Age Four.
Serenil stood barefoot in the royal courtyard, stone tiles warm under the morning sun. His silken training robes fluttered slightly in the breeze. Beside him, a simple wooden sword rested against the ground, its weight familiar now—comforting.
He had been waiting for this day.
King Sylas had kept his promise.
The man approaching him now was tall, lean, and weathered. A deep scar ran across his jaw, and his dark gray eyes held the calm lethality of a man who had ended lives with a smile.
"Name's Master Kael Durnhart," the man said, kneeling down to look Serenil in the eyes. "Your Highness, I was once Swordmaster of the Black Lions. Your father hired me to train you, starting today."
Serenil simply nodded.
Kael raised an eyebrow. "Don't talk much, huh? Good. Less talk, more swing."
He tossed a wooden sword at Serenil, who caught it with perfect reflexes.
Kael's eyebrow twitched.
For the next hour, they trained in silence.
Kael expected to demonstrate basics—footwork, balance, stances.
But the boy followed every move flawlessly. He didn't copy like a student. He predicted like a warrior. When Kael switched stances mid-flow, Serenil adjusted instantly. No hesitation. No confusion.
Kael's smirk slowly turned into a frown.
"This isn't your first time holding a sword, is it…?"
Serenil tilted his head and gave a small, innocent smile—the kind only a child could make.
"…Tch," Kael grunted, eyes narrowing. "Creepy little genius."
Later that night, Kael reported to King Sylas in private.
"He's gifted. No—frighteningly gifted. His movements aren't just natural. They're trained. Polished. I've taught war veterans with less precision."
Sylas was silent for a moment, then let out a low sigh.
"Good. Make him stronger."
Kael hesitated. "What are you preparing him for, Your Majesty?"
Sylas looked out the window at the moonlit horizon.
"…The world."