The smoke of the funeral pyres still lingered in memory like a stain that wouldn't wash clean, but the life of a squire allowed little time for grief. One week had passed since flames carried Brann and the fallen knights to whatever awaited beyond, and the academy had returned to its relentless rhythm with barely a pause for breath. The tournament loomed closer with every sunrise, and each day carried with it a heavier urgency—not just to excel, but to prove that those who died hadn't sacrificed themselves for nothing.
Morning drills came first, as they always did. Rows of squires lined the main courtyard, blades flashing in arcs of practice as instructors barked corrections that cut sharper than any steel. Sweat darkened tunics despite the cool morning air. Dirt clung to boots and knees. Bruises bloomed across bodies like dark flowers as the training pressed harder than it had before the ambush.
Everyone felt it—the increased intensity, the sharper edge to every exercise. The instructors were pushing them, preparing them not just for tournament success but for the reality that demons could reach this far into the kingdom's heart. That blood anima wasn't just theory anymore. That squires died when they weren't ready.
Adrian trained with his usual measured restraint, his movements flawless but never excessive. He cut through drills as though his body had been born to the blade—which, in a sense, three centuries of demonic existence had ensured. But his thoughts were elsewhere, always elsewhere. Watching. Weighing. Measuring the growth of those around him with eyes that had seen armies rise and fall.
It was Edric who caught his attention first.
The farmer's son had once been awkward with a blade, shoulders too loose, footwork too heavy, compensating with raw strength where technique should have been. But now... now there was something different. Something hardened. His strikes still lacked the polish of noble-born squires who'd trained since childhood, but his persistence made up for technical deficiency. He pressed forward again and again, sweat pouring down his brow, refusing to yield even as his sparring partner—a boy from Silverkeep with three years more experience—knocked him to the ground repeatedly.
When the instructor barked for them to switch partners, Edric staggered up, dirt clinging to his cheek, blood trickling from a split lip, and demanded another round.
His opponent laughed, thinking it bravado. "You sure, farm boy? I can keep this up all day."
Edric's green eyes burned. "So can I."
And he did. Every fall only hardened his resolve. Every strike that landed on him seemed to hone his edge sharper. His blade rang out—not elegant, not refined, but determined. Like the stubborn resilience of fields that grew despite drought, despite flood, despite everything nature threw at them.
Adrian almost smiled. He doesn't know how to quit. That's worth more than half the technique these nobles have.
And then there was Finn.
The fisherman's son who'd once fought with analytical precision but underlying doubt now carried himself with different energy entirely. Ever since the night he'd manifested yellow flame—since he'd seen what blood anima could do and discovered he held the power to counter it—Finn had walked with quiet conviction that transformed his entire bearing.
His strikes were sharper now, each one placed with purpose rather than just mathematical probability. His stance was surer, rooted not just in physical balance but in belief. When he raised his practice sword, it was no longer the uncertain grip of someone calculating odds of success. It was the steady hold of someone who knew his power had meaning.
During sparring, Finn faced two opponents at once—a drill typically reserved for advanced students. Their blades hammered against him in coordinated assault, forcing him backward across the courtyard stones. But his feet didn't falter. He endured each strike with grim resolve, his parries cleaner than they'd been even a week ago, his counters swifter. When one opponent overextended, Finn's riposte cracked the boy's guard wide open with a technique so precise it drew surprised shouts from watching squires.
The instructor—grizzled Instructor Halbrecht, who rarely praised anyone—lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. Which, from him, was practically a standing ovation.
Finn's chest heaved, sweat dripping into his eyes, stinging. Yet he raised his blade again, facing both opponents who now looked considerably less confident. "Again," he said, voice rough but steady.
There was no flare of yellow sword spirit here in the training yard. No visible manifestation to prove what he'd awakened. But Adrian could sense it all the same—something in Finn had fundamentally changed. A will forged in fire and blood, hidden for now beneath foundation-level white flame, but waiting. Growing. Preparing to blaze when circumstances demanded.
Edric, watching from the sidelines as he caught his breath, clenched his jaw and stepped up for his next bout with renewed determination. His opponent—a cocky Ashbourne squire—smirked as though victory was already assured.
That smirk lasted approximately fifteen seconds.
Edric's relentless drive pushed him further than technique alone should have allowed. Blow after blow rained down on him, his body battered, arms screaming with fatigue. Yet his determination refused to bend. Every time he was knocked down, he rose again, earning murmurs of respect even from squires who'd once mocked him as nothing but a farmer's son playing at warrior.
