The Prince's Dream
The palace lawn stretched like a green sea, studded with wildflowers whose scents mingled with the laughter of children. The sun from another world warmed Kaelios's young skin as he ran breathless, chasing his younger brother through a flurry of stirred leaves. They shouted at the top of their lungs, invented battles, and imagined kingdoms—as only children who haven't yet learned the measure of duty can.
"Catch me if you can!" the little one yelled, slipping between two stone columns.
Kaelios sped up, his heart light. There was something reassuring in these games, an obviousness that had nothing to do with the maps and texts he would be asked to learn tomorrow. However, mid-run, a low, severe voice, his father's, cut through the air.
"Kaelios!"
The prince stopped as if struck by a spell, his smile freezing. On the balcony, the king awaited him, a stern silhouette, robe embroidered with gold. The tone left no room for discussion.
"You are the crown prince. You have obligations. Your tutor is waiting for you in the History room. Don't keep me waiting."
One last look at his brother—a fleeting gesture, almost a promise—and Kaelios followed the servant who hurried to his side. The corridors, initially vast and bright, smelled of stone and carpets, of lessons and demands. His tutor, a woman with an upright posture and a delicate face, welcomed him into a room where massive books, maps, and training weapons were already waiting.
Hours passed. He was taught about lineages, treaties, and crown emblems, then he was trained in fencing: stances, parries, the art of feeling the space. Kaelios applied himself—he had to be a good student—but his gaze furtively darted toward the open window. Out in the courtyard, his brother was resuming his games, free, carefree. With a heavy heart, Kaelios concentrated nonetheless.
Suddenly, a cry pierced the marble: the sound of wings, a child's scream. A group of vultures had appeared and were swooping toward the courtyard, striking a younger boy. Time froze.
"Brother!" Kaelios yelled.
He leapt up, clumsily brandishing the training sword. His tutor blocked him with a gesture, but her hand was pushed aside: instinct hurried his steps. He crossed the courtyard, his blade clashing with the air, and threw himself between the squawking raptors and the little boy. The blows came fast, not yet mastered, but the energy and determination made the birds flee. The trembling brother huddled against the prince. Kaelios led him back inside, his chest pounding.
"You are safe and sound," he whispered, as if the promise could stop everything.
Then a voice—muffled, persistent—whispered to him: Kaelios... Kaelios... It repeated, insistent, like a drop that eventually pierces a stone. Slowly, the image of the palace dissipated; a different light seized him, pulling him out of the dream.
A Rough Awakening
The real world welcomed Kaelios with the softness of leaves and the earthy smell of Havelune. He blinked and first became aware of a weight on his chest. A soft, warm, familiar weight. He lifted his head and realized that Aërya was sitting astride him, her hands on his shoulders, her golden hair cascaded down.
"Uh... Aërya?" he stammered, his cheeks immediately flushing. "Why... are you... on me?"
Aërya looked away, red as an autumn berry, before regaining her composure and answering in a tone that was half teasing, half affectionate.
"I don't have a habit of kissing princes awake. I simply pulled you out of your Sleeping Beauty slumber. You were snoring like an old oak tree."
Kaelios sat up, embarrassed but already ready with a retort.
"Sleeping Beauty Prince? Really. I don't have time for your fairy tales this morning."
She stared at him, a half-smile on her lips: "Oh, you'll have the time. Breakfast, and then training. You agree you can't be late? We have a... more important mission than just snacking."
He blinked, still caught between sleep and memory. "The mission? Aren't we supposed to leave to find Selindra?"
Aërya's features became more serious. She placed her fingers against his cheek and spoke in a low voice, with that softness that made her both serene and relentless.
"You absorbed Lioran's body. You underwent an awakening. It's unprecedented: normally, a deity bestows a title and a consistent change to the body and skills. For you, everything has changed without a divine title being given. You walk, you talk, but your body isn't stable yet. You lose your balance, you haven't yet mastered all the abilities. You must train. Now."
Kaelios pursed his lips, stung.
"That's not true. I'm perfectly stable."
To prove his point, he took a step to perform a small demonstration of mastery—he concentrated his aura, felt the flow of mana—and strove to affirm his posture. Despite his will, a dizziness took him. His feet slipped and he found himself on his knees, then toppled over, his head in the dust. The scene had an immediate comical effect: Aërya burst into laughter, her hand over her mouth, while her cheeks took on a deeper hue.
In his mind, a metallic, mocking voice resonated.
"Stabilization state: twenty percent. High risk of inopportune reflex activation. At this rate, risk of becoming a... bouftou."
Kaelios shot up like a rocket, spitting out a few grains of dust.
"Aeni! You're always trying to be a comedian at fixed hours. It's not funny!"
