The clang of steel echoed faintly through the estate grounds, carried on the wind like distant thunder.
Kael walked along the gravel path that led beyond the manicured gardens and toward the training grounds—a walled courtyard nestled against the eastern wing. Rows of armored statues lined the way, weathered and noble, each representing a past warrior of House Ardent. Their stone gazes stared ahead with cold purpose, reminders of a bloodline built on battle.
The heavy gate creaked open as he approached, guards stepping aside without question. Inside, the training yard stirred with life.
Steel clashed. Orders barked. Dust rose beneath the boots of squires clashing with practice swords, while seasoned knights observed with crossed arms and sharp eyes. The scent of sweat and leather filled the air.
Dozens of young men trained under the banner of House Ardent—heirs of vassal families, distant cousins, sons of sworn retainers. All were here to learn the sword. All were here to prove themselves worthy of their blood.
Kael stepped in, unnoticed at first. Dressed plainly, without the family crest or ceremonial garb, he looked more like a quiet observer than the direct heir of the house.
But then one of the older knights spotted him. A sharp nod. A whispered name. A ripple of silence spread.
Kael Ardent.
The sparring slowed. Eyes turned. Even the trainers stood a little straighter.
But Kael said nothing.
He walked past them, toward the far side of the courtyard where a rack of wooden swords lay neatly arranged. His fingers hovered briefly over one, then selected a dull-edged longsword with perfect balance. Nothing ornamental. Just familiar weight.
A young knight-in-training—perhaps seventeen—stepped forward, unsure.
"You're here to train, my lord?"
Kael didn't answer. He moved to the center of the courtyard and took a stance.
Balanced. Measured. A stance not taught in the yard, but born from blood.
The boy hesitated. "Do you… wish a partner?"
Kael's eyes met his, flat and unblinking. "Attack me."
The boy blinked. "My lord?"
"Attack. Now."
Somewhere nearby, a knight muttered a quiet warning, but the boy—emboldened or foolish—rushed in.
Kael didn't move until the last moment. Then a parry, a pivot, a twist of the wrist.
The boy hit the ground with a thud, sword clattering out of reach.
It had taken less than a second.
Kael lowered his blade.
The silence returned.
He turned away without gloating, without a word.
To most, it looked like cold arrogance. But within Kael's mind, it was nothing more than calibration. Muscle memory. Discipline returning after years of war in a life no one remembered.