~Where Breath Meets Morning~
The world was still dark when Kel's eyes opened.
A quiet darkness—not merely the absence of light, but a silence that pressed gently against the walls, like the estate was holding its breath before dawn. Outside the frost-lined window, the sky hovered in muted slate-grey, neither night nor morning yet claimed.
Kel lay still for a moment.
His body ached, not sharply—but with a deep, tired heaviness that reminded him of the previous night. The kind of exhaustion that didn't fade with sleep.
I collapsed yesterday… and yet… I still woke up before the sun.
He turned his head toward the window. A faint silver glow outlined the frost along the glass.
There is still time before dawn.
Slowly, he pushed himself up.
His movements were unhurried, deliberate—partly because haste would hurt him, partly because the morning felt too fragile to disturb. He rose from the bed, posture straightening gradually, and stretched his arms upward.
His sleeves slid down, exposing pale wrists marked faintly with the lines of tension that never quite left him.
I should freshen up first, he thought. Then determine today's course.
He crossed the room quietly.
The thick carpet muffled his footsteps, but the long, velvet drapes shivered slightly as he passed, reacting to the cold draft that followed him like a shadow.
---
The bath chamber greeted him with an old-world stillness.
Walls of dark stone absorbed faint candlelight, giving the room a somber tone. Steam billowed softly from a prepared bath—a luxury of his noble title, yet unfit for his weakened frame.
He undressed slowly.
Piece by piece, he removed his night garments, fingers pausing each time they brushed against skin still carrying traces of pain. His reflection in the tall bath-mirror showed a boy with black hair falling over tired eyes, ribs faintly visible beneath pale skin.
This body is fragile, he thought. But not unchangeable.
He stepped into the bath.
Hot water met cold flesh.
A hiss escaped his lips—not of discomfort, but of contrast. The warmth enveloped him, easing tension, coaxing his limbs into momentary stillness. He leaned back, letting his hair float around him like strands of ink.
The chamber's silence felt ancient. Heavy. Yet—not oppressive.
As if the walls remembered stronger Rosenfelds. And waited to see if he would join them.
He exhaled slowly.
Today… I continue.
---
After bathing, Kel dried himself with a cotton towel embroidered with the Rosenfeld crest—black dragon coiled around a crown. His fingers traced the stitched emblem for a fleeting moment.
One day, he thought, that crown will not be broken.
He walked to his wardrobe.
Heavy oak doors opened with a groan. Inside hung garments of noble cut—dark coats, fitted trousers, high-collared shirts, silver-thread embroidery.
He selected his attire carefully.
A black shirt of fine silk. Deep charcoal vest reinforced subtly along the spine. A long coat in midnight blue—tailored precisely to his thin frame, fitted at the waist, sleeves structured but not burdensome.
He dressed slowly.
When buttoning his vest, he paused—not from dizziness, but to steady his breathing.
Even clothing feels heavy… absurd.
He fastened the final button.
Then walked to the mirror.
---
Kel stood before the elegant, full-length mirror framed in silverwood. He adjusted his coat—straightened the collar, smoothed a wrinkle at the cuff. His hands moved with quiet precision.
He reached toward a small tray holding his accessories.
Simple cufflinks of onyx set in polished steel.
A narrow, dark ribbon to tie back his hair.
And lastly, a silver chain bearing the Rosenfeld sigil.
He clasped them carefully.
The boy in the mirror still looked weak.
But not fragile.
This appearance… is acceptable.
He met his reflection's gaze.
One day, this image will match the future I intend.
---
Kel walked to the low sofa beside the window and sat. Sunlight had yet to appear, only the faintest illumination from the pre-dawn sky casting long shadows across the chamber.
He reached for the book lying there.
The sword manual.
"Essence of Breath: The Beginner's Path to Sword Spirit"
— by Ser Kayden Rosenfeld
He opened to the first chapter.
The pages were old, margins annotated with calligraphy from a time when words were carved with conviction.
He began reading silently.
"A blade forged in metal may sever flesh.
But a blade forged in spirit will sever fate."
Kel's fingers lingered on the ink.
Sever fate…
His lips moved slightly—not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment.
Fate has written my death. So… I will learn to cut fate first.
He continued.
"Breath is the origin of all sword arts."
"The sword does not begin at the hand. It begins with the intention to cut."
Kel paused.
His thoughts quieted.
Intention I have. Breath I can build. Step one… is today.
He absorbed each line slowly—letting the words settle, not just into memory, but into belief.
His gaze sharpened slightly.
I collapsed last night from simple breathing practice. Today… I continue that same practice. But with discipline, not desperation.
He turned the page.
