Castle Nérou.
The training grounds stretched endlessly across cracked stone and coarse dirt, bathed in the harsh morning sun. It wasn't beauty that defined the space—it was brutality. Rows of wooden posts splintered from repeated blows. Archery targets had been pierced so many times they sagged with arrows like the carcasses of beasts. Obstacle courses wound through the grounds like trenches, each more merciless than the last, while the sound of flesh hitting sand, barked orders, and the rhythmic slap of running boots created a symphony of survival.
Pain was a language here. Everyone was fluent.
Commander Ace stood atop a rust-stained overlook, arms crossed behind his back, his coat unmoving even as wind tugged at the flags above him. From this vantage, he saw it all—how a young archer favored her left side too much, how one boy hid a limp to avoid being marked as weak. He saw fear. Pride. Rage. And potential. Always potential. He didn't yell. That was the trainers' job. He was the ghost in their shadow, the cold judge who needed no voice to be heard.
But the silence shifted.
One of the trainers turned their head. Another stopped mid-punishment. A subtle ripple spread like a tremor through the camp.
Then came the voice. One of the older trainees near the gate gasped it first.
"Royalty."
Every movement froze. Arrows stopped mid-draw. Grapples were broken. Soldiers rushed to formation with military precision. Within seconds, the field was still—every head turned toward the dirt path winding through the southern gates.
Two figures approached. One wrapped in dark mage's robes that shimmered faintly with suppressed power, the other clad in battered, scorched armor that clung to her like a second skin. Prince Dimiour walked with deliberate grace, his back straight, his hands behind him like he carried both command and burden in equal measure. Rose matched his stride with a warrior's instinct, each step silent, eyes sharp and scanning.
Even here, among hundreds of soldiers, they were unmistakable. Unshakable.
From the overlook, Commander Ace watched them descend. His expression didn't change, but his fingers flexed behind his back once. Just once. Then he moved.
She walks like Thaddeus now, he thought bitterly. Only more dangerous.
Boots stomped down the stone steps in rhythmic thuds. Soldiers parted like water, creating a wide lane through the center of the grounds. The silence was thick enough to cut with a blade.
As Dimiour passed, eyes followed him with reverence laced in quiet tension.
—That's him. The one who manipulates pure mana. Doesn't need flame. Doesn't need frost. Just raw force…
—He looks so calm. Like he doesn't even know we exist.
—What's it like, knowing you'll never have to claw your way up?
Rose, however, drew a different kind of silence. No awe. No envy. Just fear and fascination.
—Is that the one who evolved with Rage? They say her heartbeat can shake the ground when she loses control.
—She's smaller than I thought…
—Still wouldn't step near her.
Rose's hand hovered near the hilt on her back out of habit. She wasn't tense. This place just made her… remember.
Thaddeus yelling over the ring of steel. Blood from a sparring match soaking her tunic. The moment she first saw stars behind her eyes after a cracked jaw reset her senses. The moment Rage awoke… when everyone had already given up on her.
Her gaze swept the pit where two boys were circling each other, fists raised and knuckles split.
She had bled here.
And they never thought she would make it.
Commander Ace reached them at the base of the overlook. He bowed, short and sharp. Not deep enough to imply submission. But far too practiced to be disrespectful.
"Your Highness. Knight Rose."
Dimiour offered the smallest nod in return. "Commander."
Ace's sharp eyes moved between them. He took in the way Rose's stance mirrored Thaddeus's old defensive guard. How her armor looked hand-forged, not issued. How Dimiour's hands were too still—too silent. He didn't need to move to cast. That was more terrifying than any sword.
Dimiour didn't waste time. "Where is Captain Thaddeus?"
Ace hesitated. Only a blink. But Rose saw it.
"Thaddeus has been gone for two days," Commander Ace said, disappointment woven through his voice. "Just gave me his usual backhanded wave. No orders, nothing. His face contorted with focus, not a moment later he was already moving. The whole thing gave me a bad feeling."
The silence that followed was heavy—more than just words unspoken.
Rose stood with her arms folded, watching Ace with that searching gaze of hers. Not for lies. But for cracks, for any sign of regret or uncertainty. He met her eyes like a stone wall—unyielding and cold.
"You know him," Ace added, his jaw tightening. "He's never been any good at following rules."
Dimiour's eyes flicked to Rose. She didn't need to nod; the answer was already there in the way she shifted her weight, ready for whatever came next.
"We'll check his quarters," Dimiour said quietly, the words measured and cold.
Rose gave a single, silent nod.
Together, they turned away, moving through the training grounds with that same quiet intensity that had always made others step aside. Their passage was a ripple through still water, leaving a hush in their wake.
—They didn't even bother to address us, one recruit muttered, bitterness in his voice.
—Why would they? They might be royalty, but they're also the king's prized weapons—right behind Captain Thaddeus, a veteran recruit answered in a hushed tone.
—You either awaken or you don't, a third voice added. Things will be different when we can fight for the castle.
Commander Ace watched them go, his eyes hooded. At the corner of his mouth, an old scar tugged faintly. Not a smile—just memory.
"Well… what are you waiting for!" Commander Ace called out.
And with that, the training grounds roared back to life: the crack of whips, the thrum of arrows, the distant calls of instructors drilling the next generation of warriors.