Alistair's aura thickened.
The air grew heavier—denser—like the moment before a storm finally breaks.
Caelen felt it.
Instinct moved before thought.
A swarm of iron blades materialized around him without warning—no summoning circle, no visible source. They simply existed. And in the next heartbeat, they fell.
A metallic downpour.
Not chaotic.
Directed.
Each blade descended with terrifying sublight velocity, slicing through the air faster than the eye could properly follow.
Alistair reacted immediately.
One step.
Then another.
His body blurred through the storm, wooden blade spinning in tight, efficient arcs. Steel rang against wood in rapid succession. Some blades shattered. Others were deflected aside. A few gouged the earth where he had just stood.
He found rhythm within the rain.
And then—an opening.
His muscles tightened. Aura condensed around his legs like coiled pressure.
He vanished.
In a single explosive step, he closed the distance toward Caelen.
Caelen barely reacted in time.
Several oversized blades surged up from the earth before him, thicker and broader than ordinary swords, their edges forming a makeshift wall.
Wood struck iron.
Impact thundered outward.
Alistair quick-stepped again, afterimages trailing behind him as he shifted to Caelen's right side—the boy's blind weakness, the side harder to guard with only one arm.
Blades clashed again.
Harder this time.
Faster.
Alistair's thoughts sharpened mid-exchange.
The boy was telling the truth.
His stance—flawed. His transitions—stiff. His shoulders—telegraphing every strike.
Predictable.
Painfully so.
Even a novice could identify the gaps.
And yet—
When their blades met, something felt wrong.
The weight behind Caelen's swings was perfect.
Not refined.
Perfect.
The timing of impact. The angle of force. The confidence in follow-through.
It did not match the body wielding it.
It felt… guided.
As though the blade recognized its maker—bending instinctively to the will of the one who had authority over all forged steel.
Alistair narrowed his eyes.
Is it instinct?
Or something else?
Another exchange.
Alistair twisted sharply, parrying upward with controlled precision.
Caelen's iron blade tore free from his grip and launched skyward, spinning until it disappeared beyond the glare of the sun.
A cheer rose from parts of the watching crowd.
Aurora folded her arms from the edge of the field, watching carefully.
"These idiots have forgotten this is a spar," she muttered under her breath. "But… I have never seen him like this."
There was something alive in Caelen's movements.
Not joy.
But engagement.
He was thinking.
Back in the clearing, Alistair moved to follow up the disarm with a decisive thrust.
He stepped in—
—and froze.
Pain.
Several blades had appeared inside his guard.
Not rising from the earth. Not falling from the sky.
They simply were.
Iron pierced through his side and shoulder, shallow but undeniable.
Gasps erupted from the surrounding knights.
Alistair looked down in stunned disbelief.
"What in the—"
Caelen walked toward him.
Calm.
Measured.
Disturbingly still.
The blades embedded in Alistair's flesh shimmered faintly as they rendered him immobile.
"Why aren't you using your aura?" Alistair asked, forcing a grin through the sting. "You could have pressed your advantage."
Caelen's brow furrowed slightly.
"Aura?" he repeated. "I've never heard of that before. What is it?"
Alistair stared.
"You don't know?"
The silence that followed was louder than any clash of steel.
Before he could respond further—
The sky darkened.
A shadow passed over the training grounds.
Knights looked upward.
And terror replaced excitement.
The heavens seemed to split open.
Descending from the clouds was a blade so massive it dwarfed the estate itself. Its edge burned against the atmosphere as it fell, carving heat through the air. The ground trembled beneath its approach.
Alistair's eyes widened.
The chipped edge.
It was the same blade he had parried earlier.
The one sent skyward.
Caelen had not lost it.
He had repositioned it.
Calculated the fall.
Turned disarmament into strategy.
Caelen's gaze locked onto Alistair's.
Emotionless.
Cold.
Certain.
The boy did not speak.
He simply raised his hand slowly.
The colossal blade above began to shrink—compressing, condensing, reducing in size while maintaining its lethal momentum.
Alistair saw them again.
