Six months into the trials, everything changed.
The morning bell tolled as always, but the moment it faded, a different tension seized the dormitory complex. Squires moved with unusual urgency, their conversations hushed but intense, passing the word that had spread like wildfire through whispered conversations the night before.
Today was the day they would begin awakening their sword spirits.
Not the flickering demonstrations they'd watched from instructors' blades for six months. Not theoretical lectures about spirit colors and their meanings. But true awakening—their own inner fire made manifest in steel, the transformation from soldier to something more.
Adrian felt the weight of it as he dressed, securing his armor with automatic precision. Six months of careful control, of deliberate mediocrity mixed with strategic excellence, of hiding his crimson flame beneath layers of deception. Today, that might all end. Because sword spirit awakening wasn't something that could be faked or hidden—it was a fundamental expression of self, visible to anyone with eyes.
But perhaps... perhaps there was a way.
White flame was the foundation, the base that every knight began with before their true color emerged. If he could manifest only that foundation, suppress the crimson that burned beneath, he might buy himself more time. Weeks, maybe months, before his true spirit would be expected to show its color.
"You ready for this?" Edric asked, his voice tight with nervous energy as he fumbled with his sword belt. His hands shook slightly—not from fear of combat, but from anticipation of something unknown.
"As ready as I can be," Adrian said, which was both truth and evasion.
Finn sat on his cot, methodically checking his blade despite having already inspected it twice. His dark eyes were distant, contemplative. "They say not everyone awakens on the first attempt. That some take weeks, even months. That a few never manage it at all."
"Then they wash out," Brann said flatly, his shoulder finally healed enough to use both arms again. "Six months of training means nothing if you can't light your blade. That's what I heard."
The brutal reality settled over them like a shroud. Awakening wasn't optional. It was the threshold between those who could become knights and those who couldn't. Fail here, and everything—every drill, every patrol, every wound—became meaningless.
They filed out into the predawn darkness with the other squires, boots crunching on frost-covered ground. The East Grounds had been transformed overnight. The training dummies were gone, the sparring rings cleared. Instead, the space had been arranged almost ceremonially—concentric circles marked in white chalk on the packed earth, with a central platform where the senior instructors waited.
Hundreds of squires gathered in formation, their breath steaming in the cold air, their faces reflecting the same mixture of anticipation and dread. Six months had winnowed their numbers. Of the nearly four hundred who'd registered, perhaps three hundred remained. The rest had quit, failed, or died during missions beyond the walls.
Those who remained stood straighter now, moved with more confidence, bore the scars and bearing of warriors rather than children. But today, none of that mattered. Today, they started from zero again.
Sir Varic stood at the center of the grounds on the raised platform, his lantern-staff planted firm in the stone, its carved runes glowing with steady white light that pushed back the darkness. Around him stood the other senior instructors in a semicircle—Knight-Commander Sylara with her scarred face and greatsword wreathed in green flame, Instructor Halbrecht bearing a longsword that crackled with blue lightning, the weathered veteran whose name Adrian still didn't know holding daggers that burned with pure white fire.
A demonstration of what awaited those who succeeded. A reminder of what they were all reaching toward.
Silence fell as Varic raised one hand, the simple gesture commanding absolute attention.
"Six months you have trained," his voice rolled across the assembled squires like distant thunder, carrying despite not being shouted. "Six months of breaking your bodies in the yards, sharpening your minds in the lecture halls, hardening your spirits on the streets and beyond the walls. You have learned discipline. You have learned endurance. You have learned what it means to bleed for something greater than yourselves."
He paused, his scarred face grave in the lantern light, shadows making his features look carved from stone.
"But until today, you have been soldiers. Skilled, perhaps. Disciplined, certainly. Blooded, most of you. But not knights. Not truly. Because a knight is not defined by the steel in his hand, but by the spirit that burns within it."
He drew his own sword—a simple longsword, worn from decades of use, bearing no decoration except the patina of time and battle. As it cleared the sheath, white flame erupted along its length, burning bright and steady, casting sharp shadows across the gathered squires.
