The moment Elarion's foot hit the stone floor, Bour rushed in.
Fast.
Elarion dodged—not by shifting weight, but by tilting just enough for the fist to slice air past his cheek. His eyes never blinked.
Bon moved too—his movement a mirror, an echo, perfectly timed with his brother's. They were trying to flank.
> "No aura," Bon noted aloud. "He's not using it."
> "Maybe he can't, guess the rumours of him being the youngest aura user was false."
> "Or maybe…" Bour grinned wider, "he's showing off."
They attacked together now—one low, one high.
Perfect rhythm.
But Elarion didn't block. He didn't parry.
He flowed.
Dropped low beneath the kick. Slipped sideways past the punch. Raised an arm just enough to catch Bon's wrist and twist—not to break, but to unbalance.
Then—
He struck Bour in the gut.
A single sharp jab.
Bour stumbled, breath gone.
Bon moved in instantly, without anger—but Elarion stepped forward before the attack landed, getting too close, too fast—
—and whispered.
> "You're better than your brother."
Bon froze. A misstep.
That's all it took.
Elarion brought a heel down on Bon's knee—not hard enough to cripple, just enough to end it.
Both boys collapsed.
Neither were bleeding. Not broken.
But defeated.
Silence.
Wind stirred the dust.
Elarion didn't say anything. Just turned.
And walked out of the ring.
Bon sat up, wiping sweat from his brow. His gaze followed the boy's retreating figure.
> "He's not normal," he said.
> "Tch… I know," Bour muttered, half-laughing despite himself. "What is he?"
Bon didn't answer.
---
Later — That Night
The twins sat on the edge of the sleeping quarters roof, legs swinging off the side.
Bon was still staring into the dark.
> "He knew our rhythm. First time seeing it, and he read it."
> "He didn't even get angry," Bour muttered. "Like… not even a thrill. Like we were homework."
> "I want to fight him again."
> "We will. But next time…"
Bon finally smiled—just a flicker.
> "Next time, we'll follow him."
------
After fight:-
From the high walkway overlooking the central ring, Instructor Holst stood, arms behind his back.
He hadn't announced himself.
He rarely did.
He simply watched.
The twins sat in the dust below, breathless but not humiliated. They had fought like wolves—but the boy had moved like water. No waste. No noise. No thrill.
Holst's eyes narrowed as Elarion walked away, not even glancing back once.
He had seen something terrifying in the boy today.
Not the strength.
Not the technique.
But the discipline. The distance.
He murmured low, voice lost in the wind:
> "A killer's mind… in a child's body. Controlled. Precise. Untouched by victory."
He closed his eyes for a moment—just one.
> "He's learning restraint."
A pause.
> "Too fast."
--
After he fought the twins, Elarion left without looking back.
He wanted to go and wash up.
"Why are you still following?"
"Why can't I? Sir Elarion" Herua said in dramatically respectful way while bowing 90 degree.
" Stop" Elarion replied annoyed.
" I am going to take bath, you wanna take it with me"
Herua looked up and opened his mouth enthusiastically with wide eyes
" Ye.."
" Leave!" Elarion cutted him mid sentence and left Herua whining behind.
----
The hallway was still.
Light bled softly through tall glass panes, silvering the clean stone with a quiet that felt heavier than footsteps. The air was scented faintly with oil, leather, and firewood. Nothing out of place. Not here.
When the maid entered, she bowed low. Not out of fear—but because her discipline left no space for clumsiness.
"Sir Marcus," she said gently. "The young heir is waiting."
He looked up from his notes.
Not war documents today—something else. Thin parchment filled with tight script. A report on Elarion's training hours. Mistakes made. Corrections logged. Injuries recorded with surgical precision, followed by a mark: He did not complain.
He stood without a sound.
---
The room he entered was different from the rest of the estate—no coldness here. It was small, with a high bookshelf no child could reach and a low-burning hearth. The curtains were drawn, filtering the sun into a soft red glow. A boy sat curled into a corner chair, holding a wooden practice knife.
His name was Daniel. He looked up the moment Marcus entered, expression unreadable.
"You held it wrong," Marcus said, nodding toward the knife.
Daniel lowered his gaze. "I thought it was like a pen."
Marcus said nothing. He knelt.
Not to hug. Not to scold. Just to adjust the boy's fingers, one by one, until the grip looked right. Not perfect—but passable.
"Again."
The boy mimicked the hold.
Marcus let silence settle again. It wasn't awkward. Just sharp.
"Why did you call me today?" Daniel asked.
"You haven't seen your brother in weeks," Marcus replied.
Daniel's eyes widened faintly. "You mean—?"
"He's in the inner ring now," Marcus said simply. "If you wait, he'll pass through this wing. You have four minutes."
Daniel stood, almost stumbling in eagerness. But Marcus raised a hand. "Don't run. You'll waste breath."
The boy nodded, heart thudding.
---
Elarion came shortly after. His boots were bloodstained, his knuckles raw. But his face remained calm—mask-like, almost too calm for a boy that age.
He stopped at the doorway and blinked at Marcus.
"Four minutes," Marcus said.
No smile. No warning. Just space.
Elarion entered.
Daniel didn't know what to say. So he just stepped close and touched Elarion's hand—gently, as if asking permission.
Elarion didn't move. Didn't speak. But he didn't pull away either.
A strange quiet wrapped around them. Not fragile. Just... balanced.
"I... missed you," Daniel whispered.
Elarion's voice came slower. "I know."
Their hands remained loosely joined, one wrapped in bandages, the other in softness.
From across the room, Marcus watched.
He didn't interrupt. He didn't smile. He simply observed the silence as if it were a lesson—one the boys needed to learn on their own.
When time was up, Marcus stood. "Just one last day at dorms then, Training resumes."
Daniel stepped back. Elarion's hand fell to his side like a sword returning to its sheath.
They didn't speak again.
But that was enough.
---
Later that night, Marcus wrote something into the parchment beneath the injury log:
> Pain without understanding becomes cruelty.
Pain understood becomes control.
He paused.
Then beneath that, in ink thinner than shadow:
> He didn't smile. But he stayed.
-----