Clack!
Swish!
Thwack!
The sharp, resonant sounds of wooden swords rang through the training ground, echoing across the open air. Ever since dawn, the barracks had been alive with the relentless clash of practice blades, the sun already high and hot in the sky. Knights pushed themselves to the limit, their captains guiding each swing and thrust, while overseeing the rigorous drills. Leading them all was none other than the formidable Commander Sybil, his presence commanding respect and fear alike.
Across the field, Cassian and Sylas faced one another, locked in a tense sparring match.
Clack!
"Shit! You're impossible to bring down, Sylas!" Cassian grunted, his broad, sweat-slicked chest gleaming under the sunlight. He wore only black trousers and boots; the heat had stripped most of the men bare from the waist up, their skin glistening with exertion. Sylas mirrored him, muscles taut and sweat flicking into the air as he lunged, aiming to overpower Cassian. Both men were extraordinarily skilled, each move precise, each strike deliberate—proof of the rigorous training they had endured under the watchful eye of the commander.
Sylas lunged again, his wooden sword sweeping toward Cassian's waist with deadly intent.
Swish!
Cassian twisted effortlessly, dodging with fluid grace, then readied himself to strike in return. They charged simultaneously, wooden swords colliding with a sharp clack, the force reverberating through their arms. Cassian's blade swept toward Sylas's throat, while Sylas countered with a thrust aimed at Cassian's heart. For a moment, time seemed suspended—neither yielding, neither faltering. In the end, it was a perfect stalemate.
"Remarkable!" someone from the barracks exclaimed, awe in his voice.
"Indeed. They are an unbreakable pair," another added, murmurs of admiration spreading among the onlookers. The two men had proven themselves unbeatable in this contest of skill and endurance, drawing respect from even the hardened soldiers around them.
Commander Sybil stepped closer, eyes narrowed as he surveyed the pair, droplets of sweat running down their stern features. Cassian and Sylas stood panting, chests heaving, their muscles still coiled with energy.
"Is this all you can show me?" Sybil's voice cut through the air like a blade, cold and unyielding.
"Yes, sir," Cassian replied, trying—and failing—to mask the irritation coiling in his chest. He longed to retreat to the sanctuary of his chambers, to rest, yet his persistent, insistent mother had forced him into this grueling training. And worse still, Sylas and he were now under the direct scrutiny of Sybil himself, a fate Cassian had hoped to avoid after their last session with the commander—one which had nearly cost him his life.
"Easy for him to say, sitting there, doing nothing but nagging," Cassian thought bitterly, the memory of pain and exhaustion flashing in his mind.
Sybil stepped toward the wooden sword rack, black hair falling slightly over his fierce eyes. His usual training attire—black long sleeves, trousers, and boots—clung to him as he moved with quiet authority. Without hesitation, he coldly lifted a wooden sword and faced the two men, Cassian and Sylas.
"You do not yet understand true sparring, do you?" His gold eyes flicked between them. "Spar with me."
The words, clipped and deliberate, settled in their ears. Their eyes widened—not from shock, for it was not the first time they had faced him—but from a flicker of apprehension. Commander Sybil was testing their skill again, and the men in the barracks fell silent, eager to witness how the cold-hearted master, a veritable monster with a sword, would dominate the duo whom none had bested. Sybil's right hand gripped the wooden sword firmly, the left rested behind his back in a solitary, commanding pose.
"Let me test this so-called unbreakable duo," he said, smirking faintly, a mocking edge to his cold gaze.
Cassian's brow furrowed; he gritted his teeth, tightening his grip on his sword, chest rising and falling with exertion. Doubt flickered briefly—there had been no rest, no pause, and their stamina was tested. Sylas remained composed, posture rigid, but even beneath his calm exterior, unease coursed through him. The aura of his father, formidable and cold, weighed heavily, as it did on all who observed.
"So. Begin." Sybil's tone was icy, final.
Cassian and Sylas straightened immediately, muscles coiling in readiness. They had faced many knights, captains, and instructors, but Sybil's reputation set him apart. Even the air seemed to hold its breath as he raised his sword.
Then, with a sudden, fluid motion, Sybil lunged, wooden sword sweeping in a controlled, deadly arc.
Swish!
Clack!
Cassian barely blocked the strike, his arms trembling under the force, sword vibrating sharply against his grip. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of shock, fear, and frustration coursing through him. Every fibre of his body screamed to counter, to strike back, yet Sybil's movements were so fluid, so precise, that hesitation crept in. Sylas stumbled back beside him, narrowly avoiding a second, rapid thrust aimed at his side. Cassian's jaw tightened, teeth clenched, and a surge of determination flared in his chest—he would not let himself be humiliated. Every movement of Sybil's was effortless, almost cruel in its elegance, mocking the limits of their skill, daring him to keep up.
"You see," he said, twirling the sword lightly with his right hand, left still behind his back, "strength without control is nothing. Timing, balance, foresight—these define a true swordsman. Not brute force. Not arrogance."
Sylas tried a low sweep from the flank, aiming to catch Sybil off-guard. The commander bent his knees slightly, the motion almost imperceptible, letting the strike slide harmlessly past before countering in a swift, circular motion that forced Sylas back.
Swish!
Thwack!
