The courtyard behind the Valen home was small, rectangular, and surrounded on three sides by high stone walls. The fourth opened onto a shadow-draped alley that backed into the district's old patrol grounds. The space wasn't much—weathered tiles, a training dummy, racks of dulled weapons—but it held the ghosts of a hundred bruises and lessons.
Dregan stood in the center of the yard with arms crossed and eyes hard.
Thalos approached at the second morning bell, dressed in his training tunic, boots laced tight. He'd barely slept. His muscles were rested, but his mind had turned over everything a dozen times.
Dregan didn't speak at first. He simply motioned toward the weapons rack.
"Choose."
Thalos moved toward it, eyeing the blunt blades and training staves. He reached for a short sword, then hesitated, fingers hovering just above the hilt.
"No," he muttered to himself, pulling away.
He picked a standard-weight longsword instead—nothing flashy, just balanced. Familiar.
Dregan nodded.
"Good. You picked what you could rely on, not what looked easiest."
Thalos tightened his grip and stepped into the center ring drawn on the ground.
"First test," Dregan said. "Not skill. Not strength. Stamina."
He tossed Thalos a round stone, no larger than a plum.
"Carry that. Every swing, every drill, every lap. It doesn't leave your pocket."
"What's it do?"
"If you drop it, it shrieks loud enough to bring patrols down from the wall."
Thalos blinked. "…Right."
Dregan stepped closer, his expression unreadable. "You're not talented. You're not gifted. You know that."
"I know."
"You'll need to be clever. Patient. Precise. Your path will be slower—but it can also be deeper. Understood?"
"Understood."
Dregan didn't smile, but there was a flicker of approval in his voice.
"Then let's begin."
The first drills were deceptively simple.
Form corrections. Balance checks. Basic footwork.
But Dregan didn't stop. Every flaw, every slip, every breath taken half a second too soon was noted—and corrected. The older vampire didn't shout. He didn't humiliate. But every look carried weight.
Thalos's shoulders burned within fifteen minutes.
"Your stance collapses when you reset. Keep weight on the back foot."
"Again."
He shifted. Repeated the motion.
"Again."
A small shake of the head. "Not like that. Again."
Sweat began to bead along his forehead, mixing with the cool dusk air. The training sword grew heavier with every repetition.
His fingers ached.
His calves trembled.
But he didn't drop the stone in his pocket.
By midday, his tunic was soaked through and his vision had narrowed to just the circle drawn on the stone tiles.
Dregan finally raised a hand.
"Break."
Thalos stumbled to the bench along the wall and sat down, chest rising and falling. He blinked rapidly, clearing the salt from his eyes.
Mira appeared in the doorway a moment later, setting down a flask and a small bundle of blood-fruit slices.
"You're not broken yet," she said casually, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Not yet," Thalos rasped. "Give me another hour."
She smirked, then leaned close and said in a lower voice, "Your father's not pushing hard. Not yet."
"Oh joy."
She patted his shoulder. "Learn what he's really testing. It's not form."
She disappeared again into the house.
Thalos looked down at the fruit and flask, then at his callused hands. He chewed slowly, thoughts circling.
What was Dregan testing?
He hadn't thrown him into a spar. Hadn't tested reaction speed or reflexes. It was repetition. Endurance. Observation.
He's looking for foundation. And how I handle being behind.
That made sense.
If he was going to get anywhere, he couldn't outmuscle anyone. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But he could outlast them. Outthink them.
He drank, stood, and returned to the center ring.
Dregan didn't speak—he simply nodded.
The second round began.
This time it was evasion work.
No sparring. Just movement drills.
Dregan would gesture, flick a finger, or shift his stance—and Thalos had to react. Predict. Adapt.
He was wrong more often than right.
He fell. Slipped. Twice he rolled too far and nearly crashed into the weapon rack.
But he learned.
Each mistake adjusted his approach. Not in leaps—but inch by inch.
By the time the third bell sounded, he could predict Dregan's cues with enough accuracy to stay on his feet.
"Better," Dregan said.
Thalos nodded, too tired to reply.
"Tomorrow," Dregan added, "we add live blades."
"...Fun."
"And after that, you'll face Relin."
