The morning sun cast long shadows across the royal training grounds, its light catching the polished marble columns that surrounded the vast courtyard. The air carried the scent of jasmine from the palace gardens mixed with the metallic tang of steel and leather. Yarihc settled into his seat in the elevated gallery, the carved stone bench cool beneath his silk robes.
Below, two dozen knights arranged themselves in formation on the sandy training floor. Their armor gleamed—a mixture of traditional steel plates and flowing cloth that reflected Jotunheol's blend of cultures. The newer recruits wore simple bronze-colored training gear, their movements still uncertain as they adjusted sword belts and checked their grips.
"Today we demonstrate the foundation of our order," announced Knight-Commander Varek, his voice carrying easily across the courtyard. The man was a Silver Champion, his rank evident in the intricate silver threading that decorated his dark blue tunic. "Bronze Initiates will face our veteran knights in controlled combat."
Yarihc leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes tracking each movement below. At ten years old, he was barely tall enough to see over the gallery's stone railing, but his attention was absolute. He noted how the Bronze Initiates shifted their weight, how some gripped their training swords too tightly while others held them too loose.
The first pairing stepped forward. A young recruit named Jorik faced a Steel Warden whose scarred hands spoke of countless battles. The veteran knight's movements were economical, practiced—he settled into a defensive stance with fluid grace.
"Begin," Varek commanded.
Jorik lunged forward, his wooden practice sword cutting through the air with enthusiasm but little technique. The Steel Warden sidestepped, his blade intercepting the attack with a sharp crack of wood against wood. But as the weapons met, something changed.
The veteran's sword grew darker, as if shadow had seeped into the grain of the wood. His Ironveil—the defensive essence that all knights learned to channel—hardened his training weapon until it rang like metal when struck.
Yarihc's eyes narrowed as he watched the interplay. The Bronze Initiate's blade shattered against the essence-hardened wood, splinters scattering across the sand. Jorik stumbled backward, his face flushed with embarrassment and confusion.
"Observe," the Steel Warden said, holding up his darkened blade. "Ironveil flows through weapon and body alike. It is not magic, but the manifestation of disciplined will."
The knight demonstrated, letting his essence flow visibly along his arm. The skin took on a metallic sheen, like burnished bronze. When he tapped his knuckles against a stone pillar, the sound rang clear and sharp.
"Again," Varek ordered, tossing Jorik a fresh practice sword.
This time, the Bronze Initiate moved more cautiously. He attempted to circle the veteran, looking for an opening. Yarihc noticed the subtle tells—how Jorik's shoulders tensed before each strike, how his eyes betrayed his intended target.
The Steel Warden wasn't using his Ironveil now, but his superior training showed in every movement. He deflected Jorik's attacks with minimal effort, occasionally stepping forward to demonstrate a proper counter-strike. The younger knight's breathing grew labored while his opponent remained calm.
"Enough," Varek called. "Next pairing."
A female recruit approached—Senna, Yarihc recalled, daughter of a minor lord from the southern provinces. Her opponent was a Gold Master, an older woman whose gray-streaked hair was bound in the traditional warrior's knot. The veteran's presence commanded immediate respect from the gathered knights.
"This demonstration will show Ghostsense," the Gold Master announced. She closed her eyes, settling into a relaxed stance. "Attack when ready."
Senna hesitated, clearly unnerved by facing an opponent who wasn't even looking at her. She feinted left, then struck right—only to find her blade intercepted by the veteran's sword, which had moved to block without its wielder opening her eyes.
Yarihc leaned forward, fascinated. The Gold Master's head tilted slightly, as if listening to something only she could hear. When Senna tried a overhead strike, the veteran's blade was already in position. Each attack was predicted, countered, turned aside with minimal effort.
"Ghostsense allows awareness beyond the physical," the Gold Master explained, her eyes still closed. "I feel your intentions, the movement of air around your blade, the shift in your balance. Your sword speaks to me before you know what it will say."
