The sunlight, already sharp and high, filtered through the canvas of the tent, painting the air in dusty gold. The scent of pine and damp earth, a constant at The Ironwood Camp, mingled with the faint, warm smell of their spent energy. Riven stretched, a low, contented groan escaping his chest. His muscles, usually coiled and ready, felt pleasantly heavy, weighted down by a deep, honest rest he hadn't experienced before coming to the camp.
He looked down. He was still half-tangled in the thick, comforting weight of Vaelorian's arm.
"My god, he's beautiful," Riven thought with a smirk. Even with that ridiculous sleep-muss in his hair. He could lie here all day, just watching him breathe. No, that's a lie. He'd be touching him. Always touching him. He's all sharp edges and discipline on the training field, but here? Here he's... soft. All his to do with as he pleases. It's ridiculous how easily he can make Riven forget the whole world is a battlefield.
But ugh!—Riven has to get up. The last thing he needs is a lecture on 'The Virtue of Punctuality' from the man who just spent five hours proving his commitment to 'The Virtue of Vigour.'
Riven finally shifted, sliding out from beneath the blankets. He grabbed a simple cotton shirt and some pants from the closet, pulling them on quickly. But when he turned around, Vaelorian was already sitting up, broad shoulders bare, running a hand through his long blonde, tousled hair. His eyes, the colour of polished amber, were already alert, assessing.
"Well, don't you look handsome this morning?" Riven teased, leaning over to trace the line of Vaelorian's jaw before straightening up.
Vaelorian caught Riven's hand and pressed a quick, firm kiss into his palm. "Flattery will get you exactly nowhere, my love. You won't reduce your training hours simply because you flirted with me." He delivered the line with a slight smirk, but his voice was firm, laced with that familiar, steel-hard conviction.
"Oh, come on!" Riven whined, a playful, yet genuine, edge in his voice as he started to lace up his boots. "Is there really a point to me doing the mental analysis training thing? I'm already so strong. I can outfight anyone in that class, including the instructor. It's just... a lot of sitting still and thinking. It's so...boring." He pleaded his case, looking up with his best, puppy look.
"He is trying to distract me. And it's working," Vaelorian thought with a smile.
Every time he calls himself 'already so strong,' Vaelorian sees the raw, glorious power the younger boy possesses—and the terrifying lack of control that comes with it. He fights with his mind and his rage, not his head. That's what gets people killed. Not Riven, maybe, but the people standing next to him. Vaelorian loves the strength in him, but he also loves the whole of him more, and the whole of him needs discipline. He has to learn to read his enemies before making them kill themselves.
Vaelorian rose, towering over Riven for a moment, before placing his hands on the younger boy's shoulders, his grip a mix of affection and authority.
"Go, and be good. Remember, your strength is a blunt instrument without a healthy mind to guide it. You will not skip class." He paused, his expression softening into a genuine, heartfelt smile. "I'll see you later for lunch, my love. We can spar after you've proven you know how to read your enemies, not just cleave them in two."
He kissed him—a deep, hungry kiss that promised a future reward—and then, with a final, gentle push, Vaelorian guided him out the room door.
"Go."
Riven stumbled slightly, blinking in the bright morning sun as the room door clicked shut behind him. He could already hear the distant, rhythmic clang of steel from the lower training grounds.
Riven stood at the edge of the path. To his left, the path wound uphill toward the quiet, shaded hall where the strategy and analysis classes were held. To his right, the path sloped down toward the main field, where the real action was—the sword work, the combat drills, the chance to sweat and let loose. Vaelorian wouldn't know which path he took until lunch, but the instructor of the mental analysis class certainly would.
Thinking was important, he knows that, but sometimes you just needed to not do it. A smirk touched his lips. Vaelorian wouldn't know immediately that he didn't go, and a little extra physical practice wouldn't hurt, right? He could always just… show up late. Or claim he got lost.
He turned right, the path sloped down toward the main field. The sounds of combat drills grew louder, a symphony of clanging steel and shouted commands that set his blood humming. He felt a surge of pure exhilaration. This was where he belonged. This was where his strength truly lay.
As he neared the edge of the training grounds, he spotted a familiar figure practicing with a short staff, moving with a fluid grace that belied her big stature. Willow. Her vibrant red hair was pulled back in a tight braid, and her movements were sharp, precise, every strike and block economical. She was one of the few who could keep up with him, both in a fight and in wits.
Willow paused, catching sight of him. She leaned on her staff, a knowing grin spreading across her face.
"Well, well, if it isn't the camp's resident 'too strong for analysis' prodigy. Fancy meeting you here, Riven. Don't tell me you're skipping out on Eldrin's riveting lecture on exercising mental awareness, again?"
Damn it, Riven cussed inwardly. Of all the people to run into, it had to be Willow. It's even worse than running into Anya. She sees everything. She's probably already got a mental note of how many times he's tried to shirk the 'boring' classes. But she also gets it, on some level. She'd rather be out here, too. She just has better self-control. Or maybe she just likes making him squirm.
Riven shrugged, affecting a casual air he didn't quite feel. "Just getting some extra practical application in. Eldrin's class can wait. What's the point of knowing how many bags of grain an army needs if you can't defend the storage room yourself?" He spun a little, testing the spring in his step. "Besides, what are you doing down here? Don't you usually spend your mornings dissecting ancient battle strategies?"
Willow laughed, a bright, clear sound. "Oh, I finished my assigned reading before morning. And then I decided I needed to get the blood flowing so I did some sprinting and now this. Unlike some people, I believe in a balanced approach. Mind and body, Riven. It makes for a much more effective warrior." She gave him a pointed look. "Are you going to be late to Eldrin's class again? Vaelorian's not going to be happy."
Riven winced inwardly at the mention of Vaelorian. "He won't know," he muttered, though even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. Vaelorian always knew. "Just an hour or so, I swear. I need to clear my head. You get it, right? Sometimes you just need to move."
Willow studied him for a moment, her gaze surprisingly serious. "I get the urge, yes. But they're training us for survival outside this camp, Riven. And survival often depends less on how hard you can hit, and more on knowing when to hit, where to hit, and why you're hitting in the first place. You're strong, yes, but you lack… refinement. Foresight. That's what Eldrin is trying to teach you." She sighed, then offered a small smile obviously unaware how good of a warrior Riven is.
"Look, if you want a quick spar to work off some of that excess energy, I'm game. But then you have to go to class. Promise?"
Riven hesitated. A spar with Willow sounded exhilarating, exactly what he craved. But her words, quiet as they were, had pricked at something in him. Vaelorian's voice echoed in his mind: "Your strength is a blunt instrument without a mind to guide it."