The morning sun stretched across the fields, painting the world gold. Kael stood in the clearing behind his grandparents' house, sweat already trickling down his forehead. His grandfather stood a few paces away, wooden staff in hand, his old back straight as a blade.
"Again," the old man said flatly.
Kael groaned, flexing his gloved hands. "You know, most normal grandparents just bake cookies and tell bedtime stories."
His grandfather smacked the ground with his staff, the crack echoing through the clearing. "And most normal boys don't walk around wearing one of the most dangerous relics in Eatheria. Again, Kael."
Kael sighed dramatically, then bent to pick up a rusty shovel from the ground. The moment his hands touched it, the gloves pulsed with dark energy. The shovel warped, twisting into a jagged blade with a serrated edge that shimmered like black steel.
He grinned. "Okay, admit it—this is pretty awesome."
His grandfather's sharp gaze cut him down instantly. "Control is more important than flair. Show me precision."
Kael swung the transformed weapon experimentally, slicing through a wooden dummy. The top half of the dummy slid off and fell to the ground with a thunk.
Kael twirled the weapon dramatically. "Not bad, right? Bet the Etherian Knights would be begging me to join."
The old man's face hardened. "Don't speak of them so lightly."
Kael blinked. His grandfather rarely raised his voice, but the edge in his tone froze him.
"You were… really a Knight, weren't you?" Kael asked carefully.
The old man stared at the ground for a long moment, then lifted his head. His eyes, though clouded with age, gleamed with memories of battles Kael could only imagine.
"Yes. I once stood among them. The Etherian Knights—champions blessed with divine enchantments, wielders of weapons infused with the essence of monsters. We were protectors of Eatheria. And… executioners of those who strayed too far."
Kael felt a chill creep down his spine. "…Executioners? You mean—"
His grandfather tapped his staff against Kael's blade, forcing the transformed shovel back into its rusted form. "Relic wielders like you, boy. The Knights see your kind as a danger to order. If they discover what you carry, they won't hesitate. Not for a second."
Kael swallowed hard. "So… you're training me because…?"
"Because if the world ever finds out, you'll need to be strong enough to survive." His grandfather raised his staff and slipped into a fighting stance. His wrinkled hands didn't tremble, not even a little. "Now, defend yourself."
Kael's eyes widened. "Wait, what—"
His grandfather was already moving. The staff swung down like a hammer. Kael yelped and raised the shovel just in time, the force rattling his arms to the bone.
"Too slow!"
Another strike. Kael stumbled backward, barely keeping his footing. The gloves pulsed in his panic, and the shovel reshaped into a heavy, spiked mace. Kael swung wildly.
His grandfather dodged effortlessly, the staff tapping Kael's shoulder in a clean strike.
"Dead."
Kael groaned, falling to his knees. "Grandpa, you're supposed to be old! At least pretend you've got back problems!"
But despite the pain, Kael was grinning. The rush of combat, the power of the gloves, the fire in his grandfather's eyes—it all stirred something inside him.
"Again," Kael said, forcing himself back to his feet.
The old man raised his staff. A faint smile tugged at his lips, hidden beneath his beard. "Good. That's the spirit of a Stormound."
The training continued long into the day, the clash of wood and steel echoing across the fields.
And though Kael laughed and joked through most of it, deep down he understood one thing:
His grandfather wasn't just training him for strength.
He was preparing him for war.