The first light of dawn crept through the high windows of the Seravain estate.
Lucien was already awake. Thirteen now, with Aethercurrent in his hands, and the weight of expectation pressing against him like a stone.
The river beneath the estate pulsed faintly, threading through the stone floors, guiding him, reminding him to flow. Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
He began with Eddystrike, letting the blade sweep in wide, controlled arcs. Each strike curved around an invisible opponent, a river of motion wrapping around obstacles. He moved seamlessly into Torrentguard, circular motions deflecting unseen attacks, the sword an extension of his body, an extension of the current beneath him.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Alaric observed silently from the doorway, a shadow among shadows. "Remember," he said, voice low, "these techniques are not simply motions. They are philosophy, strategy, endurance. The river does not resist. It shapes. It bends. It endures. You must do the same."
Lucien nodded, letting the current flow through him. Each strike was sharper, more precise, flowing into the next without pause. He tested Ripcurl Parry, redirecting force from one motion into the next. His muscles burned, sweat streaked along his spine, but he did not falter.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Time passed in the hall like water moving over stone. The river beneath the estate guided him through each exercise, threading through the sword and his limbs alike.
Finally, Alaric spoke again. "Today, your preparation must meet reality. You leave for the Academy."
The words carried weight heavier than any strike. Lucien felt the pulse of the river intensify beneath the floorboards, steady, eternal, reminding him of what he had learned—and what awaited.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
By midday, the final preparations were complete. Servants carried his belongings, carefully packed, along polished corridors. The estate was silent in observation, each shadow, each glance, a subtle reminder of the world beyond these walls.
Lucien stepped into the courtyard. The sky above was pale, a soft dawn light that seemed almost too gentle for the weight of anticipation in the air. Horses waited, saddled and ready, their hooves shifting against the stone. Guards fell into place, their eyes alert. Even the river beneath the estate seemed to hum, as if sensing the change, the departure, the flow moving beyond familiar channels.
Alaric stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Lucien's shoulder. "Remember everything. Flow. Endure. Observe. The other heirs are watching. The families will test you. And the river… will be your guide."
Lucien nodded, gripping Aethercurrent tightly. Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
He mounted his horse, muscles coiled, senses alert. The gates of the estate opened, and the road stretched ahead, winding through forests, hills, and shadowed paths. The world beyond the estate was not kind, not forgiving, and every mile was a lesson in vigilance.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
As they traveled, Lucien's mind ran over the techniques he had learned. Each named strike, each defensive maneuver, the philosophy of flow itself. The Academy would be different from the estate. Other heirs, other families, each with their own training, their own secrets, their own strategies. Lysander. Drayvane. Caelthorn. All watching, all waiting, all assessing.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
The horse's rhythm beneath him became another current, another pulse to integrate into his awareness. Every sway, every breath, every subtle shift was observed, measured, and adapted. The river beneath the estate, Aethercurrent in his hands, and the rhythm of the journey merged into a single flow.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Night fell as the estate disappeared behind them. Shadows deepened across the road, the forest closing in like an unseen observer. Lucien felt the tension rise—not from fear, but from awareness. Every movement, every sensation, every step of the journey became part of the training. The river moved with him. He moved with it.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Ahead lay the Academy, a place of testing, politics, and rival heirs. But Lucien's flow was steady. His sword, his skill, and the river beneath him were extensions of himself. Nothing outside could bend him, not yet.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.