The courtyard was silent, save for the whisper of leaves rustling under the spring breeze.
Kael Durnhart circled Prince Serenil with slow, measured steps, wooden sword in hand. His eyes were sharp, reading the boy's stance, balance, and breathing. It had been a month since their training began, and Serenil had surpassed expectations every day.
Today was different.
"Today," Kael said, voice cool, "you'll fight me."
Serenil didn't speak. He only lifted his wooden sword into a perfect high stance—one Kael recognized from an elite northern sword school that hadn't existed for over two hundred years.
Kael smirked.
"What are you, kid?"
Then he lunged.
Serenil responded instantly. His sword arced downward in a counter-motion so precise, Kael's blade was deflected without a single wasted motion. The boy flowed like water—calm, fluid, but each strike held terrifying intent.
Kael gritted his teeth. He adjusted, increased the tempo.
Ten strikes. Twenty. Thirty.
Each time, the child parried, dodged, or countered with moves no child should know. There was no wild instinct. Only mastery.
Kael faked left, spun right, and brought his blade down from above. Serenil stepped forward—not back—and met the strike head-on. The clash echoed like thunder through the courtyard.
And Kael stepped back.
The impact had numbed his wrist.
Serenil lowered his blade slowly, head tilted.
"…Again," the boy said softly.
Kael chuckled, breathless. "Not today."
From the palace windows, King Sylas watched with a grim expression. Standing beside him was the Grand Magus, an old elven sage with half-closed eyes.
"The boy," the elf muttered, "he's not ordinary. That birthmark… It glows faintly during combat."
Sylas didn't respond.
He already knew.