"Oh."
Dregan smirked, just faintly. "You'll lose."
"Thanks for the encouragement."
"But you'll learn. That's what matters."
He turned and walked back into the house.
Thalos stood alone in the courtyard, sweat cooling against his skin.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the training stone. It pulsed gently in his palm—no shriek. No mistake.
He pocketed it again and looked up at the dark sky above.
A full month.
He had time.
But only if he used every moment.
Relin Valen had a grin that made people nervous.
Not the friendly kind of grin. The kind that said, This will hurt, and I'm going to enjoy it.
Thalos stood across from his brother in the same courtyard where he'd spent the past three mornings practicing under Dregan's watchful gaze. Today, however, his father was leaning against the wall with arms folded, not interfering—just observing. A harder test.
Thalos flexed his fingers around the training sword's grip. His knuckles were still sore from yesterday's drills. His muscles carried the stiffness of someone not yet used to daily training.
Relin, meanwhile, spun his short twin blades with casual flair. His stance was relaxed, loose, like he wasn't taking this seriously at all.
"Ready, little brother?" Relin said, mock sympathy in his voice. "I'll try not to break your pride too badly."
"I don't have much to break," Thalos said, settling into the stance Dregan had drilled into him. "Which makes me dangerous."
Relin chuckled. "We'll see."
Dregan's voice rang out. "Begin."
Relin moved first. Fast.
The older brother surged forward in a blur, blades flashing with the speed and confidence of someone who'd done this a hundred times. Thalos stepped back, just as they'd practiced, deflecting the strike rather than meeting it head-on.
The swords clashed. His arms shuddered from the impact.
Relin pivoted, bringing his second blade around.
Thalos ducked too slow—felt the blunt edge smack across his shoulder.
"Point!" Relin called.
"Again," Thalos growled.
Relin stepped back with a theatrical bow. "Your funeral."
They sparred again. And again.
Thalos lost every bout.
Sometimes in five seconds.
Sometimes in ten.
But never the same way twice.
He was watching—recording every move. Every angle Relin favored, every time he dropped his shoulder just before a feint. He noticed how Relin always spun clockwise when retreating. How he lifted his heel when readying a forward thrust.
Dregan called a short break after the fifth round. Thalos collapsed onto one knee, panting.
"You're not winning," his father said. "But you're learning."
Relin tossed him a flask of blood-nectar. "You're surprisingly durable for someone with no muscle."
"Thanks," Thalos muttered, drinking.
"You're not using your full potential," Dregan added.
Thalos blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You're clever. Crafty. But you're fighting like you're trying to match Relin. You can't. Not yet. So change the game."
He let that hang in the air.
Relin twirled his blades. "You gonna fight dirty, little brother?"
Thalos smiled faintly. "Maybe."
The next bout began.
Relin lunged again, predictably fast—but this time, Thalos didn't retreat directly.
He sidestepped.
His blade angled low—not to block, but to redirect.
Relin's footwork slipped just enough.
Thalos pivoted, let his body drop into a slide, and smacked the back of Relin's leg with the flat of his sword.
Relin stumbled.
Point for Thalos.
"Interesting," Dregan said. No praise. But he didn't need to say it.
Relin narrowed his eyes, grin gone. "Alright then."
The final two bouts were faster.
Relin stopped holding back.
His speed increased.
Thalos was outmatched completely—but now he wasn't surprised.
He dodged better.
He adjusted faster.
He even lasted nearly twenty seconds in the last exchange, slipping through strikes and attempting jabs of his own.
It ended, predictably, with him flat on his back, Relin's blade at his neck.
But his grin matched his brother's this time.
"Better," Relin admitted, offering a hand.
Thalos took it and stood. "I'll get you next time."
"You better."
That night, as he soaked in a steaming mineral bath Mira had drawn for him, Thalos replayed the matches in his head.
Not with regret.
With strategy.
He wasn't just building strength—he was building style. One tailored to his limits. One born from necessity.
If he couldn't overpower, he'd outmaneuver.
If he couldn't outrun, he'd outsmart.
He would shape his path the same way his blade moved today: just a little off-angle, just a little unexpected.
The bruises would fade.
But the lessons wouldn't.