Morning crept over Shadowspire like a blade being drawn—slow, cold, unforgiving.
Cael stood in the center of the training grounds, boots sinking slightly into the packed black sand. The entire courtyard spread in a wide circle surrounded by stone walls scarred from years of weapon strikes and monster blood. Training dummies made from hardened wyvern hide hung from iron posts. Deep claw marks scored the ground. The air smelled faintly of steel, sweat… and something bitter, like old ash.
The Hunters called it the scent of survival.
Cael tightened his grip on the wooden practice sword they'd given him—light, almost flimsy compared to the real weapons hanging on racks nearby. It didn't matter. Whatever they gave him, he would use until his hands broke.
He refused to be weak again.
A few trainees gathered at the edges of the yard, whispering as they watched him. Some were younger, some older, but all bore the same hardened look—eyes forced open by nightmares, spines stiffened by grief.
Cael fit in more than he wanted to.
"Stand straight," Commander Elara said, stepping into the yard. Her long grey coat trailed behind her, and her single steel pauldron glinted in the early light. Scars crossed her face like pale lightning. "You're here because you survived when you shouldn't have. Use that. But don't rely on it."
Cael nodded once, jaw clenched.
She circled him like a wolf assessing prey.
"You've held a blade before?"
"Yes," Cael said. "Not like this. Not properly."
"Good. Bad habits can be broken." Elara halted in front of him. "Today, you learn three things: stance. breath. control."
He expected something grander. Something intense. Instead she moved beside him, positioned his feet wider, and tapped his spine until he straightened. Then she pressed his shoulders down—firm, precise, not unkind.
"When the blade shakes, it's rarely the arm that's weak," she said. "It's the breath behind it."
Cael inhaled slowly.
Her hand snapped forward and smacked his stomach. Hard.
He gasped, folding slightly.
"Wrong," she said. "Again."
Annoyance flared, but he tried again—slower, deeper, filling his lungs fully.
This time, she nodded. "Better."
It was simple. But simple never meant easy.
Across the yard, Brenn—broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, older than Cael by maybe three years—leaned against a post, arms crossed. He watched silently, studying Cael the way one might observe a new beast wandering into familiar territory.
Cael didn't return the look. He didn't need anyone's approval. Not anymore.
Monsters killed everything I had. I don't need to be liked—I need to be strong.
"Now," Elara said, stepping away, "hit the target."
Cael faced the wyvern-hide dummy. He exhaled, gripped his sword, stepped forward—
And struck.
The wood cracked against the hide. Pain shot through his wrist.
Elara clicked her tongue. "You hit like someone trying to kill the world in one swing. Control. Not rage."
He gritted his teeth and tried again. And again. Each strike revealed something he didn't know he lacked—balance, timing, precision. The movements felt clumsy, childish.
Sweat soaked his shirt. His arms trembled.
Elara remained relentless.
"Again."
Strike.
"Again."
Strike.
"You think hatred improves your aim?" She leaned in, voice low. "Hatred only sharpens your intention, not your technique. Learn the difference."
Cael bit back a bitter breath. "I know the difference."
"Do you?" She raised an eyebrow. "Because right now you're just swinging at ghosts."
His grip tightened. For a second, he saw the village—collapsed homes, blood in the dirt, his mother's hand reaching for him then disappearing inside a monster's maw.
His stomach churned.
He struck again—this time steadier. Not lighter, not weaker, but contained.
Elara's expression shifted. Not approval. Not praise. Something closer to acknowledgment.
"Good," she said. "Now keep going until that's the version of you that appears naturally."
Time blurred. His shoulders burned, wrists numb, the wooden sword nearly slipping from his fingers. The other trainees began their own drills, some sparring, some practicing monster-reaction patterns. Brenn stepped into the yard at one point, effortlessly cutting through his own dummy, movements smooth with experience.
Cael watched from the corner of his eye—taking in the foot placement, the rotations, the calm focus. Brenn wasn't naturally gifted. He was trained. Forged.
I can be forged too.
By the time Elara called a halt, Cael's arms felt like lead and his throat tasted like iron.
"You lasted longer than expected," she said bluntly. "But that means nothing until you can last while facing something that tries to kill you."
He swallowed dryly. "When do I learn that?"
She gave him a thin smile. "Soon. But first—you need to understand your peers."
She gestured for Brenn to step forward.
Brenn pushed off the post and walked toward Cael, stopping a few feet away. "Name's Brenn. Second-year trainee. Specializes in heavy blades."
Cael nodded. "Cael."
"Yeah, we know." Brenn's eyes narrowed slightly, assessing him. "You're the kid from Elbhollow. The only one left.
There was no malice in his tone—but no softness either. Just fact.
Cael didn't flinch. "Yes."
Brenn nodded once. "Good. Don't hide it. Trainees here all lost something. Some lost everything."
Their gazes met—just for a moment—and Cael realized Brenn wasn't calling him weak. He was saying you belong here, for better or worse.
Elara clapped her hands. "Enough introductions. Tomorrow, Cael begins morning drills with the rest of you. And in a week…" Her eyes drifted to the far end of the yard, where a massive iron door led underground. "…we test him properly."
The trainees went quiet.
Cael didn't know what was behind the door. But the air around it felt colder. He sensed something breathing behind the steel.
Something that wasn't fully dead.
Elara stepped beside him. "Shadowspire doesn't hand out strength, Cael. You carve it out of yourself. And the process? It hurts."
He met her gaze—resolved, exhausted, unbroken.
"I'm not afraid of hurting," he said.
"Good." She patted his shoulder once, firm. "Then maybe you'll survive."
She walked away, leaving Cael staring at the iron door.
The first step of the path was done.
The fire was only beginning.