By the end of the drill, Edric was bruised and trembling with exhaustion, but his eyes carried the same unyielding fire as Finn's. The Ashbourne squire, meanwhile, looked like he'd just gone three rounds with someone twice his skill level.
Because in a way, he had. He'd faced someone who simply wouldn't break.
The day did not relent after morning drills. Strategy lectures followed, then weapons maintenance, then afternoon combat training that focused on group tactics. By the time squires stumbled into the mess hall for dinner, exhaustion etched every face, darkened every eye.
Yet even then, Adrian noticed how Finn and Edric carried themselves differently than the others. Where most collapsed into benches with groans of relief, they stood a little taller. Moved with more purpose. Ate with focus rather than mindless shoveling of food.
They were becoming something more.
Later, after the dinner rush and evening duties, Adrian found the two of them on the barracks steps, their swords resting across their knees. The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and red that reminded Adrian too much of funeral pyres. But Finn and Edric seemed to see something else in that sunset—possibility, perhaps. Or purpose.
Edric broke the silence first, his voice rough from a day of shouting and exertion. "When the tournament comes... we can't just scrape by. Can't just survive our matches." He looked at his calloused hands, farmer's hands that were slowly becoming warrior's hands. "We have to stand out. For Brann. For everyone who didn't make it back. For ourselves."
Finn nodded, his gaze distant but unwavering. "We will. I won't waste what I've been given. The yellow flame—I still don't fully understand it, but it's there. Even if no one else can see it yet, I can feel it. Waiting."
Edric gave him a sidelong look. "Then let it carry you forward when the time comes. And if you fall before then—" He smiled slightly, though it was tired. "Rise again. That's what Brann would've done. That's what we do now."
Finn's jaw tightened, and he nodded once, the gesture carrying more weight than words.
Adrian leaned back against the stone wall, letting them have this moment without his interference. His gray eyes caught the dying sun, and he thought about what he was witnessing. These weren't just boys processing trauma anymore. They were becoming warriors—tempered by fire, hardened by loss, driven by purpose deeper than personal glory.
Brann's death wasn't in vain, he thought, and felt some small measure of the crushing guilt ease slightly. Not if it forges them into something stronger. Not if his sacrifice becomes the foundation they build themselves on.
Night fell over the academy, but the training didn't truly end for everyone. Inside the barracks, while others snored away exhaustion, Adrian lay on his bunk and watched through half-closed eyes as Finn and Edric continued their private work.
Edric drilled footwork endlessly in the narrow space between bunks, moving with exaggerated slowness to embed muscle memory, his practice sword held steady despite arms that must have felt like lead. Refusing to let his body fall back into old habits. Refusing to accept that farm-boy strength was his ceiling.
Finn knelt by his bunk, whispering what might have been prayers or might have been tactical analysis—with him it could honestly be either. Then he rose to shadow-spar in the darkness, his strikes clean and controlled even when no one was watching. Especially when no one was watching. Practicing not for approval but for excellence itself.
Adrian watched from his bed, silent, unseen in the darkness. He let them have their moment of private dedication. Let them believe no one saw their extra effort.
But he saw. And he understood what it meant.
The silence that settled over the barracks eventually wasn't heavy with grief this time. It was steady. Resolute. The tournament loomed like a storm on the horizon—less than two months now, close enough to feel the pressure building.
But for the first time since that bloody night when demons used blood anima and Brann charged to his death, Finn and Edric felt ready to face what was coming.
Not prepared—none of them were truly prepared for what the tournament would bring, what challenges awaited.
But ready. Ready to stand. Ready to fight. Ready to prove that survival meant something more than just being the ones left alive.
And Adrian, watching them in the darkness with eyes that held three centuries of experience and recent weeks of genuine friendship, felt something unexpected stirring in his borrowed chest.
Pride.
Not the calculating satisfaction of a demon prince seeing useful tools sharpen themselves. But genuine pride in young warriors choosing to become more than their circumstances demanded. Choosing growth over grief. Choosing strength over surrender.
It was a feeling he'd almost forgotten existed.
And it made him wonder, not for the first time, if his three hundred years of demonic existence had been preparation not for conquest or revenge, but for this. For standing witness to humanity at its best. For protecting these moments of transformation when boys became warriors not through titles or ceremonies, but through sheer stubborn refusal to break.
The thought should have troubled him.
Instead, it felt almost like peace.