The morning sun burned through the thick mist blanketing the courtyard, its rays slicing the gloom like a blade through shadow. Dew still clung to the stone tiles, making them slick beneath the teenagers' boots as they gathered into their newly formed groups.
The instructors had already picked up the pace, gesturing with sharp precision and unwavering authority.
Instructor Thalion, towering and imposing with silver-trimmed armor and a blade longer than most men's arms, stood in front of his assigned students. His crystal-blue eyes scanned Rafael Mendoza, Maria Mendoza, and Joshua Dela Cruz, each now lined up before him with stiff backs and tense shoulders.
"You three," Thalion said in a deep, commanding voice, "Step forward. Now."
The three did, exchanging glances as they moved in front of the others. Rafael was calm and ready, his posture steady. Maria mirrored his confidence, while Joshua looked more wary, eyes flitting to Thalion's massive sword.
"You are under my care now," Thalion said, pacing before them. "I will turn your blades into extensions of your will. I will make your footwork more graceful than a song, your strikes more decisive than a king's judgment. You will falter, bleed, and doubt yourselves—but you will not fail, unless you choose to."
He stopped and turned sharply. "Rafael Mendoza. I see that you use a longsword and you already know how to lead. That's good, you will learn how to lead a blade next."
Rafael gave a curt nod. "Yes, sir."
"Maria Mendoza. Short sword and shield. Defense and offense, perfectly balanced. You will not hide behind your shield. You will learn to make it an extension of your aggression."
Maria's eyes lit up. "Understood."
"Joshua Dela Cruz. Dual blades." Thalion's voice narrowed slightly. "Tricky. Showmanship and substance. But if you learn to make each sword part of a dance—deadly and precise, you'll make even demons hesitate."
Joshua exhaled slowly, a smirk ghosting across his lips. "Sounds like my style."
Thalion raised a brow but said nothing. He unsheathed his own sword with a soft metallic hiss and pointed it toward the center of the courtyard.
"Form up. Do a Basic stances. Now."
The three moved quickly, weapons in hand. Rafael with his longsword, Maria with her short sword and shield, and Joshua twirling both of his blades with casual ease.
For several minutes, Thalion barked out corrections. Maria's shield was too low, Rafael's footwork too wide, Joshua's spin too flashy. He moved among them like a silent wind, his corrections quick and merciless—but his tone never mocking, never cruel. When Maria slipped slightly, Thalion caught her by the arm and simply said, "Better to falter now than on a battlefield. Do it Again!"
And she did—this time stronger, faster, and more focused.
Behind them, several of the other teenagers watched their own instructors begin to guide them into the open sections of the courtyard.
Back across the yard, Thalion stood with his hands behind his back, watching Rafael's form improve stroke by stroke. Maria had already adjusted her stance to guard her left more tightly, and Joshua, though still a bit flashy, was refining the way he twisted his hips with each strike.
Thalion's eyes narrowed approvingly.
"Better," he said. "But don't let the rhythm fool you. In battle, there is no rhythm. Only chaos. Learn to cut through it."
The lesson continued, sweat beginning to soak the teenagers' clothes, but none of them complained. The gleam in Thalion's eyes was stern, but beneath it was something else—something the teenagers slowly began to recognize.
Pride.
Switching to the others.....
The courtyard's northeast side had been shaped into a smaller clearing, where the air was still and hushed—almost reverent. A stretch of wooden targets lined the edge, straw dummies bearing faded bullseyes waited in still defiance, and a faint breeze whispered through the open space. Here, Faelar stood, hands clasped behind his back, his silver-gray cloak fluttering softly.
Mark Villanueva followed him with nervous energy, clutching his bow like a lifeline. His eyes darted between the intimidating instructor and the stretch of field ahead.
Faelar finally turned and studied the boy in silence, his sharp, elven features carved in calm seriousness. His eyes, a piercing pale green, felt like they could see every hesitation and doubt buried within Mark.
"You stand stiff," Faelar observed quietly. "Like a tree afraid of the wind."
Mark swallowed and tried to relax his posture, shifting his stance slightly.
"I'm not afraid," he said. "Just… not used to this place."
Faelar raised a brow. "This place is the least of your concerns, boy. Your arrows must fly without fear. An archer is useless if their heart trembles more than their string."
He turned to the archery range, gesturing to the first target.
"Draw and fire. I want to see what the wind has brought me."
Mark set his jaw and took his position. He nocked an arrow, pulled the string back, and let it fly. The arrow struck, but far to the left of the bullseye.
Faelar said nothing at first. He approached the target, pulled the arrow out, and returned to the boy.
"Your breathing is uneven. Your draw is hesitant. Your feet are angled incorrectly. You aim with your eyes, but not your soul."
Mark blinked. "My… soul?"
Faelar stepped behind him, adjusting Mark's shoulders gently, then his arms. His touch was firm but never harsh.
"Close your eyes," he instructed.
"What?"
"Do as I say. Close them."
Mark hesitated, then obeyed.
"Breathe. Feel the world around you. Listen to the wind. Let the stillness guide you."
There was a moment of silence. The wind stirred again, brushing Mark's cheek.
"Now draw," Faelar said quietly.
Mark did, feeling the pull with less resistance this time.
"Loosen your grip. Let the arrow find its own truth."
The string released with a soft twang. The arrow soared, slicing through the air with unexpected grace and struck the edge of the bullseye.
Mark's eyes opened wide. "I—how?"
Faelar's expression didn't change, though there was the faintest lift at the corner of his mouth.
"You are teachable. Good."
Mark grinned, already reaching for another arrow, more determined than ever
"And… Master Faelar?" he asked hesitantly. "Earlier… I heard you call Sir Protheus 'my lord.' Why?"
Faelar paused, eyes never leaving the target.
"You are not ready for that answer," he replied smoothly.
"But—"
"If you want to understand who he truly is," Faelar continued, his tone steady, "then shoot true. Train hard. The answer you seek is a gift reserved for those who earn it."
Mark straightened. "Then I'll earn it."
Faelar's eyes finally shifted to meet his, and this time, his nod was not just of approval—but quiet respect.
"Then let the bow be your voice," he said, "and let it speak with purpose."