The group had sharpened over the years—combat and physical skills honed through daily regimens of blade work, foot drills, and bruising sparring sessions. Their steel training blades, whether dual small swords or single normal ones, rested in a neat pile near the courtyard's edge, collected earlier by older Initiates who now lingered as silent spectators. Most of the initiates could strike with intent now, their punches landing with force, their stances steady if not flawless. Yet, among them, gaps remained—some excelled with speed, others with raw strength, but few blended both. The Velta instructors, their white cloaks swaying as they paced, had drilled them into something resembling warriors, though the polish of achieving the rank of Velta still lay years ahead.
Today was no ordinary session. Lysara Veltharion, Grand Master of Legion VI and guardian of Saint Valens, had called them back to this courtyard to demonstrate their progress. At 36 now, her presence carried a quiet ferocity—her red cloak with its silver hem draped over her silver sleeveless top, the single normal-sized sword at her hip etched with crimson veins that seemed to pulse faintly. Her white hair, still cropped short and streaked with silver, framed a face more lined than it had been four years prior, the scar along her jaw a stark reminder of her battles. Her steel-gray eyes swept the group, unblinking, as she stood atop the ramparts, arms crossed, her role as overseer of these ceremonies a duty she'd taken since rising to the Council. Below, Voren—still lean, still stern, his sword on his right side—directed the Initiates with the same clipped authority, his gray eyes narrowed as he split them into pairs for another hand-to-hand tournament with the initiates from the other regions.
The matches began with a whistle, the courtyard erupting into controlled chaos. The children moved faster now, their strikes less wild, though still rough around the edges. A lanky boy named Taryn darted forward, his fist clipping another's shoulder before a clumsy kick sent him sprawling—better than four years ago, but not enough. A girl, Sira, shorter but wiry, grappled with her opponent, managing a solid shove that knocked the other child back, though she stumbled after, her balance faltering. The Velta aides, three of them now, circled with parchment in hand, their white cloaks brushing the dust as they scribbled notes, their murmurs a low hum beneath the grunts and thuds. The other Initiates watched from the sidelines, some cheering, others silent, their faces a mix of rivalry and fatigue.
Kael Veltharion stood among them, eight years old, his white hair longer now—swept back but falling into his brown eyes, damp with sweat from earlier drills. His frame had grown sinewy, his sharp features more defined, carrying the same piercing intensity that had marked him at four. His obsession hadn't wavered—every day since he could walk, he'd trained alone when the instructors dismissed them, shadowboxing in dim corners, perfecting forms until his muscles screamed. Grand Master was his beacon, and this courtyard was his proving ground. His hands flexed, calloused from years of gripping his dual steel swords, though they were bare now, resting with the others. He watched the matches with a predator's focus, already mapping his moves.
Voren called the pairs, and Kael's first opponent was a broad-shouldered boy named Lirren, stronger now but still sloppy. Lirren charged, fists swinging in wide arcs—Kael ducked, his smaller frame weaving beneath the blows, then snapped a fist into Lirren's gut. The boy doubled over, gasping, and Kael swept his legs out, dropping him to the dirt with a thud. The next was Sira, her speed improved—she darted in, aiming a quick jab, but Kael sidestepped, caught her arm, and flipped her over his hip. She hit the ground hard, wincing as she rolled away. One by one, he took them down—five matches, each a blur of precise dodges, sharp strikes, and calculated trips. His movements were fluid, almost effortless, his face a mask of concentration, not a bead of sweat breaking his brow.
The real test came with Jorin. Once a stocky, nervous four-year-old Kael had toppled in seconds, Jorin had grown into a formidable rival. At eight, he stood taller than Kael, his round face hardened by training, his white hair cropped close to his skull. His fists were meaty, his stance solid—he'd chosen a single normal sword as his weapon, and his hand-to-hand mirrored its power. Four years ago, Kael had beaten him easily; now, Jorin was the one the others whispered about, the one who'd spent hours building strength to match Kael's speed. The courtyard hushed as Voren paired them, the Initiates leaning in, the Velta aides pausing their notes.
The whistle blew, and Jorin moved first—a heavy lunge, his fist aiming for Kael's chest. Kael twisted aside, the blow grazing his tunic, and countered with a jab to Jorin's ribs. Jorin grunted but didn't falter, pivoting to swing again, this time catching Kael's shoulder with a glancing hit. The impact stung, but Kael's expression didn't shift—he ducked low, drove an elbow into Jorin's side, then hooked his ankle. Jorin stumbled, catching himself with a hand to the ground, and roared back with a shove that forced Kael to step back. For a moment, they circled—Jorin's power clashing with Kael's agility, dust kicking up around them. Then Kael struck: a feint to the left, a dodge under Jorin's next punch, and a swift kick to the knee. Jorin buckled, and Kael finished it—a palm strike to the chest that sent him sprawling, breathless, into the dirt.
