Kael woke to darkness and the sound of steel singing through air toward his head.
Instinct born from two months of brutal training threw him sideways off his cot. The blade cleaved through the space where his neck had been, embedding itself in the stone wall with a crack that echoed through the barracks. Kael rolled to his feet, calling his power, silver flames wreathing his hands as he faced his attacker.
Lyra stood in the doorway, another sword already in hand, her expression coldly assessing. "Better. Last month you wouldn't have moved in time. But you're still thinking too much, relying on magic when steel would serve you better."
"You could have killed me!" Kael's heart hammered against his ribs.
"If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. This was a test." She tossed him a training sword. "Now come at me. Let's see if you've learned anything or if you're still just a farmer playing at war."
Kael caught the sword, feeling the familiar weight settle into his grip. Two months. Two months of training from dawn until well past dusk, his body pushed beyond exhaustion, his mind forced to absorb tactics, history, and the terrible intricacies of wielding ancient magic. Two months of falling, bleeding, failing, and getting back up to try again.
He'd lost twenty pounds of farm softness and gained muscle that still ached from yesterday's sparring session. His hands were callused from weapon work, his mind sharp from tactical lessons with Commander Theron, and his magic... his magic had grown in ways both thrilling and terrifying.
"Thinking again," Lyra said, and lunged.
Kael moved without conscious thought, parrying her strike and countering with a riposte that actually forced her to give ground. Her eyes widened fractionally—the closest thing to approval he'd seen from her—before she pressed the attack with renewed intensity.
They fought in the pre-dawn darkness, steel ringing against steel. Kael's muscles screamed protest, but his body knew the movements now, had been drilled in them until they became instinct. Block, parry, counter. Circle left to avoid the wall. Watch her eyes, not her blade. Look for the opening.
There. A fraction of an inch too much extension on her thrust.
Kael swept her blade aside and closed the distance, his training sword coming to rest against her throat. They froze, both breathing hard, sweat running down their faces despite the morning chill.
"Not bad," Lyra said quietly. "For a farmer."
Kael lowered his sword, a grin tugging at his lips. "Did you just compliment me?"
"Don't let it go to your head. You still have a dozen bad habits that would get you killed in real combat." But there was something different in her voice now—not warmth exactly, but a grudging respect. "Get dressed. Commander Theron wants to see you before breakfast."
She left without another word, taking her swords with her. Kael stood alone in the barracks, his grin fading as he looked at the blade still embedded in the wall where his head had been minutes before.
This was his life now. Tests that could kill him. Training that pushed him to the edge of breaking. And the constant, gnawing awareness that no matter how much he learned, it might not be enough.
He pulled on his training leathers and made his way through the pre-dawn camp toward Commander Theron's quarters. The old soldier had been his primary instructor in strategy and leadership, lessons that often felt more like interrogations.
"Enter," Theron's voice called before Kael could knock.
The Commander's quarters were sparse—a bed, a desk covered in maps, and weapons hung on every wall like devotional objects. Theron stood at his desk, studying a map of the realm with his one good eye. The scarred side of his face was turned toward Kael, a constant reminder of the price of failure.
"Lyra says you're improving," Theron said without preamble. "That's concerning."
"Concerning?" Kael frowned. "I thought progress was the goal."
"Progress means you're almost ready for the next phase of your training. And the next phase..." Theron turned to face him fully. "Tell me what you know about the Shadowbound."
"They're soldiers corrupted by dark magic. Malkor's primary military force. Stronger than normal men, harder to kill, and completely loyal to him."
"Correct. But incomplete. The Shadowbound aren't just corrupted—they're reforged. Their souls are stripped away and replaced with something else, something that lives in the spaces between light and dark. Kill their bodies and the shadow remains, seeking a new host."
Kael felt cold understanding dawn. "You want me to fight them."
"I want you to hunt them. There's a Shadowbound patrol that passes within five miles of here every three weeks. They're tracking something in the highlands—probably deserters or refugees. Next week, you're going to intercept them."
"Alone?"
"With Lyra and a small strike team. But yes, you'll be taking point." Theron moved to the wall and took down a blade—not a training sword but a real weapon, its edge sharp enough to split hair. "Your ancestors learned to wield magic in battle, not in training yards. Fire forges steel, boy. It's time to see if you're metal or dross."
Kael took the sword, feeling the weight of responsibility settle over him like a shroud. "And if I fail? If I get people killed?"
"Then you fail, and people die, and you learn from it or it breaks you. There's no safe path to becoming what you need to be." Theron's expression softened slightly. "I know it's not fair. I know you didn't ask for this burden. But fairness died with your grandmother twenty years ago. All we have left is necessity."
Kael nodded slowly, accepting the weight of truth in those words. "I'll be ready."
"See that you are. Dismissed."
Kael left the Commander's quarters and headed toward the mess hall, his mind churning with the implications of what was to come. Real combat. Not training, not sparring, but actual life-and-death battle against enemies who'd killed kingdoms.
He found himself veering away from breakfast, drawn instead toward the cliff edge where he'd spent many evening hours studying his grandmother's journal. The sun was rising now, painting the mountain peaks in shades of gold and crimson, beautiful and indifferent to the struggles of those who lived beneath them.
