By the time the dinner bell rang, Riven was exhausted. His body ached from a full day of training, amplified by the extra intensity he'd applied to prove Vaelorian wrong. He arrived at the mess hall and found his friends already gathered at a noisy, central table.
The group was a mismatched but tight-knit collection of camp trainees. There was Anya, the sharp-witted scholar whose mind moved faster than anyone's sword; Barron, the jokester of the group, but was fiercely loyal; Willow, the aspiring warrior was already digging into her stew; and Mira Lune, a charismatic, little fireball who always managed to look immaculate despite her gift.
"Look who finally dragged himself in," Mira Lune teased, sliding Riven a plate heaped with food. "Did the strategy class suck all the energy out of you, or was that Vaelorian demanding a detailed account of your training schedule?"
Riven managed a weak smile as he sat between Willow and Barron. "Both. And then I had to solve a highly embarrassing tactical error at lunch."
Anya, pulling her hair behind her ears, leaned in. "The net, wasn't it? The key to immobilization? It's all about systemic threat. You missed it, right?"
Riven glared at Willow. "She told you, didn't she?"
"We just know you, Riven," Anya giggled. "You and Vaelorian are like two sides of the same coin. He sees the whole board; you see the fastest path to the king."
Barron, after swallowing a large bite of bread, finally spoke, his voice sounded encouraging.
"You are strong. It will come to you."
"No, it won't just come," Anya interjected. "He has to work at it. Just like I have to work at not tripping over my own feet during drills. It's about balance."
"It's good so freaking to be here. With them. They don't judge the way the instructors do. They just...see me. They see the flaws, they call them out, but they still save me a seat and some food. They're all right, though. I am out of balance. Too much fire, not enough ice. Vaelorian knows it, Willow sees it, and even Anya can predict my mistake. I need to be more than just powerful," Riven thought sighing, the weight of the day settling on him.
"I have extra hand-to-hand drills with Sir Eryndor's tonight," he confessed. "Vaelorian's idea of balancing the scales for skipping class."
Mira Lune winced sympathetically. "Sir Eryndor? Ouch. That means no peaceful sleep for you tonight. He'll run you ragged. Good thing you got some extra rest this morning." She nudged him with a playful wink, a clear reference to him skipping class this morning.
Riven couldn't help but grin back, thinking about a different rest entirely. "That rest is the only thing getting me through tonight."
"Just focus on surviving," Willow advised. "And try to see the net before it drops."
Riven finished his dinner, the friendly banter and shared frustration renewing his resolve. The drills with Sir Eryndor would be brutal, but the thought of returning to Vaelorian is giving him the strength to face it.
The camp's old training room was slightly lit by the time Riven made it there. The air was cold, but the heat of exertion was already rising. Riven stood before Sir Eryndor, a towering man with a reputation for being relentlessly disciplined, but fair.
"I am told you missed your mandated mental analysis this morning, Lord Riven," Sir Eryndor stated, his voice a low, gravelly sound that carried across the room. "And you were given this remedial session to correct a flaw: the substitution of impulse for intellect."
Riven stood straight, sweat already prickling on his back. That's Sir Eryndor and Vaelorian's language for 'I need to kick some sense into you' but hey, it's not like he can get out of it right?
"Yep. You got that right. I'm here to work on my impulse." Riven replied sheepishly.
"Good. Tonight, we will drill a basic counter-ambush scenario. You will face three men simultaneously. They are larger and older than you. Your only objective is to survive for two minutes. Show me you understand the difference between fighting and thinking."
Sir Eryndor flicked his fingers and three massive, hardened men entered the room. They were armed only with padded clubs, but their size alone was intimidating. Riven was already exhausted, his muscles screaming from the long day, but the shame of his earlier failure with Vaelorian, and Willow's precise explanation, was a powerful, driving force.
"Alright, you got this!" Riven cheered himself inwardly. "Vaelorian wants me to think. Not fight. Think. Where is the net? The thing that immobilizes me. The big guy on the left is rushing fast and hard—the Swordsman. The one in the middle is staying back, waiting for an opening—the Archer. And the one on the right, the flanking man, is maneuvering to cut off my retreat, forcing me into the main confrontation—that's the fucking net. He's taking away my options. I need to take him out first."
Instead of meeting the central attacker head-on, Riven darted laterally. He moved with a speed born of pure determination and surprising clarity, completely bypassing the 'Swordsman' who was expecting a direct clash. He focused entirely on the flanking man.
The flanker, startled by Riven's unexpected move, tried to pivot. Riven used his momentum against him, delivering a lightning-fast kick to the man's knee that buckled him instantly, then slammed his padded fist into his chest. The 'Net' was down in seconds.
Yes! The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
The other two attackers were confused. The 'Swordsman,' now forced to adjust, lunged wildly. Riven didn't engage; he spun, used the downed recruit as an obstacle, and darted back towards the wall.
He turned his focus to the central 'Archer'—the man waiting patiently for a shot. Riven feigned a move to the left, drawing the man's attention, then burst to the right, closing the distance before the 'Archer' could reset his position. A hard shoulder check and a swift elbow to the temple, and the second man staggered back, stunned.
Riven didn't stay to finish him. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, but he was moving, constantly repositioning himself. The 'Swordsman' was now left alone, chasing Riven and swinging his club wildly, exhausted and exposed.
The two-minute horn sounded. Riven was untouched, two opponents were incapacitated or stunned, and the final one was flailing in frustration.
Sir Eryndor stepped forward, stopping the final recruit with a raised hand. The huge man stared, panting, at Riven, who stood trembling slightly from the sheer effort of the mental calculation and the physical execution.
Sir Eryndor surveyed the scene: one man down, one stunned, and the most aggressive fighter rendered useless.
"You survived," Sir Eryndor observed, his voice completely level. "And you secured your ability to move. You did not fight the hardest; you fought the smartest. You prioritize the threat that removes your options, not the threat that demands your attention." He looked directly at Riven, feeling genuinely proud of the younger boy's skills. "His Highness will be happy to hear the news about your progress. Go. Clean up. You have earned your rest."
Riven nodded, too exhausted to speak, the sweet taste of success washing away the sourness of the day's reprimands. He had been punished, he had worked, and he had learned. Now, he just had one last destination for the night.