The demonstration continued for several more minutes. Senna grew increasingly frustrated, her attacks becoming wilder and less controlled. The veteran knight never once looked at her opponent, yet defended against every strike with seemingly supernatural precision.
When the exercise ended, Yarihc found himself mentally cataloging what he'd observed. The Bronze Initiate's tells, the subtle flaws in technique, the way frustration compromised fighting ability. Each weakness was a piece of information that might prove valuable someday.
The final demonstration featured a Platinum Vanguard—one of the Empire's elite knights. The man's presence was different from the others, carrying an almost tangible weight of authority. Even the other veterans straightened when he approached.
"Stormcalling," he said simply, his voice carrying an odd resonance. "The rarest of the three essences. Watch."
The knight didn't draw a weapon. Instead, he simply stood in the center of the training ground and focused. The air around him seemed to thicken, pressing outward in waves. Several of the Bronze Initiates took involuntary steps backward.
Yarihc felt it too—a pressure against his mind, as if the knight's will was reaching out to touch everyone present. The sensation was uncomfortable, like standing too close to a thunderstorm. His hands gripped the stone railing tighter.
The demonstration lasted only moments, but its impact was profound. When the pressure ceased, several of the newer recruits looked shaken. One young knight had gone pale, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Stormcalling is not about physical combat," the Platinum Vanguard explained. "It is the force of absolute conviction, the ability to impose your will upon the world itself. It cannot be learned through training alone—it must be awakened through trial and purpose."
The exercises continued through the morning, each pairing revealing new aspects of the knights' abilities. Yarihc watched them all, his young mind absorbing and categorizing every detail. He noted which knights favored aggressive tactics, which preferred defense, which seemed to struggle with the more advanced techniques.
As the sun climbed higher, the training session moved to group exercises. Teams of Bronze Initiates faced single veteran knights, learning to coordinate their attacks and support each other. The results were mixed—some groups showed natural teamwork, while others devolved into chaos.
One exercise particularly caught Yarihc's attention. Three Bronze Initiates surrounded a Steel Warden, attempting to overwhelm him through numbers. The veteran knight's Ironveil flowed not just through his weapon but across his entire body, creating a defensive shell that turned aside their coordinated strikes.
But Yarihc noticed something the others missed. The Steel Warden's essence wasn't perfect—there was a brief moment during each defensive sequence where his left shoulder remained unprotected. A tiny gap in his technique, lasting perhaps a heartbeat, but visible to careful observation.
The young prince filed this information away, as he did all the other small details he'd observed. The way certain knights telegraphed their moves, the slight delay in one veteran's Ghostsense, the tells that revealed when someone was about to channel their essence.
As the demonstration wound down, Knight-Commander Varek addressed the assembled knights. "Remember, essence is not a replacement for skill. It amplifies what you already possess—your training, your discipline, your will to protect the Empire. Without a strong foundation, essence becomes merely a crutch."
The knights began to disperse, some heading to the armory, others to the bathing chambers. Yarihc remained in the gallery, watching the last stragglers practice their forms in the fading morning light.
He thought about what he'd witnessed—the intricate dance of combat, the subtle interplay of technique and essence, the way even experienced knights revealed their limitations under careful observation. Each weakness was a thread that could be pulled, each strength a force that could be redirected.
The ten-year-old prince smiled slightly, his expression carrying a hint of something beyond his years. Knowledge was power, and power was opportunity. Today had provided him with both.
As he finally rose from the stone bench, Yarihc cast one final glance at the training grounds. The sand bore the scuffs and impressions of countless feet, wooden swords, and the occasional stumble. Tomorrow would bring new demonstrations, new lessons, new opportunities to observe and learn.
He walked away from the gallery with careful steps, his mind already turning to how this morning's observations might serve him in the complex games of court. The knights had revealed their methods, their capabilities, their flaws.