At the Training Camp Outside the Capital
After the bouts of Milo versus Kaizlan, and Eiron against Toren, a restless murmur spread through the yard. All eyes turned toward Serin. It was her first match inside the circle, and though she was not one for laughter or idle words, she had gained a quiet reputation among the recruits: "She notices what others miss."
Her opponent, taller and broader in the shoulders, tightened the straps of his training armor with visible hesitation.
Captain Raun's voice cut across the field:
— "Prepare!"
Serin raised her practice blade with ease, her grip steady, her eyes fixed not on her opponent's chest but on his feet. She made no sound—no shout, not even a breath audible.
— "Begin!"
The young man charged first, a sweeping strike from overhead. Serin stepped back exactly one pace, letting the blow whistle past her as if it were nothing but air. In the same instant, she slid a clean strike toward his exposed arm. It barely grazed, but had it been real steel, it would have drawn blood deep.
Gasps broke from the onlookers.
One whispered:
— "She moved only once… and his attack was already broken."
Flustered, the boy launched into a flurry of blows. Serin shifted only by half-steps, angles precise, never overreaching. When he stumbled, just for a breath, she set her wooden blade against his throat.
Silence fell.
Raun's voice declared:
— "Victor: Serin."
But she did not raise her hand or bask in triumph. She lowered the blade at her side, her tone flat:
— "The fight ended the moment he exposed his rear foot."
From the edge of the circle Milo laughed:
— "Even watching, I didn't see that!"
Yet Serin's gaze held no humor. She seemed to be teaching herself as much as anyone else.
In the Capital — Council Chamber of the Imperial Court
At the same hour, rain tapped lightly against the palace windows. A cluster of nobles sat around a long table. Among them, an elder of House Altarin, a family of immense political weight.
His voice rang sharp:
— "Rumors of a northern alliance spread like fire. If the court offers no response, the people will treat whispers as truth."
One courtier replied uneasily:
— "But the Emperor has issued no statement."
The elder smiled, bitter and knowing:
— "In politics, silence cuts deeper than words. Leave it long enough, and silence becomes admission."
In the corner sat Elyan Gryphon, cloaked in the quiet dignity of his bloodline. He did not speak, but his eyes followed every exchange, storing each word as though he meant to use them when the time was right.
Back at the Training Camp
By evening, when the matches had ended, Captain Raun stood before the assembled recruits. His voice carried like steel drawn from a sheath:
— "You have reached the end of the first stage of training. What I saw today proves some of you hold true talent. But hear this—talent without discipline is a blade without a hilt."
His gaze swept across Kaizlan, Milo, Serin, Eiron, and Toren.
— "Tomorrow begins the next stage. I will not explain it now… You will discover it yourselves at first light."
The words hung heavy, half promise, half warning. In every chest, unease mingled with a quiet fire of anticipation.