Vincent Perez followed Instructor Eryndor toward the far corner of the courtyard where the white marble gave way to a specially reinforced section lined with polished black stone, its surface smooth and unblemished.
The training grounds here were pristine, unmarred by time or war, gleaming beneath the morning sun. Everything smelled faintly of stone and fresh earth, as if the very foundation had been constructed only yesterday.
Protheus had constructed these courtyards himself, crafted not from relics of old battlefields but from purpose, every tile, every inch, meant to shape warriors for what was coming.
Eryndor, towering and silent, walked with a heavy yet fluid grace. His frame was that of a mountain in motion, broad-shouldered, forged from deep-silver that shimmered faintly blue in the light. His elven features were severe but regal, his jaw angular and eyes glowing with a dim, restrained power. There was no cruelty in his expression, only patience forged from age and duty.
He turned to Vincent and studied the teenager with an unreadable gaze. "That sword you carry," he began, voice like rolling thunder, "is not just iron and weight. It is a statement. A responsibility."
Vincent's hands instinctively tightened around the handle of his greatsword. The weapon was nearly as tall as he was, an instrument that had always felt more like a symbol of strength than anything else. "I use it to fight," he replied. "To protect and to win."
Eryndor tilted his head, unimpressed. "To fight. To protect. To win." He echoed each phrase with a deliberate pause. "Words spoken by those who swing blindly and hope to strike true."
With no further warning, he stepped aside and gestured to a series of perfectly formed training constructs made of silversteel—humanoid shapes built to endure punishment. "Strike. Now."
Vincent hesitated, then charged forward with a shout, lifting his sword and bringing it down with all his strength. A heavy clang rang out as the blade met the construct. The blow was powerful, but unrefined—his stance shifted, his footing faltered.
Eryndor's arms remained crossed as he observed. "You're not wielding the blade. You're throwing it."
Vincent turned, panting.
"A weapon that large does not ask you to dominate your foes," Eryndor said, his tone even. "It asks you to be steady. To choose your moment. That is the essence of mastery—not force, but will."
The teenager swallowed hard. He thought of all the times he'd been told to swing harder, hit faster, overpower his opponent. This… was something else.
"You will not swing that sword again until your stance no longer wavers," Eryndor continued. "You will learn how to hold it as if it were an extension of your own breath. You will learn balance, precision and control."
Vincent stood straighter, nodded once. "Yes Sir."
Eryndor gestured again to the construct. "Then begin. Hold your sword and do not move until I say."
Vincent returned to position, blade raised, muscles trembling under the weight—not from the sword, but from the discipline he would now be forced to forge.
Training had begun.
Switching to the next instructor….
Instructor Sylrieth waited near a crescent-shaped clearing at the edge of the courtyard, where tall marble columns bordered a shallow grove of pale trees, each leaf shimmering faintly with silvery light. The wind rustled softly through the glade, and with it came a serene quiet that masked the sharpened edge of purpose
The group that gathered before her—Daniel Cruz, Carla Santos, Abby Suarez, and Carlo Ramirez, stood alert and curious. They exchanged glances, aware that while Sylrieth looked the most graceful of the combat instructors, there was an intensity in her stillness.
She was beautiful in an ethereal, statuesque way—her form slender, carved from silver-veined marble, with delicate elven features and long, flowing hair like threads of moonlight. Despite her elegance, a palpable sharpness surrounded her, like a coiled blade waiting for the right moment to strike.
"I see curious eyes," she said, her voice smooth and haunting like a song sung through wind chimes. "Good, curiosity means you still think. You are not just weapons yet."
Daniel shifted slightly. Carla kept her arms crossed. Abby tilted her head, clearly intrigued. Carlo said nothing, though his gaze was sharp, studying the terrain with a tracker's instinct.
Sylrieth stepped forward, her bare feet gliding across the ground without sound. "You've been chosen for speed, subtlety, and control. You wield daggers not for power, but for precision. You are shadows that bleed into light, and light that stabs through shadow."
She drew a pair of long, curved daggers from her sides, silver-edged with blue runes along the flat. The weapons hummed softly in her hands. "These are not tools of brute force. They require thought, patience and restraint. Every movement must be calculated. Every breath, intentional."
Turning to Daniel, she motioned for him to step forward. "Dagger control is not about show. It's about ending a fight before your opponent realizes it's begun."
Daniel raised his weapons in response. "I've practiced a lot."
She nodded once. "Then prove it."
With a flick of her hand, a training construct emerged from the grove, gliding across the polished floor with unnatural speed. Daniel moved to intercept, his daggers flashing.
Sylrieth watched intently. "Not bad. But you hesitate. When the time comes, hesitation will kill you."
Next, she faced Carla. "Your movements are quick, but you waste too much energy in flourish. That is the dance of arrogance, not survival."
Carla scowled. "I like flair."
Sylrieth's lips curved in a ghost of a smile. "Then master the art. Let your flair kill with elegance."
She turned to Abby. "A hybrid of dagger and bow. Rare. You will train both. You must be swift and silent, your strikes seamless. If you draw attention, you've already failed."
Abby nodded, confident. "Understood."
And lastly, she looked at Carlo. "The scout. A hunter of trails, a ghost among the trees. But here, you will learn to fight when stealth fails. Tracking will remain your gift, but precision will become your weapon."
Carlo responded with a quiet, firm nod.
Sylrieth stepped back and gestured to the shaded grove. "You will train here. Among the stillness. No loud clashing, no shouting. You will move like whispers. Strike like breath."
As the students moved toward their designated stations, Abby raised her hand timidly. "Instructor Sylrieth… can I ask something?"
The elf-golem paused. "Speak."
"Why do you all call Protheus 'Your Majesty' or 'My Lord'? Is he… a king or something?"
Sylrieth's glowing eyes lingered on Abby, then on the others who had paused, clearly curious.
"A secret," she said with a faint smirk, folding her arms across her chest. "One you've not yet earned. But if you wish to know…"
She met each of their gazes with a subtle yet commanding weight.
"…train well. Show me good results and discipline. Then, perhaps, I will tell you what he truly is."
She turned away, signaling the start of drills. "Now. Silence. Breath. Begin."
The students obeyed, their steps silent as they vanished into the grove—each one beginning a journey into the blade's dance under a teacher as enigmatic as she was deadly.