Those eyes.
Sharp as a predator's.
Within them, faint symbols glowed—ancient, structured, unfamiliar.
They resembled something like an Eldorian rune symbol… but not entirely.
The shadow of the descending blade cast darkness across Caelen's face.
And in that shadow—
He did not look like a Duke.
He did not look untrained.
He looked like something that had already survived the worst thing the world could offer.
And had decided never to be powerless again.
Alistair began to laugh.
Not lightly.
Not mockingly.
Genuinely.
Even with iron having pierced him moments ago, even with a blade the size of a mountain descending from the heavens, he laughed.
"You really are a strange one, kid," he said, breath steady despite the pressure.
"I'll give you this much. You've earned my respect."
The massive blade continued shrinking as it fell.
"However…"
The iron fragments still restraining him trembled.
Then cracked.
Then shattered.
The sound rang sharp across the field.
"This spar has not concluded."
Before Caelen could adjust—
Alistair vanished.
Not a blur.
Not an afterimage.
Gone.
A surge of murderous intent flooded the space behind Caelen.
He turned—
Too late.
Alistair reappeared above him, wooden blade raised in one hand. Veins stood out across his forearm as he brought it down in a simple, vertical strike.
Nothing ornate.
Nothing flashy.
Just force.
In that moment, Caelen did not see a man.
He saw a monster.
A titan looming over him.
The wooden blade felt heavier than any iron or steel he had conjured. It carried weight that no material could explain.
Caelen's body reacted instinctively, but the pressure alone drove him backward. He hit the ground hard, staring up as the blade descended.
The strike halted a breath before crushing him.
The impact alone—
Split the earth.
A shockwave burst outward, thunder rolling across the grounds. Dust exploded into the air. The wooden blade shattered from the strain, fragments scattering like splinters of lightning.
Knights were forced several steps back. Some shielded their faces from the violent wind.
Silence followed.
Alistair stood over Caelen.
Then flicked him lightly on the forehead.
"I win," he declared with a wide grin.
A knight rushed forward with a healing potion. Alistair uncorked it with his teeth and drank, wounds sealing gradually as color returned to his skin.
"Maybe next time," he added. "You're young. And frankly terrible at anything that resembles proper combat. Give it another hundred years of training before you try again."
Caelen pushed himself upright, dust clinging to his shirt.
"You were holding back the entire time," he said flatly. "You let yourself get hit. You allowed openings. You wanted to see what I would do."
Alistair snorted. "Of course I did. You think I would risk maiming a Grand Duke for sport? I'm not suicidal."
"As if," Caelen muttered.
Before Alistair could retort, something tugged gently at Caelen's leg.
He looked down.
Prince Tristan stood there, staring up at him.
Wide-eyed.
Not afraid.
Impressed.
Caelen blinked.
What now?
Aurora approached, barely containing her laughter.
"You are hopeless with children," she said between quiet giggles. "It's honestly impressive."
Caelen shot her an irritated glance. "You are the only person I have met who can annoy me without effort."
"I shall treasure that compliment."
"It was not one."
Alistair wiped the last of the potion from his chin and spoke again.
"Out of curiosity, what core stage are you in, Grand Duke?"
Caelen frowned.
"Core stage?"
Alistair closed his eyes briefly. "Of course."
Aurora stepped in before the Marshal could continue.
"Say these words," she instructed, barely containing her amusement. "Power. Formation. Reveal."
Caelen looked skeptical.
"Just do it."
He exhaled and complied.
"Power. Formation. Reveal."
Ethereal energy surged suddenly into his right hand.
Crimson light erupted from his palm, swirling into a condensed sphere—alive, pulsing.
A red-stage core.
Alistair let out a low whistle.
"Well. That explains some things. A red core at your age? No wonder your swings carried such weight."
Aurora crossed her arms proudly. "All heroes are exceptional, I guess."
Caelen stared at the glowing orb hovering over his hand.
"…What is this?"
They looked at him.
"What do you mean what is this?" Aurora asked.
"Is it unstable? Will it explode?"
