The first strike came fast. Too fast for most to react.
Lyssandra's wooden blade cut the air in a low arc, the hiss of its passage brushing past my ear. My feet shifted without thought—half a step back, weight sliding into my heels, blade angled just enough to let hers scrape past in a harmless glide.
Her follow-up came immediately. No wasted movement. She wanted to catch me before I found my balance. Clever.
But her breathing gave her away.
"You're rushing," I said, my voice even.
The crack of wood on wood rang through the courtyard as I intercepted her next strike. She pressed harder, teeth gritted, but I rolled her momentum off my blade and let her stumble forward just enough.
A light tap to her shoulder ended it.
"Match."
She stepped back, frowning, strands of her dark hair clinging to her cheek with sweat.
"That's one. Don't get too comfortable."
"I wasn't the one off balance," I replied, resetting my stance.
The Vaelus courtyard was a perfect square of pale stone, smoothed by generations of training. The banners—deep midnight blue, stitched with our silver crest—hung still in the morning air.
Lyssandra circled back to her starting point.
"Again?"
I nodded.
She advanced slower this time, testing. But the subtle shift in her stance still gave her intent away. I adjusted before she moved. When she lunged, my blade was already sliding hers aside. This time, my hand brushed her wrist before pulling away.
"Two."
Her mouth tightened, but I could hear the faint amusement in her tone.
"You've been listening too much."
"I've been listening exactly enough," I said. "You still hold your breath when you change direction."
"That's not—" She caught herself, sighed, then gave a reluctant smile. "Fine. Again."
We reset.
Her third try forced me to give ground for the first time that morning. The rhythm of our strikes echoed sharp against the courtyard walls, my blade answering hers without hesitation. But her frustration made her predictable. A low parry, a step in, and I laid the flat of my blade against her side.
"Three."
"You're impossible."
"You're improving."
The creak of the veranda boards behind us made Lyssandra straighten immediately.
I didn't need to turn to know who it was. Grandfather's steps were deliberate, steady—never hurried, never unsure. Grandmother's presence followed, lighter but with that same quiet weight.
"You two will wear yourselves thin before midday," Grandfather said.
"We're fine," Lyssandra replied quickly.
"They've energy enough," Grandmother said. "Let them use it."
Grandfather's voice held no irritation, but it left no space for argument.
"Energy without discipline is wasted. Remember—you are Vaelus."
"Yes, Grandfather," we answered together.
He stayed to watch, and Lyssandra fought harder under his gaze. I won the next three matches, but she made me work for every point.
By the time Grandmother called for a break, the sun had already begun tilting toward the west.
⸻
We went inside together, the cool air of the great hall washing over us.
The high-vaulted ceiling stretched above polished stone floors, light spilling in through tall windows. At the far end of the hall, our parents stood beside the long dining table.
Lord Sylvarion Vaelus was every inch the Duke—broad-shouldered, posture perfect, presence commanding even in silence. The silver streaks in his black hair only made his features sharper. His gaze shifted toward us the moment we entered.
"You've been out since dawn," he said. His voice carried that low, even tone that made people listen.
"We were training," Lyssandra answered, brushing hair from her face.
Lady Elowen stood at his side, her pale hands resting lightly on the back of a chair. Her poise was effortless, the soft fall of her gown whispering against the floor as she stepped forward. Where Father's presence pressed, hers seemed to draw you in—calm, steady, precise.
"Training is good," she said, her eyes moving between us. "But only if you still have the strength to eat."
I felt her Spirit Ki before I even heard her voice—refined, perfectly controlled. Like holding a still pond in the palm of your hand.
"Dinner will be ready soon," she added, with a faint smile in my direction.
Father's gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than Lyssandra. He didn't say anything about my stance, my grip, or my form. He didn't need to. His silence meant I'd done well enough not to warrant correction.
We washed, ate, and spoke little of training. In the Vaelus household, what happened in the courtyard stayed there—success or failure, it was ours to carry.
⸻
Later, when the others retired, I returned alone to the courtyard.
The tiles were still warm from the day's sun. I took my stance in the center, breathing slow, letting my awareness settle.
To most, Spirit Ki was like a river—something they pushed or pulled, shaped to their will.
To me, it was a world of edges and spaces. I could hear it hum in the air, feel it trace the outline of every wall, every leaf beyond the courtyard.
Somewhere in the forest, a bird called once and fell silent.
Then the air shifted.
Not the wind. Not the temperature. A wrongness. Like the world had paused.
I turned toward the treeline, blade in hand.
Nothing moved. No sound. Just stillness, heavy and absolute.
It lasted three breaths. Then, as if a hand had been lifted from the world, the night sounds returned.
The dinner bell chimed once inside the manor.
I lowered my blade, but the weight in my chest didn't ease.
That silence… hadn't been empty.
Something had been there. And it had chosen to leave.