The training grounds were a battlefield of dust and destruction, a place where Zairen's power roared to life. A blazing fireball erupted from his outstretched hand, screaming through the air like a vengeful spirit before it smashed into a wooden dummy. The impact was deafening—BOOM!—splinters flying in every direction as the dummy was reduced to smoldering ash. Zairen's lips curled into a grim smile, his eyes glinting with dark satisfaction. He wasn't done. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned a jagged shard of ice, sharp and glistening like a frozen dagger. It shot forward, slicing through the air with a chilling whoosh before it struck the ground, shattering into a thousand crystalline fragments that sparkled under the dim sunlight. The earth trembled, cracked, and groaned as if protesting the assault.
Zairen's power wasn't sated yet. He raised his hand, mana pulsing through his veins like liquid fire, and called forth a massive boulder from the earth itself. The ground quaked as the rock tore free, hovering momentarily before it crashed down with a thunderous CRUNCH, pulverizing another dummy into oblivion. Dust clouds swirled around him, clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, but Zairen stood tall, his chest heaving, his heart pounding with the thrill of his newfound strength. He had leveled up, and the mana coursing through him felt like a storm trapped inside his body—wild, untamed, and hungry for more.
He strode toward a rack of weapons, his boots kicking up dirt with every purposeful step. His fingers closed around the hilt of a sleek, black training sword, its blade gleaming with a faint, menacing sheen. As he gripped it, he channeled his mana, and the sword responded instantly. A radiant blue aura enveloped the blade, crackling with energy, as if the weapon itself were alive, eager to obey his will. Zairen's eyes narrowed, his lips twitching into a smirk that was equal parts pride and menace. He swung the sword in a series of precise, deadly arcs—right slash, upper slash, side slash—each movement faster, sharper, more lethal than the last. The air hummed with the force of his strikes, the blue aura trailing like a comet's tail, leaving faint sparks in its wake.
He pushed himself harder, testing new moves he'd only dreamed of before. A diagonal slash that could cleave through armor like butter. A spinning thrust that sent a gust of wind ripping through the training ground. Each motion was a dance of destruction, a testament to the power surging within him. The dummies didn't stand a chance—some were sliced clean in half, others burst into flames or shattered under the weight of his magic-infused strikes. For an hour, Zairen was a force of nature, a storm of steel and sorcery, his every move dripping with confidence and a hint of cruelty. He wasn't just training; he was declaring war on weakness itself.
Finally, he stopped, his breath heavy but controlled, his muscles burning with the sweet ache of exertion. Sweat dripped from his brow, staining the dirt beneath his feet. He sheathed the sword, the blue aura fading like a dying star, and made his way to a nearby basin to wash the grime from his face and hands. The cool water was a stark contrast to the fire in his veins, grounding him, reminding him of the world beyond the training grounds—a world filled with scheming nobles, fragile alliances, and the looming shadow of the Draven family's decline.
Zairen returned to his quarters, his mind still buzzing with the yesterday nightmare's. A servant had left a tray of food on the table, and as he lifted the lid, the rich aroma of roasted meat hit him like a wave. His stomach growled, and for the first time that day, he allowed himself a genuine smile. "After a session like that," he muttered to himself, "what's better than a meal like this?" He tore into the food, savoring the tender, smoky flavor, each bite fueling his body and his resolve. As he ate, he stared out the window, the fading light casting long shadows across the room. Two days from now, he'd have to attend Elyra's birthday celebration—a tiresome obligation he could already feel weighing on him like chains.
The viscount had left the fief on urgent business, and Elyra had departed earlier, leaving Zairen alone in the sprawling estate. He knew what was coming.The fall of the Draven house has been started only 4 years and the Draven family is no more Whispers of their weakening grip on power echoed in the halls, in the nervous glances of servants, in the smug smirks of rivals waiting to pounce. The viscount's absence only deepened the cracks in their foundation, and Zairen could feel it.He had no desire to dine with Seressia, whose endless questions and biting remarks grated on his nerves like a blade on stone.
Restless, Zairen left his room and wandered into the city. The lively district was a chaotic blend of shouting merchants, laughing children, and the clatter of carts on cobblestone. He roamed without purpose, his dark cloak billowing behind him, his presence drawing eyes. A few young women approached, drawn to his sharp features and the dangerous aura he exuded, but Zairen dismissed them with a cold stare that sent them fleeing. He wasn't here for games. He was a shadow in a world of light, and he had no time for distractions.
