The Sanctum's training yard was alive with the sound of clashing steel and bursting mana.
Sunlight slanted across the scarred stone floor, catching on chips left by countless duels. Apprentices shouted as they sparred, some stumbling under the weight of wooden swords, others casting flickering bolts of fire and water that fizzled before impact. It was chaos wrapped in discipline, a place where weakness was exposed without mercy.
Elira stood among them, her wooden sword slick with sweat, palms blistered. The ache in her shoulders was constant now, like iron shackles pressing her down. And yet she raised the blade again, because the voice in front of her demanded it.
"Again."
Darius's voice was fire through smoke — rough, commanding, without a shred of patience. He stood tall in his black cloak, ember-light smoldering faintly at his fingertips. His eyes glimmered like burning coals beneath shadow.
Elira shifted into stance, but her arms trembled. Before she could correct herself, a sharp burst of water slammed into her side. She stumbled, coughing, her braid falling loose over her shoulder.
"Pathetic," Darius muttered. "If you can't stay standing after a splash, you'll never survive a real fight."
From the edge of the yard, Selene sighed. "Ease up. She's not a soldier yet."
Her voice was cool, calm — like frost settling over restless flames. Selene's pale hair shone under the sun, and at her fingertips, filaments of ice and light braided into crystalline vines before dissolving into air. Her every movement was deliberate, her control absolute.
Elira forced herself upright, clutching the wooden hilt tighter. "I'll… try again."
Darius smirked faintly. "Try harder. Fire and shadow won't wait for you to catch your breath."
Every day was the same.
Mornings began with sword drills until her arms screamed. Afternoons with Selene left her drenched in failed spells, mana sputtering out like broken sparks. Evenings, when most recruits collapsed into bed, she remained alone in the yard, dragging her body through more practice until the moon rose.
But slowly — painfully slowly — something began to shift.
Selene drilled her in the art of protection. She wove domes of light and ordered Elira to push against them, to find her own weight. At first, Elira's wind scattered like a child's breath against glass. But repetition forged understanding. After a week, she felt it: a pressure, invisible yet heavy, her wind straining against Selene's barrier like a storm pressing on a wall.
"Better," Selene murmured, lips curving in the faintest smile. "Wind doesn't only move. It carries weight. Remember that."
Darius, by contrast, was relentless. He conjured searing fire that forced her to scatter it with sudden gales. He raised waves of water that drenched her until she learned to breathe through pressure, to sense the rhythm of mana in her lungs. He offered no comfort, only command. But in his cruelty, Elira felt herself being carved sharper, like metal under hammer.
At night, she collapsed in her quarters, staring at the moon through the window. Her arms trembled, her chest burned, but her voice whispered into the dark:
I won't fall behind. I can't.
Two weeks passed.
Her body grew harder, movements steadier. She discovered how to lace water into her sword's arc, how to let grass mana bloom at her feet to anchor her stance, how to shape light into a shield that lasted more than a heartbeat. Each success was fragile, fleeting — but it was more than she had days before.
Still, wind remained distant. It was hers alone, without a teacher. She felt it at the edge of hearing, in the breath of leaves and the stir of night air. But when she reached, it slipped through her fingers.
It gnawed at her. The element she first awakened, the one that had shielded Rho in the forest, was now the one she couldn't grasp.
One night, restless, Elira returned to the empty yard. Moonlight washed the stones in silver. She tightened her braid, gripped the wooden sword, and closed her eyes.
Rho wanted to be a magic swordsman. She believed in me. If I can't even reach the path she dreams of… what am I doing here?
Her chest tightened. She drew a long breath, reaching deep. The air stirred faintly, brushing her cheeks. This time, she didn't chase it. She listened.
Her heart matched its rhythm. Her pulse aligned with the whisper of the night. She lifted her blade.
"Breeze Edge!"
The name burst from her lips before thought.
Air sharpened. It coiled around the blade, slicing forward in a shimmering crescent. The strike carved a thin scar across the wooden dummy before fading.
Elira froze, staring. It wasn't much — a shallow line, weaker than any flame or light shield she'd seen from others. But it was hers. Sword and wind, joined as one.
She lowered the blade, laughter bubbling up, unsteady but real. Tears stung her eyes.
"I… I did it."
The next morning, she hurried to the yard, eager to show them. But as she approached, she slowed. Voices carried across the stone, hushed yet clear.
"Two months," Darius said, his tone clipped. "The border won't hold if we delay. Orders are absolute."
Selene's reply was cool, with the faintest trace of regret. "And the girl? She's only begun to stand. Leaving now…"
"She'll either rise or break," Darius cut her off. "Coddling won't change that."
Elira's heart pounded. She stepped closer, unable to stop herself. They turned toward her, already aware.
Selene's gaze softened. "Elira. The Sanctum has called us to the frontier. We leave tomorrow. The mission may last two months, perhaps more."
Her throat tightened. "Two months?"
Selene nodded. "This isn't the end. You've grown more than you realize. Continue. Train. And when we return, we will see how far you've come."
Darius crossed his arms, ember-light flickering at his cloak's edge. "Don't waste it. If you're still crawling when we come back, you're not worth forging."
The words stung, but beneath them she heard something else — not dismissal. Expectation.
Elira clenched her fists around the wooden hilt. "I'll prove it. When you return… I won't be the same."
Selene's lips curved into the faintest smile. "That's the spirit."
That night, Elira stood once more in the silent yard. The wind curled around her braid, brushing her cheek like a whisper. She lifted her sword toward the moon.
"Two months," she whispered. "When you return… I'll be ready."
The breeze circled her blade, faint but steady. For the first time, she didn't feel like a child chasing knights. She felt like a knight in the making — fragile, still untested, but burning with a promise only she could fulfill.