"This is sword spirit," Varic said, holding the blade aloft. "The manifestation of your will, your determination, your very soul given form in the weapon you carry. It is what allows a knight to face demons and monsters that would shatter ordinary steel. It is what separates you from common soldiers. It is what makes you more."
He lowered the blade, the flame dimming but not extinguishing.
"Every knight begins with white flame—the foundation, the pure expression of awakened spirit. This is what you will manifest today, if you succeed. Over time, with growth and experience, that flame will take on its true color. Green for those who protect and endure. Blue for those who strike swift and true. Yellow for the rare souls touched by light itself. And black..." His expression darkened. "Black is the flame of demons and those who have been corrupted beyond redemption. If you see black flame, you kill its bearer without hesitation or mercy."
The weight of those words settled over the squires like a physical presence.
"Today, you will attempt your first awakening," Varic continued. "Most of you will fail. This is expected. Sword spirit does not come easily—it requires you to find something within yourself, something deep and fundamental, and force it outward into the steel you carry. Some of you will succeed today. Others will take days, weeks, even months. A few..." He let the sentence hang. "A few will never manage it. And for them, the trials end here."
Murmurs rippled through the formation, quickly silenced by the instructors' sharp gazes.
"The process is simple in theory, difficult in practice," Varic said. "You will stand in the circles. You will draw your blade. You will focus your will, your determination, everything you are, into that steel. You will demand that it respond. And if your spirit is strong enough, if your will is unbreakable enough, the flame will answer."
He gestured to the circles marked on the ground. "Take your positions. Space yourselves evenly. When I give the command, begin."
The squires moved in organized chaos, filtering into the circles. Adrian found himself positioned near the center, Edric to his left, Finn to his right. Brann was several rows ahead, bouncing slightly on his feet, nervous energy evident in every movement.
Around them, hundreds of squires drew their swords—the real steel they'd trained with for the past three months, not the wooden practice blades of earlier training. Metal rasped free of leather sheaths, creating a sound like wind through reeds.
Adrian's hand wrapped around his sword's grip, the familiar weight settling into his palm. He drew it slowly, holding the blade before him, and focused inward.
This would be the hardest thing he'd ever done—not awakening his spirit, but restraining it. Letting only the foundation show while keeping his true nature buried beneath.
"BEGIN!" Varic's command cracked across the grounds like a whip.
Three hundred squires closed their eyes and focused, their faces contorting with effort, their hands white-knuckled on their hilts.
Adrian closed his eyes and reached inward, to the core of his being where his power lived. The crimson flame was there, always there, burning with the fury of three hundred years of warfare and demonic strength. It surged toward his call like a hound released from its kennel, eager, powerful, unstoppable.
No.
Adrian clamped down on it with iron will, forcing it back, building walls of mental discipline around it. Not you. Not yet. Not ever, if he could help it.
He reached past the crimson, searching for something deeper, more fundamental. The foundation that existed beneath all spirit colors, the base flame that every soul possessed. It was harder to find, buried beneath the overwhelming presence of his true power, but it was there.
White. Pure. Simple.
Around him, squires strained visibly. Some gritted their teeth, veins standing out on their necks. Others whispered prayers or encouragements to themselves. A few literally shook with effort, pouring everything they had into forcing their spirit into cold steel.
Nothing happened.
Seconds stretched into minutes. The silence grew heavy, oppressive, broken only by ragged breathing and occasional frustrated curses.
Then, like stars emerging in twilight, the first flames flickered to life.
A girl three rows ahead gasped as her blade suddenly glowed with faint white light—weak, guttering, but undeniably present. Around her, other squires redoubled their efforts, inspired by her success.
More flames appeared. Slowly at first, then with increasing frequency. White fire bloomed across the training grounds in scattered patches, each awakening drawing cheers from nearby squires and sharp nods from the instructors.
Adrian felt the sweat bead on his forehead despite the cold, not from the effort of awakening but from the strain of suppression. The crimson flame fought against his control, demanding release, wanting to burn in its natural state. It took everything he had to keep it caged while simultaneously drawing forth the white foundation.
