The morning sun painted the palace halls in warm gold, its light spilling across stone floors polished to a sheen. Rowan followed quietly behind a palace attendant, his steps echoing faintly. His arms and shoulders still ached from yesterday's spar, but an ember of excitement burned in his chest, dulling the fatigue.
The attendant stopped before a tall set of doors carved with the crest of Nirathal. With a bow, he pushed them open, revealing a training hall larger than the one Rowan had seen before. The faint scent of steel and oil hung in the air, mingling with the sharper tang of sweat.
Inside, Aelric was already waiting. Beside him stood a broad-shouldered man in his forties, his dark hair flecked with silver, his bearing calm yet unyielding. Even without armor, there was a weight to his presence, as if the room itself leaned toward him.
"You're here." Aelric grinned, waving Rowan forward.
The man stepped closer, resting a hand on the hilt of the training blade at his side. His voice was steady, commanding without cruelty.
"I am Marek Bors, a Tier Three knight of the Crown. From today forward, you'll train under me. This is by His Majesty's order. Every morning, you will report here, Your Highness."
Rowan straightened, nodding firmly. "Yes, Sir Marek."
Marek studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowing with something between curiosity and sympathy. "I've heard your story. Must've been rough, growing up among those Vexlaar vultures." He caught himself, grimacing. "Forgive my tongue. But I imagine they never taught you what it truly means to be a knight. Not properly, anyway."
Rowan stayed silent, though the words struck closer to truth than Marek could know.
"That's why we'll start from the beginning," Marek continued. "Even if you think you know the basics, as your teacher it's my duty to lay the foundation fresh. A house is only as strong as its base. If yours was neglected, we'll rebuild it here."
He clasped his hands behind his back, pacing slowly.
"Listen well. The path of a knight begins with the three foundation stages: Awakened, Disciple, and Adept. Only after those do you step into the true Tiers."
He stopped, his gaze steady.
"When you first awaken aura through training, you are called Awakened. At this stage, you can't wield aura in battle or manifest it outward. Instead, it quietly strengthens your body from within. With discipline and constant training, your body adapts to that power. That is when you reach Disciple, and later, Adept. The foundation is all about forcing your body to grow strong enough to bear aura. Only when it begins to manifest naturally have you truly become a knight."
Aelric tilted his head, interest flickering in his eyes. Rowan already knew most of this. He had listened in on lessons back in Vexlaar, even if the instructors had ignored him. But hearing it laid out by a true knight carried a different weight.
"There are four Tiers in total," Marek went on. "At Tier One, you are recognized as a knight. From there, power and lifespan grow with each step, up to Tier Four. Beyond that?" He paused, shaking his head. "No one in recorded history has walked further. Some claim it's the limit of mortal strength. Others believe higher realms exist, hidden or lost."
He raised a finger. "And remember, each Tier is divided into early, low, mid, high, and peak. Every step matters. Now that the theory is settled, let's move on to physical training."
Aelric piped up, mischief dancing in his grin. "Then I will join as well. It's been a while since I went over the basics myself. I've probably forgotten half of them."
Marek's gaze flicked to him, unimpressed. "And whose fault is that, Your Highness?"
Aelric just laughed, utterly unabashed. "Exactly why I should join in."
The knight sighed through his nose, though the faintest trace of amusement touched his stern features. He gestured toward the center of the hall. "Fine. Both of you, line up. If I'm to hammer one foundation back into shape, I might as well sharpen the other."
Rowan accepted the wooden blade handed to him, gripping it tightly. The air felt heavier now, not from the weight of the sword, but from the man who would shape his path forward.
For the first time, Rowan would not be fighting by instinct or desperation.
For the first time, he would learn under the eyes of a true knight.
Marek set his own wooden blade aside and walked to the center of the hall, his boots ringing faintly on the stone.
"First, stance. Without it, a knight is nothing. Strength, speed, aura, none of it matters if your foundation crumbles the moment steel meets steel."
He motioned for Rowan to step forward.
"Feet apart, shoulder-width. Knees loose, not stiff. Weight centered. Sword up, not too high, not drooping. The blade should feel like an extension of your arm, not something you're holding onto for dear life."
Rowan obeyed, adjusting awkwardly at first. Marek circled him like a hawk, nudging his elbow, tapping his boot with the tip of his own blade until the prince settled into the shape he wanted.
"Hmm." Marek's brow furrowed. "Not bad. Awkward, yes, but that's because your body's never been guided. Whoever taught you in Vexlaar should be whipped for neglect. Still…" He stepped back, folding his arms. "You learn quick. Faster than most I've seen."
Rowan's grip tightened, but his expression stayed composed.
"See?" Aelric chimed in from the side, balancing his wooden sword lazily across his shoulders. "Told you he was good."
Marek shot him a flat look. "And you, hold your stance as well."
With exaggerated reluctance, Aelric dropped into the position, mimicking Rowan's movements with surprising ease. Marek narrowed his eyes but didn't call him out. "Hmph. Forgotten the basics, have you?"
Aelric's grin was all teeth. "Maybe a little. Better safe than sorry, right?"
The knight muttered something under his breath but let it slide, turning back to Rowan.
"Now, balance. A knight never fights standing still. Shift your weight, left, right. Forward, back. Smooth. No bouncing."
Rowan moved, hesitating at first but soon finding a rhythm. Marek adjusted him once, twice, then stopped, watching more closely. The boy's feet began to flow almost naturally, as if some buried instinct was surfacing the more he practiced.
"By the Crown…" Marek murmured. His voice hardened, though it carried a note of disbelief. "You've talent. Untouched, raw, but real. And they cast you aside?" His lip curled. "Typical Vexlaar carrion, blind to anything they can't exploit immediately. Fools."
Rowan's chest tightened, but he held his form with quiet determination.
Aelric placed a hand dramatically over his heart. "Careful, Marek. If you praise him too much, I might get jealous."
"Then work harder," Marek said flatly.
Rowan's lips twitched—almost a smile, quickly buried.
Marek clapped his hands once, sharp as a whip crack. "Good. Enough stance work. Now, strikes. Simple, clean, nothing fancy. Power comes later, control comes first."
He demonstrated a downward cut, precise and fluid, then stepped aside. Rowan mirrored him. The first swing wavered, the second steadied, the third carried weight. Marek corrected him only once before his arms began to move smoother, faster, each strike truer than the last.
Aelric, of course, copied each motion perfectly, though he added a little flourish at the end of his swings that earned him another glower.
"You're not fencing at a royal banquet, Your Highness," Marek barked.
"I know," Aelric said, laughing, "but where's the fun without style?"
"Discipline first, style later." Marek shook his head, but his voice held the faintest flicker of amusement.
The knight stepped forward again, reclaiming his own blade. He tapped the wooden floor twice with its tip.
"Training is over for today. Tomorrow, we add footwork drills and defensive blocks. Expect to sweat twice as much. A knight's path is not for the weak, but I see no weakness in you, only gaps that need filling. And I will fill them."
Rowan bowed his head slightly, chest still heaving. "My thanks, Sir Marek."
Marek gave a curt nod, though his eyes held a flicker of something softer. "Rest well, Your Highness. You'll need it."