Aeni replied without any hesitation, allowing himself the same irony:
"I observe. I record. I merely allow myself to note that efficiency remains improvable, and that the probabilities of public embarrassment are not negligible."
Kaelios, his pride more bruised than his body, bit his lip.
"Very well. We'll see about that at training. And first, what was that dream? What do you think it was, Aeni? Sealed memories?"
"Partial analysis: resurgent mnemonic fragments, likely from a previous life. High degree of authenticity. Emotional interference detected."
"We'll deal with that later," Kaelios said, getting up, determined. "For now, I want to see what Havelune's best sword master can teach me."
Training with Arvandor
The training clearing was bathed in clear light that morning. Trees, targets, wooden dummies; everything looked ordinary, but the presence of Arvandor Lythrasil commanded automatic respect. He stood straight, with the bearing of a man who had seen battles and who knew the cost of blood. His face was weathered, his silver hair tied back; his eyes, a hard green, examined Kaelios with severe curiosity.
"I warn you, prince," he said, placing his palm on his sword's hilt, "I have no patience for bluster. If you want me to honor you, you'll first have to learn to land without shaming the ground."
Kaelios offered a faint smile, but his ego still had comebacks to offer.
"Very well. Show me where I'm going wrong."
Arvandor took a step back, then got into a guard. He invited Kaelios to attack, his voice precise and devoid of emotion.
"Attack."
Kaelios leapt forward, more confident this time. He attempted a feint, pressing his blade to the right, then to the left. Arvandor laughed inwardly at these still-hesitant movements and fluidly stepped aside like a branch in the wind. With a swift motion, he hooked his boot against the back of Kaelios's calf, applying a trip—a simple but deadly technique if poorly received.
Kaelios lost his balance. His whole body betrayed him; he fell headfirst into the dust. The sound of his fall echoed strangely in the middle of the clearing, like a small comet crashing into a quiet glass of water.
A clear burst of laughter sliced through the air: Aërya, perched on a root, was holding her stomach. The villagers around watched, some covering their mouths, others holding back laughter. The humiliation was complete.
"That was... graceful," Aërya articulated between laughs, "truly a breathtaking choreography."
Aeni, in the back of Kaelios's head, added his comment:
"Show evaluated: 9/10 for creativity. 2/10 for martial efficiency."
Kaelios got up, red with anger and shame. He shot an incandescent look at Arvandor.
"You're going to pay for that," he said.
Arvandor contented himself with a small, cold smile, almost a teacher's approval.
"The next exercise: manage your aura during combat while using the sword. If you want to understand your power, start by understanding your flow. Attack now."
Kaelios lunged forward again, more focused. This time, he felt the aura like a sail in front of him: he directed it, shaped it, placed his breath. His movements gained a naturalness. But Arvandor was—and remained—the master. With a backhand, a step, he sent Kaelios back to the dust once more, less brutally, more pedagogically.
The breath of the crowd, complicit, had turned into a murmur of encouragement; Aërya, both amused and proud, crossed her arms but her eyes shone with ill-concealed admiration. Aeni grumbled something inaudible—then, in an almost cruel ironic twist, the mockery softened.
"Do you want me to take over?" Aeni offered without permission.
Kaelios panted, the blush still on his cheeks.
"No, no—I want to do it myself."
His voice broke, sincere and honest. He wanted to prove he could do it without assistance.
Arvandor crossed his arms.
"Alright. One last exchange, just to see. Attack."
Kaelios concentrated his mana more, the glow around his blade intensified, and he charged. This time, he truly felt the line, the cadence, the distance. But despite the newly acquired technique, Arvandor was unpredictable. He feinted, slid to the side and, just as Kaelios thought he had him, he applied a clean hook to the ankle. The prince toppled forward, which made him fall headfirst—again.
Silence fell for a fraction of a second, then the clearing exploded with laughter. Aërya burst out again, unable to contain herself. The children whispered among themselves, delighted by the spectacle. Kaelios, on the ground, his face covered in dust, heard Aeni chuckle in his head.
"Stabilization: twenty percent. Humiliation factor: high. Recommendation: acceptance of the lesson and amplification of efforts."
Blood rushed to his temples. He sat up, wiping the dust from his hands on his tunic. A cold anger gave him courage; he gripped the hilt of his sword as if it were the only thread connecting him to his honor.
"Alright," he shouted, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I accept the lesson. But I don't just want to learn parries. I want to master my flow, optimize my aura and my mana. I want to be... stronger than the flaws that make me fall."
Arvandor looked at him, assessing, then nodded.
"Then listen, boy. I'm going to teach you to feel the wind on the blade. I'm going to teach you to make your breath a rhythm. But it will take sweat. And humility. You started with sweat. Now you'll need humility."
The tension rose, the air became almost electric. Aërya stood up, her eyes bright with challenge and encouragement.