The silence broke with scattered gasps, then applause from the Initiates—grudging from some, awed from others. Jorin coughed, pushing himself up, his glare meeting Kael's steady gaze. It hadn't been easy this time—Jorin had lasted nearly a minute, landing a hit—but Kael stood unruffled, his breathing even, his white hair barely mussed. Voren stepped forward, his stern face cracking with a rare nod. "Better than last time, both of you," he said, his growl aimed at Kael and Jorin alike. The Velta aides scribbled faster, one muttering, "He's a damn blade already," to the other, who nodded sharply.
Above, Lysara Veltharion watched it all from the ramparts, her red cloak a stark splash against the gray stone. She tracked Kael's every move. The way he'd turned Jorin's strength against him, the calm precision—it stirred a flicker of recognition in her, a mirror to her own early days. She uncrossed her arms, her scarred hand resting briefly on her sword's hilt, and her lips parted just enough to murmur something to herself—too quiet to carry. The Initiates below didn't see it, but Voren did, glancing up with a flicker of respect. Kael felt her stare, his own eyes lifting to meet hers for a heartbeat, and the weight of his ambition burned hotter. He turned away, fists tightening, already dissecting the fight in his mind—good, but not perfect. Not yet.
The tournament's dust settled over the courtyard, the rocky ground strewn with the scuff marks of fallen Initiates. The air buzzed with the low chatter of the children, now dispersing in clumps—some nursing bruises, others replaying their matches with exaggerated gestures. Voren had dismissed them with a curt nod, his white cloak trailing as he conferred with the Velta aides, their parchment now thick with notes. Above, Lysara's red cloak had vanished from the ramparts, her silent judgment complete, leaving the Initiates to their own devices under the gray Saint Valens sky. The clang of distant forges filtered through the claw-scarred walls, a steady heartbeat to the city's life beyond.
Kael Veltharion's off-white tunic clung to his sinewy frame, dust streaking the fabric, though his hands were steady, calloused fingers flexing as he replayed each fight in his mind. Jorin's hit to his shoulder lingered—a dull ache he cataloged as a flaw to fix. Grand Master. The words pulsed in his skull, a mantra unbroken by the day's victory. He didn't glance at the others, didn't join their chatter; he never had. Friends were a distraction, and Kael had no room for distractions.
Footsteps crunched behind him, light and quick, breaking his solitude. He turned his head just enough to see Sira approaching—shorter than him, wiry, her white hair pulled into a messy braid that bounced with each step. Her tunic was oversized, the hem dragging slightly, smudged with dirt from her fall in the tournament. At seven, her face was rounder than most, her green eyes bright with a warmth that clashed with the courtyard's grit. She'd fought well enough—quicker now, scrappy—but Kael had dropped her with ease, her grapple no match for his precision. Yet here she was, grinning, her hands clasped behind her back as she stopped a few feet away.
"That was amazing," Sira said, her voice clear and eager, cutting through the hum of the others. "I mean, the way you moved—like you knew exactly what everyone was going to do before they did it. Even Jorin! He's so strong now, and you just—" She mimicked his final palm strike, her small hand swiping the air with a dramatic flourish, then laughed, a sound bright and unburdened. "How do you do that?"
Kael's eyes flicked to her, then away, back to the stacked blades. He didn't answer at first, his lips a thin line, his posture stiff. Sira didn't falter—she stepped closer, tilting her head to catch his gaze, her braid swinging. "I've seen you training, you know. After Voren lets us go. You're always off by yourself, hitting those sacks or running laps. Every day. Don't you ever get tired?"
"Training's how you get better," Kael said, his voice low, flat, the words clipped like a blade's edge. He kept his eyes on the blades, their dull steel glinting faintly. "I don't stop."
Sira blinked, then grinned wider, undeterred by his curtness. "Well, it works! You beat everyone without even breathing hard. I thought I'd at least get you once—I'm faster now, you saw that, right? But you just slipped out like it was nothing." She rocked on her heels, her hands unclasping to gesture wildly. "I've been practicing too, you know. Not like you, but I've been trying to dodge better. Taryn says I'm too small to hit hard, but I think if I'm quick enough, it won't matter."
