On the northern side of Elkron, in the large city of Condor, Richard stood before a practice dummy in the courtyard of his family's estate. Tall hedges bordered the stone path leading to the training yard, the path branching off toward either the main manor or the servants' quarters.
The training ground was gritty from constant use. Wooden weapons lay scattered about. Quintin watched from a short distance away, arms folded, his expression stern as he observed Richard's progress.
Richard—sixteen years old, months from his seventeenth birthday—attacked the dummy with a wooden sword and shield. His movements were rehearsed yet rigid. There were expectations on him, heavy ones. His parents were heroes of the war that secured Elkron, and everyone assumed he would one day join their ranks.
His mother had been a formidable battle mage, mastering elemental magic before she was even of age to fight. His father was a seasoned warrior, renowned for battlefield tactics. Richard had been told since childhood that he carried great power within him—power that had yet to awaken.
But today he focused only on Quintin, his longtime instructor. He swung. Blocked. Stepped. Struck. Again and again.
"Stop." Quintin stroked his long gray beard, bushy brows drawn tight as he studied Richard. "You know the forms, but you're slow. Clumsy. You telegraph every strike. Any opponent worth their boots would counter you with no effort. You must become fluid."
Richard winced, the words stinging.
"I've been at it all morning and afternoon. I've practiced the footwork, the strikes, everything—hundreds of times."
"Then you'll practice them a hundred more," Quintin retorted. "If you think this is a ballroom dance to memorize, you haven't grasped combat at all."
"This would be easier if we worked on unlocking my power instead," Richard muttered, crossing his arms. "What if my gift is magic, like my mother's? Then all this sword nonsense would be pointless."
"Your mother can wield a sword," Quintin laughed. "And many other weapons besides. She didn't skip the basics just because she could cast fire. You won't either."
"This is nonsense." Richard kicked the dummy hard enough to knock it over.
"That's the most effective strike you've made all week," Quintin said dryly. "Perhaps the blunt truth finally stirred something in you."
Richard threw the wooden sword aside and sat on a stone bench. Quintin approached, his tone softening.
"I believe your training strategy was wrong," Quintin said, making Richard perk up. "Training dummies aren't enough to ignite your instinct. I think I know what will."
"So we are focusing on unlocking my power?" Richard asked eagerly.
"No," Quintin replied flatly. Richard deflated immediately. "I don't have the tools to draw out your gift. That's why you'll eventually train with the Order of Condor. But if your power manifests before then, I can help prepare you."
"So what's the plan?"
"You wait here," Quintin said, turning away with a pace so slow it bordered on painful.
"I'm going to be waiting all day," Richard muttered.
He splashed cool water over his face and chest from a wooden barrel. His reflection rippled back: a lean, athletic young man with bronze skin from hours in the sun, sharp brown eyes, and short curls that grew unruly if he let them. Not as tall as his father, but taller than most boys his age. Strong enough—yet somehow still not enough.
He retrieved his wooden sword, reset the dummy, and started again. This time with no pressure. No thoughts of awakening hidden powers. No fantasies of becoming a hero. Just focus. Breath. Movement.
He realized Quintin had been right. He was rigid. Overthinking. He relaxed his stance and repeated each form until it felt smooth. Natural. Again. And again. Faster. Cleaner. Each strike began to flow into the next without hesitation.
"I was in my own way," Richard murmured, laughing softly. "I need to stop thinking about everything except the moment."
He didn't know how long he practiced before a cough sounded from the edge of the yard. Quintin had returned—and brought someone with him.
A boy Richard's age. Taller. Broader. Wearing worn clothes and a wooden chest guard. Scruffy red hair. A wooden sword in hand. His expression was pure hostility.
"This is Joseph," Quintin announced. "He's been training to join the Order of Condor as well. I believe testing your skill against a real opponent will show us what you can do."
"He's huge…" Richard thought, but he forced his face to stay neutral.
"Let's fight then," Richard said, lifting his sword.
Joseph stepped forward like a bull itching to charge, but Quintin stopped him with a hand on his chest.
"Ground rules," he said. "A fatal blow—if these were real swords—earns one point. A knockdown earns two. First to ten points wins."
"Got it," Richard said.
"Just let me fight!" Joseph snapped.
"Face each other," Quintin ordered. "Ready… fight!"
Joseph charged immediately, sword overhead, and swung downward with brute strength. Richard blocked, but Joseph's force drove the wooden blade into Richard's head.
"Point!" Quintin shouted.
"What the—?!" Richard rubbed his skull. "He's strong!"
"Ready… fight!"
Again Joseph attacked. Again the same overhead swing. This time Richard sidestepped cleanly and returned a strike—but Joseph grabbed him and threw him across the yard with shocking ease.
Richard rolled to his feet just in time for another downward strike. He blocked with more strength behind it. It worked. A smile flashed across his face—
A mistake.
A bright flash.
A blunt crack.
Richard hit the dirt again.
"Point!"
Quintin dragged him aside. "Did you just celebrate in the middle of a fight?"
"I didn't think I could match his strength," Richard admitted. "I got excited."
"We've trained for years," Quintin said sharply. "He has skill, but you have more. Stop letting your thoughts defeat you."
Focus. Richard repeated the word silently as he returned to his stance.
"Ready… fight!"
Joseph came with the same predictable strike. This time Richard saw everything—the shifting shoulders, the tightening grip, the downward arc before it even happened. He glided aside and tapped Joseph cleanly across the belly.
A fatal blow. If the blade were real.
"Point!"
Again they reset.
Joseph swung wildly, faster but sloppier. Richard blocked with ease, shoved him back, and landed a clean hit to Joseph's head.
"Point!"
Joseph grew angrier, reckless. Richard deflected every strike now. He saw every opening. Every flaw.
When Joseph lifted his sword overhead again, Richard thrust forward into his chest.
"Point!"
But Joseph, furious, continued his attack anyway—an illegal blow. Richard dodged, spun with the momentum, struck Joseph across the ankle, then followed with a downward strike as Joseph fell.
Joseph hit the ground with a thud—and started snoring.
"That's a win!" Quintin called, grinning ear to ear.
Richard lowered his sword. "What was his problem? He looked ready to murder me."
"I told him you insulted his mother," Quintin said casually. "And his father."
"Why would you do that?!"
"To motivate you."
"…It worked."
Quintin nodded proudly. "What changed? Your technique became excellent."
"I stopped thinking about unlocking my power," Richard said. "I was so focused on waiting for something magical to happen that I wasn't focusing on the sword."
"Good," Quintin said. "Now we can begin proper training."
"This wasn't proper—?"
"It was," Quintin corrected with a smirk. "But now I finally have a proper student."