The silence in the Veritas medical bay was heavier than the silence on a battlefield. For three days, Aris and Viren recovered in quiet, separated only by a thin curtain. Aris spent most of his time awake, staring at the stone ceiling, his mind endlessly replaying horrifying fragments of memory: golden eyes that weren't his, an arrogant voice coming from his mouth, and the sensation of an immense power that felt so alien and yet... familiar. He would look at his hands, afraid of what they could do without his knowledge.
On the other side, Viren was awake more often than he let on. He would steal glances at Aris whenever the healer checked on him. His burning hatred was now mixed with something else—wariness, a dangerous curiosity, and fear. He had seen the monster hiding behind that calm face, and he would never forget it.
Once they were strong enough to walk, Juro began their "rehabilitation sessions" in a secluded private training room. This was not harsh combat training, but rather a series of slow, meditative movements.
"Forget how you fight," Juro said, observing them. "Your bodies are broken. You have to rebuild them from the ground up."
For Viren, this was torture. His cracked ribs still ached, and every stretching motion felt like a needle prick. He hated feeling weak. He hated moving slowly. His anger and impatience were plain on his face.
For Aris, the challenge was different. Juro had him focus on channeling his Origin Power, but on a minuscule scale. "Don't summon it. Coax it," Juro instructed. "Feel its flow like a gentle stream, not a flash flood. If you feel it start to run wild, stop immediately." Every time Aris tried, cold sweat beaded on his temples.
They trained on opposite sides of the room, an invisible chasm separating them. They were two knights forced to learn to walk again, and their mutual dislike was the only consistent thing in their new world.
After a week, their progress was noticeable. Viren could move more freely, and Aris was able to channel his energy with more stability, though he deliberately held back. Juro, watching them from the side of the room, finally spoke up.
"You move like two wooden puppets," he said flatly. "You're healing your bodies, but your minds are still frozen in that fortress. You're afraid. You,"—he pointed to Viren—"are afraid of your weakness. And you,"—his gaze shifted to Aris—"are afraid of your own strength."
Juro stepped into the center of the room. "That won't do on the battlefield. Starting tomorrow, we're changing the routine a bit."
Aris and Viren looked at him warily.
"At the end of each training session, you will duel," Juro continued. "Not to injure or kill. Just wooden swords. The goal is to apply what you've trained in a real situation. To learn to read an opponent. To get used to the rhythm of a real fight again."
"I'm not wasting my time on this," Viren cut in coldly.
"I... I'm not sure this is a good idea," Aris said hesitantly, afraid of losing control.
Juro smirked, a smile that showed he had anticipated their refusal. "I know. That's why I'm going to make it more interesting."
He leaned against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. "Every day, there will be one winner. Whoever collects the most wins by the time Elara declares your recovery complete... will get one wish from me. Anything."
Silence filled the room.
"Anything?" Viren repeated, his emerald eyes narrowing.
"Anything," Juro confirmed. "Information on an old enemy. A private mission to your homeland. A rare weapon from my armory. As long as it's within my power, I will grant it."
Instantly, something shifted within Viren. His eyes, once filled with boredom, now glinted with sharp ambition. One wish. It was a priceless prize. A shortcut to his revenge. "I'm in," he said without hesitation, his voice firm.
Juro then looked at Aris. Aris hesitated. But then he thought. One wish. He could ask for information about Lysandra, or a way to contact his father, or even ask for Juro's help in understanding the monster that resided within him. This was no longer just training. It was an opportunity.
"...I'm in too," Aris said quietly, but with newfound determination.
The atmosphere in the room changed completely. The awkward, avoidant silence vanished, replaced by a sharp, competitive tension. They now looked at each other, no longer as rivals forced together, but as two contestants in a high-stakes game.
The next day, at the end of their session, Juro tossed two wooden swords at their feet. "Simple rules," he said. "One point. First clean touch on the body. Begin."
They picked up their swords and stood facing each other. There was an old saying among knights: true swordsmen speak through the swing of their blades. And in that moment, their first real conversation began.
Viren was the first to "speak." He shot forward, a burst of pure aggression. His quick thrust aimed straight for Aris's chest, a sharp, impatient question: "How fast are you?" His style was dominant, no-nonsense, every move designed to shatter his opponent's defense as quickly as possible. It was the fighting style of someone with no time to waste, someone driven by a single, burning purpose.
Aris "answered" not by parrying, but by pivoting. His feet moved with quiet precision, letting the tip of Viren's sword pass an inch from his shirt. His movement was a statement: "Fast enough. And you are too predictable." Aris's style was the opposite—reactive, patient, and analytical. He let his opponent move first, studying their patterns, looking for the smallest opening. It was the style of someone burdened by consequences, who was afraid of making a single wrong move.
Their conversation continued. Viren launched a series of horizontal slashes, forcing Aris to keep retreating. "Can you only dodge, Prince?" his swings taunted.
Aris parried each attack with minimal movement, his wooden sword dancing to deflect Viren's energy rather than meeting it head-on. "I don't need to attack if you're going to spend all your energy," his movements replied.
In that exchange, they began to "read" each other. Aris noticed that Viren, despite his brutality, had a perfect stance—a legacy of his elite knight training. But there was a slight tendency for him to load weight onto his right foot just before launching his strongest attacks. A habit, an opening.
Viren, on the other hand, sensed something strange from Aris. Every time Aris parried, there was a moment's hesitation before he counter-attacked. He never committed his full strength, as if he were holding something back. Viren could feel it—fear. Aris was afraid of his own power. "So the monster still haunts you," Viren thought cynically.
After a few moments of testing each other, Viren saw an opening. He feinted, a low slash that forced Aris to lower his guard, then quickly changed his attack to a thrust at Aris's shoulder.
But that was what Aris had been waiting for. He had read Viren's impatience. Instead of dodging, Aris stepped forward, into Viren's range. He allowed Viren's wooden sword to graze his arm—not a clean touch—and at the same moment, he twisted his wrist. The tip of his wooden sword lightly touched Viren's chest.
Tap.
The sound was quiet, yet it echoed through the room.
Viren froze, his eyes wide with disbelief. He had lost. Not to power or speed, but to tactics.
"Today's winner, Aris," Juro said flatly from the sidelines.
Viren took a step back, his face flushing with a mixture of anger and shame. But as he looked at Aris, the pure hatred in his eyes had dimmed slightly, replaced by a glint of grudging respect he would never admit to. He had just learned more about Aris in that thirty-second duel than in the entire past week.
Aris lowered his sword, breathing a little heavily. He had learned something too. Behind Viren's aggression was incredible skill. And behind his own fear, there was a calmness he could use.
The game had begun. And for the first time since the mission at the fortress, they were no longer fighting against an enemy or their own fears. They were fighting each other to become stronger.