Edric's face was red with effort, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. His blade remained stubbornly dark. "Come on," he whispered. "Come on."
Finn's approach was different—calmer, more meditative, his breathing deep and controlled. But his blade too remained unlit.
Brann roared with effort, his whole body tensing, and for just an instant his sword flickered with the faintest hint of light before guttering out. He cursed loudly enough to draw a sharp rebuke from a nearby instructor.
Adrian let minutes pass. Let others succeed around him. Let the instructors see him "trying" and "struggling" just like the majority of squires. His face contorted with apparent effort—though the effort was the opposite of what they thought. Not awakening, but containing.
Then, when perhaps thirty or forty blades had awakened across the grounds, when the initial wave had passed and attention had diffused slightly, Adrian took a deep breath.
And let go. Carefully. Precisely. Only the white. Only the foundation.
His sword erupted in flame.
White fire, pure and steady, blazed along the blade's length—exactly as it should, exactly as Varic had described. The foundation flame, the base that all knights began with. Clean. Normal. Expected.
Around him, squires cheered. Edric's head snapped up, relief and congratulation warring on his face. Finn nodded with satisfaction, as if he'd expected nothing less.
But beneath that white flame, visible only to Adrian's inner sight, the crimson coiled and writhed like a living thing. Pressed against his control, testing his limits, searching for any crack in his willpower that would let it burst free.
He held it. Forced it down. Let only the white show, burning steady and unremarkable along his blade.
"Well done, Blackthorn!" an instructor called out, making a note on his tablet. Just another successful awakening. Nothing special. Nothing unusual.
Perfect.
Adrian let the flame burn for a few more seconds, then allowed it to fade, his breathing heavy as if the effort had exhausted him. He opened his eyes, letting relief show on his face—relief that wasn't entirely feigned. The strain of suppression was real, perhaps more taxing than any physical training had been.
"You did it," Edric said, grinning despite his own blade remaining dark. "Gods, Adrian, you actually—"
"Keep trying," Adrian said quietly. "You'll get it. Just... focus on what drives you. What you're fighting for."
It was genuine advice, even if Adrian's own experience bore no relation to what Edric was attempting.
The ceremony continued around them. More blades lit with white flame—some strong, some weak, all welcomed with encouragement from the instructors. Those who failed were told to keep trying, that they'd have more opportunities.
By the end of the hour, perhaps a third of the squires had achieved some level of awakening. Edric was not among them, his frustration evident as his blade remained stubbornly dark despite his best efforts. Finn had managed a brief flicker before it died. Brann had succeeded, his white flame burning with surprising strength, earning nods of approval from Sir Varic himself.
As the squires were dismissed to rest and recover, Adrian felt the weight of what he'd accomplished—and what it had cost. The crimson still pressed against his control, a constant pressure that required vigilance to maintain. Every moment his blade was drawn, every time he accessed his spirit, he'd have to perform this same balancing act.
Awakening white had bought him time. But it hadn't solved his problem.
It had only made the cage more complex. More exhausting. More precarious.
"Good work today, Blackthorn," Sir Varic said as Adrian passed, his scarred face neutral but his eyes sharp. "Your spirit awakened cleanly. We'll be watching your development with interest."
"Thank you, sir," Adrian said, keeping his expression appropriately humble.
But inside, his mind was already racing. Watching his development. Of course they would be. They'd be looking for his color to emerge, expecting green or blue or perhaps even yellow given his combat effectiveness.
What would they do when it never came? When the white persisted month after month, year after year, because he couldn't dare let the crimson show?
Or worse—what would happen when his control finally slipped?
As Third Squad walked back toward their dormitory, Edric's frustration palpable, Finn's quiet contemplation evident, Brann's excited chatter about his successful awakening filling the air, Adrian remained silent.
He'd won today's battle. Manifested white instead of crimson. Appeared normal instead of monstrous.
But the war was far from over. And every day, the strain of maintaining this deception would grow heavier.
The question wasn't if his true nature would be revealed.
Only when. And whether he'd survive the aftermath.