Outside, the sky lightened a shade.
Still not dawn.
He closed the manual for a moment and laid a hand atop it.
"I will start again," he whispered.
He inhaled—
slowly.
Pain flickered through his chest. But less than yesterday.
He exhaled.
Yes... better.
He resumed reading.
---
The pages rustled softly as Kel continued to read, his posture upright despite the strain it placed on his back. Outside the window, the darkness thinned gradually, shifting from charcoal to muted grey. The world was holding its breath.
So did he.
"Do not seek to move the blade first."
"Begin by moving the world within your breath."
Kel placed the manual beside him.
He closed his eyes.
The chamber was cold, but his heartbeat felt loud. Not powerful, simply present. A fragile rhythm in an unsteady body.
I collapsed yesterday. Pain, blood, exhaustion…
His fingers flexed slightly.
But today, it will be different.
---
He inhaled slowly.
A harsh metal taste rose from his throat—remnants of last night's exertion—but he steadied himself.
In through the nose. Expand the diaphragm. Do not rush. Control yourself.
Exhale.
The pain flared along his ribs, like thin blades digging inward.
Kel's brow knit slightly.
Again.
He continued, breath by breath. Slow. Silent. Intentional.
Each inhale felt like pulling broken glass into his lungs.
Each exhale was a release of barely constrained agony.
But—
It was slightly less unbearable than yesterday.
Progress is progress.
In the gradual quiet of early morning, the sound of his breath became the only audible movement. Even the walls felt like they listened.
---
After the fifty-third cycle of breath, he paused.
Sweat dotted his temples.
He opened his eyes.
A faint tremor lined his fingers.
His body warned him to stop.
His mind refused.
This pain is a teacher. I can learn from it.
He lifted the manual again, flipping to the next section.
---
"When breath stabilizes, allow thought to see the blade, though no blade is held."
"Do not imagine steel. Imagine the moment you must cut through inevitability."
Kel stared at the sentence.
Cut through inevitability…
His mind conjured images—not of enemies, not of duels.
But of a future where he lay lifeless on the academy floor, mocked, forgotten.
He inhaled.
Pain surged.
He exhaled.
A single thought whispered:
That inevitability will break before I do.
---
The sky beyond the window shifted further. Blue-grey broke dullly at the edge of the horizon.
Not sun.
Not warmth.
But a suggestion.
Kel closed the manual gently.
He rose from the sofa.
His coat whispered against the fabric as he straightened. He walked slowly toward the mirror again.
His steps were careful.
Deliberate.
His reflection greeted him silently.
A boy too pale.
Eyes shadowed.
Shoulders narrow.
But standing.
Still standing.
He adjusted his coat collar with a faint motion of his fingers.
One day, this reflection will suit the name Rosenfeld.
He turned away.
---
He walked to the center of the chamber, where the stone floor remained bare.
He extended his arms and began a simple stance.
One foot forward.
One back.
He raised his hands as if holding an invisible sword.
His posture wavered.
His knees trembled.
His elbows felt like they carried stone.
Begin small.
He inhaled.
Straightened his back.
Exhaled.
And slowly—
He mimicked the first motion of a basic sword draw.
The movement was shallow—more suggestion than technique.
But his ribs shrieked in pain.
Kel gritted his teeth.
And continued.
One more draw.
Then another.
Then footsteps.
Shallow stance transitions, slow and controlled.
Every motion carefully executed—not as training, but as rebuilding.
Pain carved through every gesture.
But motion continued.
One step.
One breath.
One intention.
When I collapse today, it will be after progress—not defeat.
---
After the third movement cycle—
His vision blurred.
Blood taste returned.
His breath fractured.
Then—
THUD.
Kel fell to one knee, one hand braced on the floor, trembling.
A little more. Just one more—
His body convulsed slightly.
Stop.
His mind commanded it, even as his will demanded otherwise.
---
He sat on the floor.
Head bowed.
Hands resting on his legs.
For a few breaths, he did not move.
The ache was everywhere now—not sharp, but full. Like his veins carried molten lead.
But beneath it—
Was the faintest warmth.
Not physical.
Conviction.
Yes… This path is hellish. But it is a path.
He exhaled slowly, steadying his pulse.
Then—
He rose again.
Not to resume motion.
But to mark the end.
---
As Kel returned to the sofa, the faintest golden thread appeared along the window edge.
The sun was rising.
He stared at the light for a moment.
No smile touched his lips.
But there was acknowledgment.
Before the sun dared to rise… I already endured.
He reached for the sword manual once more and placed it gently on the table.
Then—
He whispered to the silent room, his voice quiet but firm:
"Tomorrow, I'll move further."