Two weeks remained before Lucien was to depart for the Academy, but the world had already begun to watch. The Pre-Awakening Evaluation, held for noble heirs of Count rank and above, was less about power and more about presence. Reputation. Standing. It was a stage where names were weighed long before strength ever was. As the morning light broke across the obsidian tiles of his chamber, Lucien sat quietly by the window, dressed in a deep gray tunic that clung better to his form than it once had. The difference was subtle—barely worth noting to most—but to him, it was everything. A body no longer resigned to weakness. A name no longer running from itself.
Lucien didn't head for the training yard through the usual servant's path. Instead, he turned down the west corridor—the one lined with towering banners and portraits of dead kings and warriors past. His steps echoed through the hall until he reached the reinforced oak doors that led to the private dueling hall. Only one man ever trained there. Not the knights. Not the guards. Just Duke Caelum Drayven Vaelor—his father. Lucien paused for a breath. Then he pushed the doors open.
Caelum stood alone in the vast chamber, blade in hand, shirt discarded, body still honed like carved stone. The morning light filtering through the high windows cast shadows along his shoulders as he moved through slow, deliberate forms—each swing a lesson in balance and precision. Lucien didn't speak immediately. He watched in silence, letting the quiet awe settle in his chest. When Caelum finally sheathed the blade and turned, their eyes met. "I didn't expect you here," the Duke said, his tone gentle but unreadable. Lucien stepped forward, straightening his posture despite the weight in his chest. "I want to learn," he said. "Not from books. Not from retainers. From you." He held his father's gaze. "If I'm to carry the Vaelor name… then I want to earn it with a sword in my hand."
For a long moment, Caelum said nothing. His crimson eyes, so often filled with noble composure, flickered with something older—something quieter. He stepped down from the platform and walked toward Lucien, every movement as measured as a general on a battlefield. "You have her fire," he murmured, almost to himself. Then, louder, "Most sons born into power take it for granted. You used to. But if you're standing here now… then perhaps the boy I lost is waking up." He reached to the rack beside him and tossed a wooden practice blade to Lucien, who caught it clumsily but didn't flinch. "You'll bleed," Caelum warned, drawing his own. "I won't go easy. Not for a Vaelor." He settled into a stance, eyes sharp. "Show me how badly you want it."
The first strike came without warning. Caelum moved like lightning—no slow warm-up, no words, just a blur of motion aimed straight at Lucien's ribs. The wooden blade cracked against his guard, nearly knocking the wind from his lungs, but Lucien managed to twist his torso just enough to absorb the blow. His arms trembled. His grip was flawed. But his eyes—his eyes were sharp. He didn't retreat. Instead, he adjusted his stance, mimicking Caelum's footwork from seconds before. Caelum narrowed his gaze. That wasn't instinct. That was memory. Observation. He struck again—diagonal, then feint, then low sweep. Lucien missed the block but dodged the real strike, shifting his weight at the last possible second. The Duke's expression didn't change, but deep inside, a thought stirred. He learns fast.
Caelum shifted his stance, foot sliding across the polished floor with the grace of a predator. He launched another flurry—this time with less restraint. Each movement was a test: a staggered rhythm, a deliberate change in tempo, a strike from an unexpected angle. Yet Lucien adjusted. Slower, yes. Sloppier, definitely. But he adapted. He let one blow glance his shoulder so he could counter with a stab aimed at Caelum's open flank—not strong enough to land, but timed with eerie precision. The Duke blocked it easily, but his brow furrowed. Most boys flailed under pressure. Lucien was watching. Calculating. Like a tactician more than a swordsman.
By the tenth exchange, Lucien was breathing hard, sweat trailing down his temples, but his focus hadn't broken. His eyes followed every twitch of Caelum's wrists, every micro-shift in stance. He wasn't reacting anymore—he was predicting. When Caelum went high, Lucien ducked before the blade came. When the Duke tried a feint, Lucien didn't fall for it. He wasn't winning—not even close—but he was making it difficult. And that, in itself, was remarkable. Caelum stepped back, lowering his blade just slightly. "You've never held a sword in your life," he said, voice low with something between pride and disbelief. "But you think like someone who's survived war."
Caelum turned to leave, but before he could reach the door, Lucien's voice rang out, hoarse but steady. "One more round." The Duke paused. Slowly, he looked back over his shoulder. Lucien stood there, blade trembling in his grip, sweat dripping from his jaw, one knee slightly buckled—but he didn't lower his weapon. "If I stop now, I'll remember it as my limit," Lucien said. "And I don't want that." There was no arrogance in his voice. Just raw resolve. For a second, Caelum looked like he might refuse—but then he walked back, wordless, and raised his blade once more.
What followed wasn't graceful. It wasn't clever. It was a storm of exhaustion and willpower. Lucien was slower now, each parry clumsier than the last, but he kept moving—kept thinking, adjusting, enduring. When Caelum finally disarmed him with a sharp twist and sent the wooden sword clattering to the floor, Lucien staggered back, fell to one knee, and stayed there, panting. His hands were blistered, the edges of his tunic stained with blood where the blade had struck too hard. Caelum approached, tossing him a towel. "The mind is your weapon," he said quietly, "but never forget—the body is the blade." For the first time, Lucien allowed himself a small, tired smile.
Lucien stood there a moment longer, heart still racing, skin damp with sweat and bruises forming beneath his tunic. But none of it mattered. His grip tightened around the wooden blade as he looked at the polished floor where their blades had danced. Two weeks. That was all the time he had before the world saw him again. He exhaled slowly, eyes burning with determination. "Fourteen days," he murmured. "Enough time to break who I was... and forge who I need to be."