Valrion woke aching. Every muscle throbbed, his arms hung heavy, and the bruises across his ribs flared when he sat up. The training from yesterday lingered in his bones like fire — painful, but not unwelcome.
His chamber was spacious but not lavish. High stone walls hung with dark banners. A desk stacked with scrolls and ledgers. A rack of practice weapons against the far wall. The floor was polished blackwood, cold beneath his feet. It was not the room of a pampered heir, but of a boy born into a house that had once been great, and now clung to discipline instead of power.
By the door stood a butler, younger than Serathis but dressed in the same dark livery. In his arms lay a folded training suit of reinforced nanoweave.
"Young lord," the man said with a bow. "Your clothes for today. Lord Serathis is waiting for you."
Valrion nodded, taking the suit. A quick smile tugged at his lips.
Serathis… what will he have in store for me?
He dressed quickly, the fabric snug against his bruises, excitement pushing back the ache.
The halls of the estate were quiet this early. Only the echo of his boots filled the air. Portraits of long-dead Aureliths stared down as he passed, their gazes stern, unyielding. With each step, he felt their weight on his shoulders.
When he pushed into the training yard, the morning air was cool and mist clung low to the stone.
Serathis was already waiting.
At first glance, he looked plain: short black hair streaked with silver, an ordinary face that could vanish in a crowd. But his eyes — steel-gray, steady, sharp gave him away. They belonged to a man who had fought and survived more battles than most could imagine. His butler's uniform was simple, yet the way he stood balanced, poised, wooden practice sword planted point-down before him stripped away any illusion of servitude. Every line of him spoke of war.
Valrion's chest tightened nerves, excitement, and something heavier.
This was no servant. This was a warrior.
And now, he was Valrion's teacher.
Serathis's voice cut through the yard. "Grab a sword. First lesson: defense. Three things matter block, parry, bind."
Valrion hurried to the rack, snatched a practice blade, and barely had time to lift it before Serathis moved. A horizontal slash came, fast and clean.
The wooden edge slammed into his ribs. Pain burst through his chest, and bile hit the dirt as he doubled over.
"Up," Serathis said, voice flat.
Valrion staggered upright, sword trembling in his hands. He gritted his teeth, refusing to falter.
The second strike came down vertical, splitting like an axe. The blow cracked against his skull, stars exploded in his vision, and he hit the ground.
Before darkness could take him, Serathis's voice cut through the ringing in his ears. "This house stood for thousands of years. It only falls if you do."
When Valrion blinked awake, head buzzing, he forced himself up again. His grip tightened, his chest burned with anger.
Serathis gave a dry, humorless laugh. "Good. But rage will blind you. Calm your mind, or the first man you meet in battle will cut you down."
Another strike came — this time Valrion shifted his blade, clumsy but enough to push it aside.
Serathis's nod was small, approving. "Better. Again."
What followed was hours of punishment. Serathis attacked from every angle, slashes, thrusts, feints and every mistake cost Valrion a bruise, a welt, or a fall. His arms shook, his lungs burned, his body screamed. Yet each time, he rose. Slowly, painfully, he began to see the rhythm — the weight behind the blade, the opening in a feint, the difference between a strike to block and a strike to parry.
At last Serathis called a halt. He rested his sword across his shoulder, eyes steady.
"You think this is harsh? This is nothing. Tens of thousands of years ago, every son and daughter of this house trained like this. That discipline is why we survived wars others didn't. That discipline is the only reason our name still lingers."
Valrion spat blood into the dirt, chest heaving. "And if I can't keep up?"
Serathis's eyes narrowed, unflinching. "Then you'll die, same as the rest. But if you endure… you'll carry this house again."
After a short break, Serathis raised his practice blade once more. "Defense is only half of battle. Now offense. Two things matter: thrust and slash. Everything else is wasted motion. I'll use one arm. Try to hit me."
Valrion lunged, slashing. Serathis turned it aside with ease. Again. Again. Each attempt met with a sharp crack across his shoulder or thigh, punishment without pause. Sweat stung his eyes, his arms ached, but he refused to yield. At last, he feinted wide and drove a thrust low, the wooden tip grazing Serathis's guard.
The old fighter smirked faintly. "Good. You saw the opening. Took long enough."
By the end, Valrion collapsed onto the grass, bruised and drenched in sweat. Above him, the cherry blossom tree swayed in the breeze, its petals drifting down like snow across his chest and blade.
He stared up at them, chest still burning, pain thrumming through every limb. And yet, a smile tugged at his lips.
I'll be better, he thought. No matter how much it hurts. I will rise.