The training grounds buzzed with the clash of steel and the hum of simmering magic. Knights sparred, apprentices fumbled with their first spells, and the scent of sweat mixed with burning incense filled the air.
Sir Aldric, captain of the house guard, walked beside Kael, eyes sharp and steady.
"You know the ranks well, but let's review them—just to be sure," Aldric said, his voice steady.
Kael said nothing, his expression unreadable.
Aldric gestured toward the scattered groups training. "Apprentices—beginners learning the basics of sword and spell. Most never rise beyond this."
He pointed to a group of fighters moving with practiced blade control. "Swordsmen—skilled with the sword but weak in magic."
Nearby, duelists wielded both sword and spell with growing confidence. "Spellblades—balanced in swordplay and moderate magic."
Aldric's gaze hardened. "Knights—seasoned warriors balanced in sword and magic. The backbone of the house."
He glanced at a smaller group of elite fighters. "Champions—only a hundred in this house. The very best, tested and proven."
Kael's face remained impassive, but Aldric saw the weight behind his eyes.
"Beyond swordsmen," Aldric continued quietly, "there's the Saint Swordsman—a title for those with near-divine mastery of the blade alone. That's rare and almost unreachable."
"And above all…" he paused, "the Everborne—legends who have transcended mortal limits."
Aldric turned toward the center of the grounds. "Today, you face Sir Bralen—a Senior Knight. Experienced in sword and magic alike. A fitting opponent."
Kael nodded once.
Sir Bralen stepped forward, armor gleaming in the morning sun, scars marking his face — silent testimony to countless battles.
Kael drew his sword with calm precision. Unlike Bralen, Kael had yet to awaken his mana—the mystical energy that could only be harnessed after sixteen. Until then, his skill was pure steel and cold calculation.
The duel began with Bralen lunging forward, sword flashing in a deadly arc. Kael sidestepped smoothly, his blade slicing the air in a whisper-quiet counter.
Bralen pressed his advantage, striking with the weight of experience, his off-hand sparking with subtle magical flames meant to unsettle Kael.
For a moment, Kael's eyes flickered — an almost imperceptible reaction — then he deflected the attack and closed the distance.
Their blades clashed, sparks flying in the bright morning light.
Minutes passed like seconds. Finally, with a swift, clean touch, Kael's sword tapped Bralen's shoulder — a light, unmistakable signal of victory.
Bralen stepped back, nodding in respect. "You've lost none of your edge, Kael."
Kael sheathed his sword without a word, eyes scanning beyond the training grounds, distant and unreadable.
Sir Aldric's voice broke the silence. "Your skill grows sharper every day. Keep at it."
Kael said nothing.