"Show them, Kaelios," she said. "And show me."
At that moment, Aeni—after the last humiliation and faced with Kaelios's visible determination—made the logical decision he had not yet dared to make: to activate. But he waited for tacit permission—the humiliation had just settled, the anger had turned into resolve. Then, quite simply, Aeni declared, in a tone that left no room for doubt:
"Combat mode: activation."
Kaelios's body shivered like a puppet being pulled; his muscles obeyed a foreign and precise instinct. He was conscious, but he no longer controlled the choreography: Aeni guided the lines, corrected the angles, optimized the flows. The sensation was strange, almost invasive, but the efficiency was immediate.
"What is...?" Kaelios yelled to himself, while his arms, now orchestrated by Aeni, moved with a velocity he had never known.
"Let it happen," Aërya whispered, in a low voice.
The dance that followed was a mixture of technique, art, and benevolent intrusion. Aeni refined each attack, each counter, guiding Kaelios so he would manage his aura like a sculptor mastering his chisel. Arvandor was confronted with a new precision and, even as he adapted, he eventually found himself in difficulty. The blades clashed, mana sparks flew, and the two combatants exchanged a succession of assaults and ripostes that made the clearing vibrate.
Finally, in a movement of simultaneous grace and power, Kaelios disarmed Arvandor. The master's sword fell into the dust, and Arvandor was thrown backward, his eyes wide. Kaelios's blade stopped a few centimeters from the veteran's neck.
The silence was total, then the vibration of a dry laugh escaped Arvandor.
"Good. Very good, boy. You have progressed. And if I'm on the ground, it's not forever. But today, you have the right to smile."
Kaelios lowered his blade, out of breath, a mix of fatigue and triumph shining in his eyes.
"So, who's the loser now?" he asked, in a half-serious, half-provocative tone.
Arvandor, regaining his composure, replied in a tone that had the tenderness of a master for his best student.
"You're not a loser. You're finding yourself. But you have guts. Keep them."
The Elves' Celebration
Night sewed stars above Havelune, and the great clearing was transformed into a party hall. A massive campfire sang ancient languages; the flames sent golden reflections onto the gathered faces. Banquets were set: toasted bread, candied fruits, spicy dishes, and those warm drinks that made the heart sing. Musicians and storytellers took their places; children bounced around, and joy offered a balm to the village still marked by recent mourning.
Kaelios, tired but filled with a contained satisfaction, sat down next to Aërya. He shared the simple meal the community offered with her, their fingers occasionally brushing. Aërya had a mischievous air; the morning's resentment had melted into something affectionate.
"So, hero of the day?" she asked.
"I'm avoiding having my head in the dust and I've learned not to be pushed around," he replied, giving a playful bow.
Laughter resonated. Then, as if the evening had to respect an old pact of fun, a young elf with ebony hair approached. Her gaze was frank, her voice soft.
"Kaelios... would you like to dance?"
Aërya suddenly felt a sharp, transparent pang of jealousy. She pretended to be nonchalant, but her fingers tensed. Before Kaelios could answer, the entire village murmured and, in a knowing circle, an elf pulled him away.
"And you, Aërya, come and dance," the elf said, taking her hand in a mischievous tone. "Don't just stand and watch. Honor us."
Aërya protested, then gave in. The villagers smiled at each other—a whole staged scene. The music took hold, hands joined, and the dance began. The steps were awkward at first, then became more confident. The elf holding Kaelios showed him the rhythm and guided him with grace. A moment came when, as if destiny only needed a nudge, the two couples naturally moved toward each other. They were pushed slightly, with mischief, until Aërya and Kaelios found themselves face to face, dancing together.
Aërya raised an eyebrow, ironically.
"I didn't know the Prince Charming was such a good dancer," she said, as if discovering a new talent.
Kaelios replied, a smile on his lips, his tone playful.
"And I didn't know my goddess hid so much grace beneath her sarcasm."
The crowd applauded; the musicians played louder; the flames rose high. They spun, and spun again, losing awareness of the world that had weighed on them these past few days. Laughter, songs, and human warmth mended the gaps created by loss. For a few hours, Havelune was a place of pure life, and Kaelios felt, in the pit of his chest, a fragile but true peace.
When the dance ended, Aërya rested her head against his shoulder, smiling and teasing all at once.
"You're not so bad after all," she whispered. "But don't take yourself too seriously."
"Never," he replied with a soft laugh. "Except when it comes to you."
They remained there, listening to the night. In the distance, the World-Tree dropped leaves that shone like tiny stars; and Kaelios, his stomach still a little sore from training, knew the road to Selindra would be long. But that evening, he had found a strength within himself: humility transformed into a passion for learning, love into a promise, and friends—and a partner—ready to support him.