow was a devastating horizontal slash, charged with an explosion of Aether that briefly made the edge of his practice weapon glow.
The instructor barely had time to retreat. Favius's sword passed within centimeters of his chest, cutting the air with a sharp whistle.
The yard fell silent.
The instructor stopped the fight by raising a hand.
"Stop."
Favius immediately lowered his sword, breathing heavily but controlled.
The instructor looked at him with an expression that mixed surprise and reluctant respect.
"You are strong," the instructor said, without softening the truth. "Stronger than most men I've trained. Your Aether control is solid. Your technique..." he paused, searching for the right word. "Brutal. But effective."
He moved closer to Favius, lowering his voice so only he could hear.
"If you keep this up, you'll be a captain before you're twenty. Or you'll be dead. Strength without discipline is a double-edged sword."
Favius nodded, his expression neutral. There was no visible pride. No satisfaction. Just the cold acknowledgment that he had done his job.
"Thank you, instructor," Favius said, turning away without waiting for more words.
The instructor watched him walk away, shaking his head.
'He's like a wilder version of Rylan.'
From the railing, Lyssara had watched everything intently.
"Favius is a monster," one of the young cadets nearby murmured.
"Did you see the instructor's face? His hand was shaking."
"But he's not like the young Rylan. He still has a ways to go to match him."
Lyssara tightened her hands on the railing.
'They are strong,' 'Kael chose well. Or he was lucky. Probably a mix of both.'
Kael's group had earned a fierce reputation in a short time. They fought with a different intensity, an urgency born of knowing that their position in the mansion depended entirely on their usefulness. If they weren't the best, they were disposable. And that made them dangerous.
"Favius is scary," Sareth whispered.
"Did you see how he stood up to the instructor?"
"Favius is brute force," Lyssara dismissed, though she was impressed internally. "But brute force has limits. If you are fast enough, you can dismantle him."
Her eyes drifted to another figure at the end of the yard.
Mika.
He was big, not as big as Favius, but still large for his age; he was compact.
Mika handled the logistics of Kael's group. He controlled the other members, the rumors. If someone needed something—a shift changed, information about who was in trouble with the superiors—they went to Mika.
Lyssara felt a tingle in her palms.
She needed to know.
She needed to know if all her training with Torin, if all the sweat and pain of the last few months, were good for anything more than looking good in the mirror. The Imperial Academy would be full of young nobles trained from the cradle, but there would also be military scholars, sons of generals, people who lived by the sword.
If she couldn't face one of her younger brother's pawns, she had no chance in Vaeloria.
"Wait for me here," she told Sareth.
"Where are you going?" he asked, alarmed to see her descending the stairs toward the arena.
"To test something."
Lyssara descended to ground level. The smell of sweat and old leather hit her. The resting guards straightened up as she passed, offering quick, awkward salutes. It was unusual to see the Duke's daughter walking among them in combat clothes and with a rapier at her waist.
Torin was supervising the final trials. When he saw Lyssara approach, he crossed his arms over his broad chest.
"Lady Lyssara," Torin greeted. "Are you here to observe?"
"I'm here to participate," Lyssara corrected.
Torin raised an eyebrow.
"The trials are for the cadets. Not for..."
"I don't want an official trial," Lyssara interrupted. "I want a sparring match. Private. Now."
Torin looked at Favius, who was drinking water near the well, and then shook his head.
"I don't want Favius," Lyssara said. She knew her limits. "I want Mika."
Mika, who had been watching from the shadows, looked up. His dark eyes fixed on Lyssara, evaluating.
There was no reverence in his gaze.
"With me, my lady?" Mika asked. His voice was low, rasping, as if he didn't use it much. "I use a saber. It's heavier than that needle."
"I know what you use," Lyssara said, drawing her rapier. The steel gleamed in the sun. "And my needle can prick you before you lift that iron."
Mika did not smile. But something changed in his stance. A tension, like that of an animal preparing to spring.
"Torin," Lyssara said, not taking her eyes off the boy. "Do you authorize it?"
Torin sighed, running a hand through his short beard.
"To first blood or surrender," he decreed. "No blows to the head. No dirty tricks. Understood, Mika?"
"Understood," Mika said, taking his practice saber.
They moved to the center of the circle. The other cadets, including Favius, moved closer to watch. Even Sareth had peered over the railing.
Lyssara adopted her stance. Right foot forward, knees bent, narrow profile. Her rapier pointed directly at Mika's throat.
Mika crouched slightly, his legs spread. He held the saber with one hand, but his stance was less academic, more fluid. He seemed ready to move in any direction.
"Begin!" Torin shouted.
Mika attacked first.
There was no probing. He lunged with a diagonal descending slash, fast and vicious.
Lyssara reacted by instinct. She did not block; Mika's saber was too heavy. She took a step back and deflected the blade with a dry tap on the side, letting the momentum pass by.