"Contemplating mortality?" A new voice, one Kael had come to know well over the past two months. Sera, the camp's primary healer and one of the few survivors who'd been old enough during the fall to remember it clearly.
She sat on the rocks nearby, wrapped in a heavy cloak against the morning chill. Her grey-streaked hair was unbound, and there was something ancient in her eyes despite her relatively young appearance.
"Commander Theron is sending me into real combat," Kael said. "Next week. Against the Shadowbound."
"I know. I'll be preparing medical supplies for the inevitable casualties." She patted the rock beside her. "Sit. You have time before the camp fully wakes."
Kael joined her, grateful for the company. Sera had become something like a friend over the past months—one of the few people who didn't treat him either with reverence or resentment.
"I'm scared," Kael admitted quietly. "Not just of dying, but of what I might become. Every time I use the magic, every time the silver flames answer my call, I feel something else inside me. Something hungry."
"The power of Aethermoor," Sera said. "Your grandmother wrote about it in her private journals. The magic doesn't just serve the bloodline—it feeds on it. Every generation of your family has struggled with the balance between wielding power and being consumed by it."
"How do I prevent that? How do I use what I need without losing myself?"
"You can't. Not completely." Sera's honesty was brutal but somehow comforting. "Every time you draw on that power, you change a little. Become a little less human, a little more something else. The key isn't to avoid change—it's to hold onto the core of who you are even as everything else transforms around it."
Kael thought about the farmer he'd been just months ago. That person felt like a distant memory, someone he'd once known but could barely recognize now. "What if I forget who I was? What if I become just another tyrant drunk on power?"
"Then we'll kill you." Sera's voice was matter-of-fact. "Commander Theron, Lyra, myself—we've all agreed. If you become what Malkor is, if the power corrupts you beyond redemption, we'll put you down. It's not personal. It's pragmatic."
Strangely, that brutal honesty made Kael feel better. They weren't following him blindly. They had limits, safeguards. He wasn't being given absolute power without absolute accountability.
"Thank you," he said. "For telling me that."
"You're welcome. Now go eat breakfast. You'll need your strength for training, and Lyra has something special planned for this afternoon." Sera's smile was wicked. "Something about teaching you to fight blindfolded."
Kael groaned, but found himself smiling as he headed back toward the mess hall. This place, these scarred survivors who'd become his teachers and tormentors—they were becoming family in a way he'd never expected.
The week passed in a blur of intensified training. Lyra drilled him mercilessly in combat techniques specifically designed to counter Shadowbound tactics. Commander Theron spent hours going over the patrol route, escape paths, and contingency plans for when things inevitably went wrong.
And at night, alone in his barracks, Kael studied his grandmother's journal and practiced channeling the silver flames with increasing precision. The magic was growing stronger, more responsive, but so was the hunger Sera had warned him about. Sometimes he'd wake from dreams of burning cities and screaming enemies, uncertain whether they were nightmares or memories carried in his blood.
Finally, the night before the mission, Commander Theron called the strike team together. Besides Kael and Lyra, there were four others—hardened veterans who'd survived two decades of guerrilla warfare against Malkor's forces. They studied Kael with expressions ranging from cautious hope to barely concealed skepticism.
"You all know the plan," Theron said, his scarred face grim in the lamplight. "The Shadowbound patrol follows the same route every three weeks. We'll intercept them at the narrow pass, where the terrain limits their ability to maneuver. Kael takes point, draws their attention. The rest of you exploit openings as they present themselves."
"Why is the untested boy taking point?" one of the veterans asked, his tone not quite insubordinate but close. "No offense, Highness, but we've been doing this for twenty years."
"Because the Shadowbound will focus on him," Lyra answered before Kael could. "His mark, his power—they'll sense it and prioritize killing him above all else. That focus creates openings we can exploit."
"So he's bait," another veteran said flatly.
"He's the heir," Theron corrected, his voice hard. "And he volunteered for this. If anyone has a problem with the plan, speak now or hold your peace during the mission."
Silence. The veterans exchanged glances but said nothing.
"Good. We leave at dawn. Get some rest. You'll need it."
The team dispersed, leaving Kael alone with Lyra and Theron. The old commander studied him for a long moment.
"You don't have to do this," Theron said quietly. "We could delay, give you more time to train."
"And how many people will die while I train?" Kael met his gaze steadily. "How many refugees will that patrol find? How many villages will burn? No. I'm ready. Or at least, I'm ready enough."
Lyra made a sound that might have been approval or resignation. "Try not to die, farm boy. I've spent two months training you, and I'd hate to see that investment wasted."
"I'll do my best not to inconvenience you," Kael replied dryly.
For a moment, something like a real smile crossed Lyra's face. Then it was gone, replaced by the cold mask of a warrior preparing for battle.
Kael returned to his barracks and lay on his cot, knowing sleep would be elusive. Tomorrow, everything would change. Tomorrow, he would either prove himself worthy of his bloodline or die trying.
The mark on his wrist pulsed with silver light, as though sensing his thoughts. The power waited, hungry and eager.
Kael closed his eyes and prayed he would still be himself when the sun set tomorrow.
But deep down, in a place he didn't want to examine too closely, he wondered if that person was worth preserving—or if becoming something more, something harder and more terrible, was exactly what the realm needed.