His wanderings took him to the blacksmith district, where the air was heavy with the scent of molten metal and smoke. Zairen spotted a familiar smithy and stepped inside. An attendant approached, her eyes lighting up when she recognized him as someone tied to Viscount Draven. "Welcome!" she said warmly, her voice tinged with respect. "Shall I call Master Haxton?"
"No," Zairen replied, his tone sharp and final. "I'm just here to look at weapons."
She nodded and led him to a storage room filled with gleaming blades, enchanted rings, and weathered parchments inscribed with runes. Zairen's gaze swept over the shelves, landing on a small, wickedly sharp knife perfect for close combat. He also picked out survival tools—flint, a compact tent, a coil of rope—essentials for the journey ahead. He paid the attendant and left without another word, the weight of his purchases a reminder of the challenges to come.
Zairen's life had settled into a grim routine: train, roam the city, ignore Seressia's constant bickering. It felt like a cycle he'd been trapped in forever, a rhythm of discipline and defiance. But the illusion of normalcy shattered with a knock at his door. He opened it to find a trembling maid, her eyes wide with fear. "P-Princess Seressia… she's calling for you. In the lord's office," she stammered, barely able to meet his gaze.
Zairen's eyes narrowed, his patience fraying. "Tell her I' am coming in 15 min," he said, his voice calm but laced with a threat that made the maid flinch. She nodded and bolted as he closed the door, muttering under his breath, "What's her problem now?"
He strode to the viscount's office, his boots echoing in the empty halls. Inside, Seressia sat in her father's chair, her posture regal but her eyes burning with disdain. No guards, no servants—just her, radiating arrogance like a queen on a throne. "What do you want?" Zairen asked, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.
She smirked, her voice dripping with venom. "Don't flatter yourself, Zairen. I didn't call you here to waste my breath insulting you." She tossed a letter across the desk, and Zairen caught it with a flick of his wrist. He glanced at the seal—his uncle's crest, from Kaelridge Manor. The letter was an invitation to Elyra's birthday celebration, a summons cloaked in familial warmth but heavy with obligation.
Seressia leaned forward, her gaze cold and calculating. "My father insists we go together to your sister's little party. Trust me, I'd rather choke than travel with you, but duty calls. And And when we return, you're expected to train the elite soldiers properly at Viscount Evaren's fief. You won't get a second chance to come back if you fail. My father's words, not mine. Honestly, I'd rather you dropped dead, but who listens to me?" She sighed.
Zairen's jaw tightened, but he nodded, his mind already racing. "I'll go to the party because the viscount asked, not for you," he said, his voice low and dangerous. He turned to leave, but Seressia's voice cut through the air like a whip.
"Yeah, yeah, now get lost," she snapped, waving him off.
Zairen left, the letter crumpled in his fist. "I hope there's no trouble," he muttered to himself, "or someone's going to end up dead." The thought wasn't entirely a jest—his temper was a blade honed by years of betrayal and loss, and he wasn't sure he could keep it sheathed if pushed too far.
The next two days passed in a blur of quiet tension. Zairen trained, ate, and avoided Seressia's sharp tongue. When the day of departure arrived, he found her waiting outside, her arms crossed, her eyes blazing with fury. The carriages were ready, horses snorting impatiently, but Zairen was late. "Where the hell have you been?" Seressia roared, her voice echoing across the courtyard.
"Training," Zairen replied coolly, unfazed by her outburst. "You know we have to leave, so why waste time yelling? Let's go."
She glared at him, her lips curling into a snarl, but she gestured to the carriage. "Fine. Get in."
Zairen climbed into the carriage, settling into the plush seat as the viscount's fief faded into the distance. The wheels creaked, the horses' hooves clattered, and Zairen's thoughts drifted to Liona, the one person he hoped to avoid at the party. "If she crosses my path," he thought, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his knife, "I might just lose control."
The journey to Kaelridge Manor stretched ahead, a road paved with tension, secrets, and the promise of bloodshed. Zairen leaned back, his eyes glinting with a villainous resolve. Whatever awaited him, he would face it with fire, steel, and a heart forged in darkness.