"Slow," Mika whispered, pivoting on his heels and launching a horizontal backhand.
Lyssara ducked, feeling the whistle of the steel pass over her head. She used her low position to launch a thrust toward Mika's abdomen.
Mika did not retreat. He twisted his body, letting the tip of the rapier pass millimeters from his side, and used his free arm to try and grab Lyssara's wrist.
'Damn it,' Lyssara thought, leaping back. 'He's fast.'
They separated, breathing, evaluating each other again.
This time, Lyssara took the offensive.
She channeled Aether into her legs and her right arm and launched into a series of quick attacks.
Mika had to retreat, parrying the blows with difficulty. Lyssara's rapier was fast, searching for gaps in the defense like a metal snake.
Cling. Cling. Cling.
The sound of metal was constant. Lyssara felt the vibration in her bones. She was gaining ground. Mika was on the defensive.
'I've got him,' Lyssara thought. 'His technique is broad. He leaves his chest open when he lifts the saber.'
Lyssara saw the opening. Mika raised his arm to prepare a descending blow. His torso was exposed for a fraction of a second.
Lyssara lunged.
But then Mika changed.
His Aether, which had been flowing through his arms and legs, suddenly spread out. It covered his entire body in a visible layer of pulsating energy. It was not a common technique. It was a total reinforcement.
And then he did something more.
The Aether concentrated in his eyes. They shone with an intense blue light, almost blinding under the sun.
Lyssara paused for a fraction of a second, disconcerted.
'His eyes? Why only...?'
And then she understood.
'It's a trap. He wants me to attack. He's analyzing my technique. Waiting for the counter-attack.'
But it was too late.
Her body had reacted before her mind. Her rapier was already in motion, lunging toward the gap Mika had deliberately left open.
Mika moved.
He didn't block. He let the thrust enter, receiving it in the shoulder with his Aether reinforcement cushioning the impact. At the same time, his saber descended in a brutal arc.
Lyssara tried to retreat but Mika grabbed her wrist with his free hand, keeping her in place.
The saber cut the air.
Lyssara twisted her body at the last second. The blade grazed her cheek.
She felt the burning. She felt the warm blood well up and run down her face.
But she did not release her rapier.
With a cry of effort, she channeled all her remaining Aether and pushed. Her rapier broke free from Mika's shoulder and rose, aiming for his throat.
Mika released her wrist and raised his saber to block.
CLANG.
The blades met halfway.
And then both moved simultaneously.
Lyssara spun her rapier, passing under Mika's guard, and placed it against his neck.
Mika, in the same instant, lowered his saber and pressed it against Lyssara's throat.
They froze.
Both breathing heavily. Both bleeding. Mika's eyes still glowed with Aether, but now blood also dripped from them due to the exertion of the technique. Red lines ran down his cheeks.
The yard was in absolute silence.
No one moved. No one breathed.
"Stop," Torin said, approaching slowly. "Draw."
Lyssara and Mika looked into each other's eyes for one more second. There was no victory. There was no defeat.
Only mutual recognition.
They lowered their weapons at the same time.
Mika took a step back, wiping the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand. The blue light faded.
Lyssara touched her cut cheek. The wound was not deep, but it burned like fire.
The yard erupted in murmurs.
"Did you see that?"
"A draw... with the Duke's daughter..."
"Mika used the eye technique. I've never seen him do that."
"She almost killed him. If he hadn't grabbed her wrist..."
"Well played," Lyssara said, though the word tasted like ash.
"It was a good fight, my lady," Mika said, bowing his head slightly. "You are fast. Faster than most. If you had kept your distance..."
"Lyssara!"
Sareth ran down the stairs, a towel in his hand and an expression of complete distress.
"Lyssara! Are you okay? You're bleeding!" Sareth reached her side, trying to check her. "Did you break anything?"
"I'm fine, Sareth," Lyssara growled, snatching the towel and fiercely wiping her face.
"But... it was too violent. Torin should have stopped it."
"It was a duel. Duels are violent." Lyssara continued walking toward the main building, with Sareth stumbling beside her.
"It was a draw," Sareth said, with that lack of tact he sometimes had out of nervousness.
"No... I didn't mean that," Sareth flinched. "It's just that... you held your own. Mika is... scary. And you made him retreat at first. That was great."
Lyssara softened her expression at her brother's clumsy attempt to cheer her up.
"Shit," Lyssara whispered, looking at her trembling hands. "I thought I was ready. I thought my technique would be enough."
She resumed her march toward the interior of the mansion.
"I need a hot bath. And I need to think."
"Are you going to challenge him again?" Sareth asked.
"No," Lyssara said, surprising her brother.
"I don't need to challenge him again. I already know what I needed to know."
They entered the stone hallway. Lyssara was sore. The pain on her cheek was a constant reminder that reality hit hard.