The next morning, Aetherian skies were split between sunlight and cloud — like even the heavens were undecided.
Kael sat at the edge of the dueling grounds, beneath the stone bleachers, where no one paid attention to shadows.
He didn't watch the matches.
He listened.
To steel clashing. To students shouting. To the ones who thought strength was loud.
And he waited.
A group of nobles roared with laughter nearby. Among them, Theron Vael, the arrogant son of the High Duke, flourished his sword after knocking his opponent to the ground.
"You call that a defense, peasant?" he smirked.
The others cackled.
Kael's fingers didn't twitch. His face didn't shift.
But inside?
A storm.
He remembered their faces.
Not Theron's — the others.
The guards who laughed when his parents' names were spit on. The merchants who tossed scraps at him when he begged. The orphanage director who looked at him like filth that breathed too long.
"Riven!"
Kael looked up.
Master Lioren stood by the archway, arms crossed, hair tied back tight. He didn't look amused.
"With me."
Kael stood, silent as fog.
They walked in silence, down stone halls until they reached an old training chamber — one only professors used.
Lioren turned to him.
"How much do you know of forms?"
Kael blinked. "Forms?"
"Sword forms. Staff rotations. Defensive cycles."
Kael met his gaze. "Enough to survive."
Lioren raised an eyebrow.
"I don't train survivors."
He unsheathed a wooden sword and tossed another to Kael. "I train warriors."
The first swing was deliberate.
Kael blocked it.
Barely.
The second was faster.
Kael twisted, avoiding a hit to the ribs.
The third came from above. Kael ducked, pivoted, and stumbled.
The fourth hit his wrist — hard.
"Tch." Lioren shook his head. "You've read scrolls. Not touched war."
Kael steadied himself. "I learn fast."
"Then stop hesitating."
The professor lunged again.
Something shifted.
Kael's feet stopped stumbling. His grip changed — as if guided not by logic, but memory.
Not his memory.
Like something old inside him remembered blood and fire and a hundred battles fought beneath dying stars.
Lioren blinked. Just for a second.
Kael twisted. Moved under the blow. Feinted left, slashed right — then froze just before striking.
Lioren stepped back, watching him.
"That wasn't from a scroll."
Kael panted, jaw tight. "No."
Lioren studied him. Not surprised. Not impressed.
Intrigued.
Then, casually, he said:
"Come here again tomorrow. Before dawn."
Kael frowned. "Why?"
"Because the ones who scream loudest in battle die first."
He turned away. "I want to see how long you last."
Outside, the wind had picked up.
Kael stepped out and found himself standing beside the dueling fields again.
Theron Vael was there — laughing at some poor boy face down in the dirt.
He didn't see Kael watching him.
He didn't notice the fire growing behind calm eyes.
And he had no idea:
The quiet boy beneath the bleachers had just been handed a sword by the only professor who saw through smoke.