40 Days Later
8th day of Veilar, 1387 A.D.
The sound of steel on steel echoed in the sparring hall of the Vareth estate. The room was long and narrow, its floor laid with scuffed planks that bore the marks of years of training. Two men faced each other, both sweating despite the chill that lingered outside.
The young man held his stance, longsword raised, breath unsteady. Sweat clung to his brown hair, his eyes fixed on the man before him. His frame was lean, not yet tempered by years of training, and his arms shook with effort.
Kair Daneth stood opposite, steady, and patient. His blade moved with the weight of someone who had repeated the same motions more times than he could count. He had taught all three Vicorra sons once, and before that his own boy. Now only his pupils remained.
The brown-haired youth pressed forward, swinging with more speed than form. Kair blocked with a small turn of the wrist and pushed him off balance.
"Keep your guard closed," Kair said, stepping back to give him space.
He caught himself, straightened, and grinned. "Was closer that time."
"You're closer every time," Kair admitted, tone flat but not unkind. He shifted his blade to the side. "In less than a month, you've already built something most take far longer to grasp."
The praise made him smile wider. Sweat ran down his cheek, his chest tight with the strain. He wanted to laugh, but a flicker of unease pressed in.
In his vision, the colors around Kair had dulled again. What had once been the bright tone of cloth and wood was now dimmed, drained more than it had been hours before. He forced himself not to blink too long, not to show it.
Kair came again. His steps were slow, measured, and his swing pressed his opponent's blade down until the boy's arms shook. He tried to hold the line, but his stance slipped. The older man tapped his ribs with the blunt edge before lowering his weapon.
"That's enough," Kair said.
His opponent stepped back, breathing hard. He laughed softly, cheerful as ever. "I'll get you next time."
Kair rested the sword against his shoulder. "There may not be a next time. You leave tomorrow, don't you?"
The youth nodded. "Yes. My lord goes back to the academy, and I'm to go with him. He says I'll train better there."
"The lord sees talent when it stands in front of him," Kair said. His eyes lingered on the youth, steady but distant. "That's why he set you under me."
The boy's grin flickered for a moment. He felt the weight behind those words. Talent. A chance. He wondered if Kair thought the same of his own son— Larik— before he was lost. For a breath, he wanted to say something, but he kept the smile instead.
"I'll make sure he's not wrong about me," he replied.
"You won't," Kair said simply.
The boy nodded, wiping his face with his sleeve. He had kept his cheer, but inside he felt the hours slipping away. The dullness of the room was spreading faster now. A few more hours and he feared it would all turn to gray.
The lesson ended there. He dipped his head in farewell, light in step as he turned for the exit.
At the door, he glanced back once, grin still bright. "Thank you, Master Kair."
Kair nodded, lowering his sword. "Train well, Lucian."
The young man left the hall, his boots tapping against the worn floor. Outside the light hit him, pale but warm enough to remind him that winter was leaving. He walked on, his smile never breaking.
He kept the same pace down the busy street, weaving through townsfolk and traders. His grin stayed fixed, the kind that made him look younger than he was. When the crowd grew thick, he slid off to the side and disappeared into a narrow alley.
The noise of the street muffled behind him. He moved quickly through the passage, boots splashing against damp stone, before circling to the far end. As he stepped back into the open, his form began to shift.
His brown hair paled to platinum white, his eyes deepening to bronze. The shape of his face refined, high cheekbones and a sharper jawline settling into place.
The boyish image dissolved, leaving behind the man he truly was. The illusion was gone.
Vencian kept walking until a carriage came into view at the end of the lane. The driver gave a small nod as the door opened. Vencian climbed in, letting the door shut behind him.
As the wheels began to turn, the familiar weight in his chest eased. The pull in his sternum slackened as he released the connection.
A familiar weight settled on his shoulder as Quenya materialized, positioning herself as though she had always been there.
"You do have a knack for acting," she said. "Maybe you can get a role in one of the famous plays going on these days."
Her words made him think of the playhouses in the capital, crowded with nobles who paid well to watch men pretend to be heroes. This world had its own ways of chasing stories. He wondered if they would clap for him if they knew how much of his life was performance.
"I might have tried it," he said with a faint smirk, "if I were in need of money."
"Right," she said. "Since you are going to be the lord of Vareth Marquessate. The lord of House Vicorra."
He turned his head to her, and she fell silent. The title felt heavier each time it was spoken aloud, as if naming it rooted him more firmly in a life he had never chosen.
"Sorry," she murmured. "I know you don't like how it turned out."
"Yeah." He leaned back against the seat, his expression unreadable as the weight of the past month settled over him. In his vision the world was slowly regaining its color.
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