The morning air was crisp, unusually dry for the misty shores of Vaelmir. The sun hung low, golden rays cutting through the dew that clung to the grass around the Ryla family's private training grounds. Nestled beside a glimmering lake and framed by tall trees, the grounds were a sprawl of obstacle courses, hanging platforms, sparring circles, and weapon racks stacked with wooden and dulled training arms. In the distance, a waterfall poured from a jagged cliffside, its roar faint but constant—like nature's white noise.
Arkiz squinted as he crossed the stone path winding through the trees. His hair, now long enough to tie into a short ponytail, bounced slightly with each step. He wasn't exactly excited, but curiosity pushed him forward.
Uncle Vaeril was waiting.
He spotted the man sitting on a flat boulder near the main sparring field. Vaeril Ryn—half wood-elf, half human, all steel—wore a sleeveless black tunic and loose black trousers. A jagged scar ran from his left cheek to just under his chin, like a silent warning. His blonde hair was tied back in a tight tail, and his posture was relaxed, but radiated something close to "approach and suffer."
Arkiz raised a hand in greeting. "Morning, Uncle Vaeril."
Vaeril didn't look up from the weapon he was polishing. "You're late."
"I'm eight. That means I have a built-in grace period."
A sharp exhale. "That mouth of yours better move faster than your feet. Come here."
Arkiz jogged over, glancing around at the training layout. It looked fun. And painful.
Vaeril stood up, towering a bit over Arkiz but still within that approachable "uncle" range. "Before we start, you know the drill. What weapon are you aiming to learn?"
Arkiz scratched the back of his head. "I... don't really know yet. I haven't awakened. Don't wanna train in something that ends up useless."
Vaeril gave a rare approving nod. "Good answer. Smarter than most. I've seen kids waste years on bows, only to awaken with earth affinity."
He stepped toward a rack and picked up a wooden arrow.
"Imagine coating one of these with dense earth aether. It's basically a flying rock. You get zero momentum, zero speed. Unless your goal is to bruise someone's ego at ten paces, it's a bad match."
Arkiz winced. "Yeah, no thanks."
Vaeril turned, clapping his hands together. "That means we begin where it always begins. Close combat. Hands, feet, balance. Once you learn the body, the weapon becomes an extension of it."
Arkiz gave a half-smile. "Lemme guess. Then comes the sword?"
Vaeril eyed him like he just confessed to stealing holy relics. "What's that look for?"
"Nothing. Just wondering why every grown man in this world has a sword fetish.(Well not only this world—every fantasy novel world, I guess.)"
A long silence.
Vaeril raised a brow. "Do you know why swords are called the king of weapons?"
Arkiz crossed his arms. "Because they're versatile? And... cool?"
The silence got heavier.
Vaeril gave him a stare so flat it could iron clothes. "You're lucky your mother's side has strong genes. Gods know your logic needs work."
He turned and pointed to the rack.
"Swords are versatile, yes. But more importantly, they teach control, spacing, timing, and precision. They allow both offense and defense without switching stances or weapons. You can feint, thrust, slash, block, and recover in one flow."
Arkiz nodded slowly. "Still feels like you could learn that with a spear too. Spears have range, right? Wouldn't that make more sense?"
Vaeril let out a short grunt. "That's true. Spears are excellent. Simple to pick up, hard to master. But here's the catch—they don't build fundamentals the same way. You rely too much on reach and straight-line attacks. The moment someone gets inside that range, you're scrambling. Sword teaches you how to close gaps, defend from all angles, and transition between ranges. Once you learn the sword, picking up other weapons becomes easier."
Vaeril stretched his arms behind his back.
"Anyway, you're not touching a sword until you can run ten laps around this field without wheezing like a dying toad."
Arkiz blinked. "Ten?"
"Ten hundred," Vaeril corrected, deadpan. "And then we'll talk about stretches that don't snap your spine."
He pointed toward the wide grassy field.
"Go. Run. Then flexibility drills. I'm not training a blade bearer with the stamina of a half-dead squirrel."
Arkiz's eye twitched.
"I'm eight," he muttered in his mind, trudging off. "What did he expect? A gym bro with a protein barrel for breakfast?"
High above the grounds, on the east-facing balcony of the Ryla estate, two figures sat at ease with teacups in hand.
Selis reclined gracefully, her light blue hair catching the sun as she smirked down at the tiny form of Arkiz dragging his feet across the field.
"Ah, the best part of the day," she murmured, sipping her tea. "Watching another Ryla child suffer under Vaeril's merciless training routine."
Elowen—Elya to her husband—sighed dramatically, her silver hair glinting in the light.
"My poor baby," she said, though the concern in her voice was more performative than heartfelt. "But... well, it's tradition. Every one of them had to go through this madness."
Selis chuckled. "Maerin nearly staged a rebellion. Leiran tried to bribe Vaeril with a petrified honey bear. Nyra actually tried to run laps in her sleep."
They both laughed softly. Down below, Arkiz tripped mid-jog and caught himself with a scowl that looked ready to declare war.
"He looks like he's planning Vaeril's downfall already," Selis noted.
Elowen gave a warm smile. "He gets that from me."
But soon enough, his misery was forgotten.
"Did you hear about the new seafolk noble scandal in Caldran Bay?" Selis leaned in with a sly grin.
And just like that, the topic shifted—training woes replaced by noble drama and whispered rumors of political marriages gone awry.