Fourteen Years Later
Fourteen years slid by like a breath.
Stormhaven's fortress still wore its obsidian walls and gold-lit corridors, but the place felt lived in—scuffed training tiles, the faint smell of tea and oil, banners stirred by tame breezes. Claudia Valtorr moved through it like she always had: quiet, alert, and impossible to miss. She was tall, armored in dusk-blue plates that looked plain until light touched the edges, and her gaze could pin a charging beast to the floor. People called her a lot of things. To Aeros, she was just "Master."
She found him exactly where she expected—in the botanical sanctuary, asleep on a branch the size of a bridge, bow across his lap.
"Up," she said.
Aeros cracked one eye. Curly white hair stuck every which way. "Five more breaths?"
"One," Claudia said.
He sighed, rolled, and dropped three stories to the grass. Golden warmth flickered once along his skin, then vanished. He'd been born with a body that leapt ahead of the curve: Stone Foundation to Iron Frame to Bronze Vitality, then Silver Agility, now Golden Radiance. What that meant in simple terms—bones like tempered steel, organs that shrugged off poisons, control so fine he could slow his pulse to count raindrops. If the world knew how early he'd hit it, half of it would turn green. His actual cultivation level hadn't reached it yet, just his body.
"Same rules?" he asked, stretching.
"Don't die," Claudia said. "And stop ducking left on your third step."
They were in the training yard before the last word finished. Claudia tapped his forehead—he flew a hundred feet, skidded, popped up, grinning. Then it started for real.
Aeros came in fast, fists snapping like drumbeats. Claudia barely moved. A wrist turn here, a shift of weight there; his cleanest shots slid past as if the air had chosen sides. When she did counter, it was a lesson disguised as a smack: a heel to uproot his stance, a palm to collapse his guard, a brush of fingers that stole his balance without hurting anything important.
"Eyes up," she said.
"They are up."
"Then use them."
He laughed, feinted low, and tried a spinning elbow. Claudia wasn't there anymore. He blinked at empty air, then found himself on his back staring at clouds.
"Still ducking left," she said from somewhere behind him.
They traded like that until sweat ran and the yard smelled like sun-warmed stone. Claudia finally stepped back and tipped her chin toward the weapon rack.
"Bow," she said.
Aeros' mood shifted the way the light does when clouds move. He loved the bow in a way that made even Claudia soften. He took up the yew limb strung with silkworm line and the world narrowed to him, the string, the target, the breath between them. The arrow—phoenix-fletched, a gift from a friend with wings—left with a low hiss and buried itself dead center. The next five made a neat star around it.
"Better," Claudia said. "You still drop the elbow when you change targets."
"I like making it harder."
"It is. For you."
He snorted. She walked him through corrections anyway—foot angle, shoulder stack, how to let the draw settle and let go without deciding to. When he listened, the shot sounded different. The air liked it more.
Dusk crept along the wall before Claudia called it.
"That'll do," she said. "You're stronger. That's the easy part. The hard part is not letting strength make you lazy."
Aeros rolled his shoulders, still breathing quick. "So the fun part is over."
"Unfortunately," she said, and the corner of her mouth twitched. "Rite of passage is close. Your grandfather thinks you're ready."
"Do you?"
"I think you'll learn," Claudia said. "Which is what ready means."
A soft gust disturbed the leaves. Aria landed lightly at the edge of the yard, silver hair tied back, sleeves rolled. She hugged Claudia without ceremony.
"Auntie," Aria said, smiling. "Still terrifying."
"Still late," Claudia said, but she returned the hug.
Aria turned to her son, mock-frowning. "Look at you. Sweat everywhere. Did she throw you across the yard first thing?"
"Twice," Aeros said. "Third was an accident."
Claudia raised an eyebrow. Aria laughed, then reached up to smooth a stubborn curl from his forehead like he was five again.
"How's the shoulder?" she asked.
"Good." He rotated it. His bloodline did its quiet work; bruises rarely lasted longer than a story.
Aria's smile thinned just a little. "I know you're ready, but a mother's allowed to worry."
"I know," he said. "Worry loud. I'll hear it and bring it back for you to put away later."
"That's a deal," she said, then looked to Claudia. "He listens better to you."
"Only when he wants to hit something," Claudia said.
"Which is…often," Aeros admitted.
Aria looped an arm through his. "Dinner. Now. Tomorrow morning you'll go see your grandfather, and I'm not sharing you with a bow tonight."
He glanced at Claudia. She nodded once. "Eat. Sleep. Don't think too far ahead."
They started toward the hall. "Master," Aeros said, glancing back, "the nickname… you haven't called me it today."
Claudia considered him, eyes softer than her armor. "You earned it."
Aeros blinked. "Earned… what?"
She turned away, already walking. "Little hopper."
Aria laughed, delighted. Aeros groaned, but he was smiling as they left the yard—teacher to the shadows again, mother to his left, the bow over his shoulder and the future getting close enough to smell.