The courtyard was empty when Kaito stepped into it at dawn, spear slung across his back. The city was still asleep, the air cool, the stone slick with dew. No one from the Circle had stirred yet, and that was how he wanted it.
He set the spear aside at first. Training didn't begin with the weapon. Training began with him.
He wrapped his hands and forearms in blue cloth, tightened the bindings, then dropped into a low stance. His muscles coiled. For an hour, he moved without pause—jabs, sweeps, strikes, footwork. The rhythm of impact echoed through the still yard as his fists thudded against stone columns and wooden posts, skin reddening but never faltering.
When his body burned, he brought out the spear.
He practiced not killing blows, but control. The new blade gleamed as he spun it in slow arcs, stopping it a hair's breadth from a wall, a stone, a leaf drifting on the wind. His breath timed with every motion, steady, measured, relentless.
Then came the balance drills. He mounted the spear across his shoulders, stepping onto a narrow beam. Step after step, forward and back, he forced himself to keep upright, spear never wavering. A fall here meant nothing—but on the battlefield, a single slip was death.
By mid-morning, sweat soaked his shorts and wraps, his chest heaving. He dropped into the dirt and lay flat, staring at the rising sun. The spear rested across his chest, the blue charms glittering faintly in the light.
You used to have wings, he thought bitterly. Flight. Fire. A body made for war.
But that life was gone. All he had now was this weapon, his human body, and the will to make both sharper than steel.
Slowly, he stood, lifted the spear once more, and resumed the motions. Alone. Silent. Unseen.
The courtyard filled with the whisper of cloth, the whistle of steel, and the steady rhythm of a warrior who refused to stop.