The corridor was quiet.
Only the soft shuffle of Caelan's boots echoed against the stone floor as he made his way back to his room. Moonlight spilled through the high windows, casting fractured silver patterns that danced across the walls. His body ached from training, mana still simmering beneath his skin like a barely tamed flame.
He rubbed his shoulder, thinking of Seren's challenge. One month. A duel before the entire house. His mind swirled with questions, none of them answered.
Then he stopped.
Someone stood in front of his chamber door.
Broad shoulders. Dark cloak. A presence that turned the air cold and heavy.
The Patriarch Lord Armath Dorne.
Caelan's breath caught in his throat. His father, Armath Dorne, stood like a monolith, hands behind his back, eyes unreadable. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the scar on his cheek.
Caelan blinked, stunned. "L-Lord... why are you here?"
Armath turned his head slightly. His voice was calm, deep, absolute.
"I've come to fulfill my promise."
Caelan stared.
"From this day onward, you'll report to my training grounds at dawn. I will teach you swordsmanship."
No anger. No pride. Just fact—like a sword being unsheathed.
Caelan's throat was dry. He quickly bowed. "Yes, Lord. I will."
The patriarch gave a faint nod and turned without another word, his heavy boots fading into the distance.
Caelan stood frozen for a moment before finally placing a hand on the door handle.
He stepped inside.
The warm orange glow of lanterns greeted him.
So did a voice.
"Welcome, young master."
Caelan jolted.
"Gregor?"
The steward stood at the far corner of the room, slightly bowed, hands behind his back. His uniform, as always, was spotless. His eyes calm, his posture perfect.
Caelan replied "Don't scare me like that!"
Gregor's voice was calm as he watched Caelan prepare for sleep."
Young master, it's time for you to rest. Tomorrow, you'll train at the patriarch's private training ground."
Caelan, surprised, sat up. "Private training ground?"
Gregor nodded. "Yes, young master. The patriarch's training ground is strong enough to withstand his power. He has invited you to train there tomorrow."
Caelan's mind raced. A private training ground—this was different. His father had high expectations. He nodded slowly. "Alright... I'll be ready."
The sound of birds chirping filled the air as Caelan woke early the next day. He stood, stretching, a sense of purpose settling over him. He quickly prepared, then headed toward the patriarch's training ground.
When he arrived, the place seemed quiet, almost eerie in its stillness. His eyes scanned the vast space, but there was no sign of Armath.
"Wait... he still isn't here?" Caelan muttered to himself, irritation creeping in. "What a drag…"
Just as the words left his mouth, a deep voice spoke from behind him.
"What is 'drag'?"
Caelan's heart jumped. He spun around to find the patriarch standing right behind him, a towering figure with an imposing presence.
Armath Dorne's eyes locked onto his son's. Caelan quickly straightened.
"I—I didn't mean anything, Lord. I just thought… that cloud looked like a dragon."
Armath stared at him for a moment, as if measuring his words. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod, he spoke.
"Let's start today's training."
The wooden target stood in front of Caelan, as if unaware of the impossible task he had to do. His hands shook slightly as he held his sword. He remembered his father's words—Evaporate the target, not with magic, but with your sword.
Caelan's throat was dry. His muscles ached from the previous tries, but he refused to rest. The challenge was clear, and he couldn't give up now.
He raised his sword and took a deep breath. His father's strength, his skill, depended on this one strike. Caelan felt the weight of it all.
He swung.
The sword cut through the air cleanly, but when it hit the target, it didn't evaporate. Instead, it broke into pieces.
No, Caelan thought, frustration building. That's not what I need.
He stared at the pieces on the ground. He was so close to what he wanted, the power he needed, but it was always just out of reach.
Caelan placed another target. This time, he focused even harder. His mind screamed at him to concentrate. He wasn't here to break the targets. He needed to control the strike with his sword and make it evaporate.
He swung again.
The target broke in half, but no magic, no evaporation. Caelan's arm shook from the effort. There was no sign of the power he wanted.
The sun began to set, casting long shadows. Sweat dripped down Caelan's face as he wiped it away and set up another target. His body wanted rest, but his mind kept pushing him forward.
He kept attacking—slash after slash, thrust after thrust—his movements growing more desperate. The targets were now broken pieces scattered around him. His sword strikes were sharp, but he still couldn't make the targets evaporate.
With each failed attempt, Caelan felt more defeated. His breathing was heavy, his arms burning, his legs tired. But he refused to stop. The sword felt heavier with each swing, but he kept going.
One more strike. He swung with all his strength, ignoring the exhaustion. The sword hit the target with a clang, and once again, it broke.
Why can't I do it? Caelan thought. What's wrong with me?
His knees gave out, and he fell to the ground. His sword slipped from his hand with a soft thud. He stared at the broken pieces of wood around him, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The night was falling, and Caelan felt the weight of his failure.
But just before he gave up completely, a thought pushed through his frustration.
I have to keep going.
His mind, clouded with exhaustion and doubt, wanted to quit, but something inside him wouldn't let him. He couldn't fail now. Not after everything.
Caelan took a deep, steadying breath. The cool night air filled his lungs. He remembered the breathing techniques he had practiced—how each breath helped him focus. His tired body seemed to listen as his mind centered.
Focus. Relax.
He exhaled deeply, picked up his sword, and stood again. The practice was automatic now, a rhythm that helped him clear his thoughts. With every breath, Caelan felt something inside him stir—his aura. It wasn't strong yet, but it was there, like a faint pulse.
The sword isn't just an extension of my arm, he thought. It's an extension of me.
With another controlled breath, Caelan took his stance. This time, he wasn't just using his strength. He was using his mind, body, and spirit. He closed his eyes for a moment, blocking out everything except the sword and the target.
As he swung the sword, a powerful energy surged through him. His aura flared, wrapping around the sword like a protective shield. The wooden target in front of him vibrated with the force of his strike.
This time, it didn't just break.
The target evaporated in a flash of light, disappearing completely.
The first rays of the sun touched the training ground, and Caelan stood, stunned, sword still raised. The aura around him shimmered, like a soft glow of power.
I've done it... Caelan thought. I've reached the 3rd Star stage of swordsmanship.
Just as he was processing this, he heard a deep voice behind him.
"So you did it."
Caelan turned to find his father, Armath Dorne, standing at the edge of the training ground. The patriarch's eyes studied him, unreadable yet approving.