"And you, Sylas," Sybil said, voice low, mocking, "so proud of your agility, yet careless. Every step you take betrays more than the enemy ever could. Watch. Learn. Execute with precision."
Cassian feinted high, then thrust low, attempting to anticipate Sybil's next move. But Sybil's eyes were unerring, stance flawless. He sidestepped with a sudden twist and swept his sword in a wide arc, tapping Cassian's shoulder with a sharp, controlled
clack!,
a quiet reminder of his superiority.
Every movement Sybil made was a study in elegance and power: a flick of the wrist, a controlled step, a pivot to redirect force, a feint to draw his opponents in. Cassian and Sylas lunged, dodged, and struck in rapid succession, yet each attempt was effortlessly countered.
"Focus. Feel the rhythm. Predict my motion," Sybil said, almost casually, sword dancing through the air—deflecting, tapping, guiding, controlling. Cassian swung wildly, frustration mounting, while Sylas's brow furrowed, concentration deep, only to be met with another flawless parry.
Thwack!
Swish!
Clack!
Finally, with a precise lunge, Sybil trapped both their blades in a single motion, stepping smoothly between them. He pressed just enough to unbalance them, and in an instant, both Cassian and Sylas were forced to the ground, momentum halted completely. Their muscles tensed from the rough impact, hearts racing, eyes wide as they stared up at the imposing figure above them.
"You see," Sybil said quietly, lowering his blade with calm, measured precision, "skill is not only in strength, but in timing, in control, and in understanding the flow of combat. No one here can challenge me—not yet."
The soldiers around them murmured in awe. Slowly, Cassian and Sylas rose, rubbing their shoulders, sweat glistening, admiration and frustration mixed with determination etched across their faces. They had been bested not by brute force, but by a master, a man whose sword moved as if it were a natural extension of his very body.
"Cassian and Sylas," Sybil said coldly, his silver eyes sharp and unyielding. Both men stiffened, alert instantly. "The future lies within you… you never know what it may demand from you in the near time." His gaze swept over them with an icy precision. "I push you to train harder, so you may protect yourselves from danger. That is all. The training is over."
With that, Sybil turned his back on the two exhausted men, leaving them staring after him, drenched in sweat and barely able to catch their breath. Only now did Cassian and Sylas realize that Sybil's words were not mockery, not a command, but a rare, serious piece of advice—not as a commander, but as a father. The threat hinted at was real, looming in the near future, and they had yet to understand what they might face.
Cassian and Sylas slumped onto a nearby bench, gulping down drinks like it was their first hydration in a week. Cassian rolled his shoulders, stretching them upside down, and muttered like a sulking child, "Damn! This is exactly why I hate training."
Sylas, in contrast, sat a little straighter, calmly wiping the sweat from his brow with a white towel, though a faint crease of unease remained in his jaw.
"Your Highness, and Captain… you're incredible. No one could spar the commander that long," Sebastian said, standing in front of them, admiration written across his face.
"If I were me," Cassian said, voice dripping with mock pride, "I'd much rather you face the commander instead of me. Lucky you, eh?"
Sebastian's dark skin glimmered with sweat as he scratched his beige hair, eyes widening. "Ah… eh… if I were in your position, I'd probably run. Sparring the commander? He's ruthless, that's all."
Cassian rolled his eyes dramatically, flopping back against the bench. He nudged Sylas with his elbow. "Anyway, Sylas… any idea why the commander decided to push us harder today? Seems… a little over the top, even for him."
Sylas took a slow sip of water, wiping his brow once more, his tone calm but thoughtful. "I don't know. But something tells me he wants us ready for whatever comes. There's… unease beneath this. Rarely does my father—Sybil—train with such seriousness. Usually, we manage on our own, or he allows a lighter pace. Today… it's different."
Cassian groaned, flopping forward on the bench again, letting his head nearly hit Sylas's shoulder. "Ugh… different or not, my shoulders hate him."
The two of them finally stood, stretching and groaning like overworked children, and began heading back to their chambers. There were other duties awaiting them besides training, but for now, all they wanted was a brief moment to recover—before the world demanded more.
Three days had passed in the home of Mrs Joana, Sylas's mother. She was sweeping the floor that morning, the soft swish of the broom filling the quiet house.
Knock.Knock, knock.
Someone rapped firmly on the door.
Joana paused, set the broom aside, and walked straight to the entrance. When she opened it, she was met by a neatly dressed messenger from the Household Roll.
"Does Elira live here?" the man asked.
"Ahmm… yes?" Joana replied, confusion written on her face.
"Is she here at the moment?"
"Wait, let me call her."
Joana left the messenger waiting by the doorway as she hurried upstairs to call for Elira. Hearing her name, Elira rushed down the stairs, her footsteps quick with nerves and curiosity.
"Oh—I'm Elira. What is your purpose for coming?" she asked softly, wondering why someone from the Household Roll would be looking for her.
The messenger opened his satchel and pulled something out, handing it to her.
Elira's eyes widened.
It was a medium-sized round token, beige in colour, marked with the emblem of the Royal Palace. Her heart fluttered wildly at the sight of it.
"Congratulations," the messenger said."You've been appointed as a household maid in the Royal Imperial Palace of Highthorne."