Kael's gaze shifted to her then, his red-brown eyes narrowing slightly—not in anger, but assessment. "You're faster," he said, the admission grudging but honest. "But you lean too far when you dodge. That's why you fell."
Sira's mouth dropped open, then snapped shut, her cheeks flushing pink. "Oh! I didn't even notice that. You saw it, though—of course you did." She laughed again, softer this time, and plopped down onto the ground beside him, crossing her legs. Dust puffed around her, but she didn't care, her green eyes fixed on him with unguarded awe. "You're always watching everything, aren't you? Like Voren, but… scarier. In a good way, I mean!"
He didn't sit, didn't soften, just stood there, his hands still at his sides. "I have to," he said, quieter now, almost to himself. "Grand Masters don't miss things."
Sira's grin faltered for a heartbeat, then brightened again, as if his seriousness was a puzzle she'd solve. "Grand Master, huh? That's what you want? I heard Jorin say he'd be one too, but he's all loud about it. You just… do it." She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands. "I think you'll get there. I mean, Lysara was watching you like you're already halfway there! Did you see her up there? She didn't even blink."
Kael's jaw tightened, his eyes flicking to the ramparts where Lysara had stood, her red cloak a memory against the stone. "She's a Grand Master," he said, the words heavy with intent. "I will be too."
Sira nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Yeah, you will. And I'll be there cheering when you get that red cloak—well, if I'm still around, anyway. Maybe I'll be a Velta by then, who knows?" She giggled, then patted the ground beside her. "You could sit, you know. Just for a minute. You won't lose your Grand Master-ness or anything."
He didn't move, his silence stretching, but Sira kept talking, undaunted. "I'm Sira, by the way. I know you're Kael—everyone knows you're Kael. You don't talk much, but that's okay. I talk enough for both of us. Like, did you see Taryn trip over his own feet? He's taller than all of us now, but he's still so clumsy. And Jorin—he was so mad when you beat him. I think he likes you, though, even if he won't say it."
Kael's brow twitched, the faintest crack in his mask. "He's a rival," he said, his voice steady but less sharp. "He's good. Not good enough."
Sira beamed, as if he'd handed her a gift. "See? You're not so quiet when you want to be. Jorin's tough, but you're tougher. I bet you two'll push each other all the way to the top." She paused, then added, softer, "You don't have to be alone doing it, though. I mean, I'm not as good as you, but I could help. Like, tell you when I lean too far or something."
For the first time, Kael looked at her fully, his red-brown eyes meeting her green ones. She didn't flinch, just smiled—a real smile, warm and open, not mocking or weak. He didn't sit, didn't smile back, but his fists unclenched, his shoulders easing just a fraction. "Maybe," he said, the word grudging, almost lost in the courtyard's hum. "If you keep up."
Sira's laugh rang out, bright and clear, and she hopped to her feet, brushing dust off her tunic. "Deal! I'll train harder—maybe not as hard as you, because you're crazy, but harder. You'll see!" She stepped back, still grinning, then waved as she turned to rejoin the others. "See you tomorrow, Kael!"
He watched her go, her braid bouncing, her voice already calling out to Taryn about his tumble. The courtyard's noise swallowed her, but her words lingered—unwanted, yet not entirely dismissed. Kael turned back to the blades, his mind ticking over Jorin's hit, Lysara's stare, and now Sira's chatter. Grand Master remained his focus, but for the first time, a thread of something else—small, untested—wove into it. He shook it off, fists tightening again, and stepped toward the pile to retrieve his swords. There was work to do.
Kael gripped the hilts of his small blades, their dull edges catching the faint gray light as he raised them. The courtyard had emptied now—only the wind moved, whistling through the broken stone. He slashed once, twice, a silent rhythm to steady his breath. The air around him still held the echo of Sira's laughter, faint but stubborn, threading between the beats of steel.
Then he froze.
A shiver crawled up his arm—not from cold, but from something else. A sound, distant and strange, pulsed through the stones beneath his feet. Faint. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat too deep below the surface to belong to any man. His eyes darted across the courtyard. Nothing. The forges had gone quiet, the city beyond unusually still.
He waited, muscles coiled, listening.
The pulse faded.
Kael's brow furrowed. He exhaled slowly, lowering the blades, the tension melting into determination again. Yet, for a reason he couldn't name, he glanced at the claw-marked wall at the far end of the courtyard—ancient gouges that had long since turned black with age. In that moment, it almost seemed as if the stone itself was breathing.
He turned away, unaware that the faint vibration in the earth pulsed once more—steady, growing stronger, deeper under the foundations of Saint Valens.
The old wounds of the world were stirring again.