Alistair choked.
Aurora burst into laughter.
Not polite laughter.
Real laughter.
"You're telling me," she said through tears, "that you know about Grand Fables and Ethereal Instruments—but not aura, not cores, not even basic ethereal energy?"
Caelen's jaw tightened slightly.
"Stop laughing."
Which only made it worse.
Because although his face remained composed, the faint stiffness in his posture betrayed him.
Embarrassment.
Aurora saw it instantly.
She always did.
"You really don't know anything, do you?" she said, wiping a tear from her eye.
Caelen dismissed her with a cold look—but the crimson light in his hand flickered uncertainly.
For someone who could command blades from the heavens…
He did not even understand the foundation of the power he wielded.
Alistair folded his arms, studying Caelen more closely now.
"From the looks of it," he said thoughtfully, "you've been drawing ethereal energy from your core this entire time without realizing it. Subconsciously. That isn't normal. Most require years of training just to accomplish such a feat."
His gaze sharpened.
"What you're doing… is unnatural."
Aurora stepped forward before Caelen could respond.
She nudged him lightly at the ribs with her elbow.
"You know," she said casually, though her eyes gleamed with intent, "I could always teach you."
"No, thank you," Caelen replied immediately.
Too quickly.
Aurora tilted her head.
"Oh, come now," she pressed, her tone teasing, but not careless. "You clearly need guidance. I would even go so far as to craft you a proper right arm myself."
As she spoke, something shimmered at her fingertips.
Liquid metal seeped from the air around her hand—silver at first, then darkening, thickening. It moved like living mercury, swirling and folding over itself with elegant control.
The Blessing of the Sovereign Spirit Mercury.
A gift carried by the blood of Pendragon.
Liquid metals bowed to her will—mercury, steel, even gold—soft as water in her grasp, hard as diamonds when she commanded it.
The metallic substance formed the vague outline of an arm beside her, articulated and seamless.
"This would fit you better than silk," she said lightly.
For once, there was no mockery in her voice.
Only intention.
Caelen watched the metal shift and reform.
Watched the ease with which she shaped it.
Watched the faint concentration in her eyes as she maintained control.
She was authoritative. Commanding. Composed beyond her years.
And yet—
In moments like this, she was almost reckless in her generosity.
He looked away first.
"That won't be necessary," he said, quieter now.
Aurora's brows lifted slightly.
"Why not?"
Because accepting it would mean relying on you.
The thought flickered through him uninvited.
He did not say it.
Instead, he answered, "I function well enough as I am."
She stepped closer.
Closer than necessary.
The liquid metal dissolved back into nothingness.
"You function," she repeated. "But you don't have to."
Their eyes met.
Her gaze was steady.
Unflinching.
There was no pity there.
No condescension.
Only something warm.
Something patient.
And that was precisely what unsettled him.
A strange heat gathered in his chest.
Not pain.
Not injury.
Just warmth.
Unfamiliar.
Unwelcome.
He had felt it before—briefly. Whenever she laughed too close. Whenever she looked at him longer than most people dared. Whenever she said his name without title.
It irritated him.
And yet he never stepped away.
He held her gaze longer than necessary.
Long enough for the warmth to intensify.
For a split second, the noise of the training grounds faded.
The knights. The wind. The dust in the air.
All distant.
There was only her radiant eyes.
Clear.
Sharp.
Unapologetically alive.
His pulse misstepped.
He looked away abruptly.
"You are persistent," he muttered.
Aurora smiled—softly this time.
"I prefer determined."
Behind them, Alistair cleared his throat loudly.
"Careful, Princess. You might overwhelm the poor boy. He only just discovered what a core is."
Aurora laughed again, but this time it was lighter.
Less teasing.
She turned back to Caelen.
"Think about it," she said, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. "You do not have to remain ignorant forever."
He stiffened at the contact.
But he did not move away.
The crimson glow of his core pulsed faintly between them.
For someone who could summon blades from the sky…
He did not understand the simplest truths about himself.
And perhaps that was not the only thing he failed to understand.