The academy courtyard emptied as dusk crept across the sky, streaks of orange fading into violet. Eryndor walked home in silence, every step heavy with thoughts that refused to quiet.
By the time he reached the family estate, lanterns had already been lit along the stone pathway. The warm glow should have felt comforting, familiar—but tonight it only reminded him of how little he truly understood about his own bloodline.
Inside, the household was calm. Servants moved quietly, and his father sat in the study, as he always did in the evenings, a single candle illuminating the desk before him. His posture was upright, his eyes sharp, though softened when he noticed Eryndor's return.
"You've done well," his father said simply. His voice carried no surprise, no hesitation. As if he had known Eryndor would survive the trials, knew he would rise among the academy's strongest.
Eryndor bowed his head. "I pushed further than I should have. I lost."
His father studied him for a long moment, then shook his head. "You did not lose. You learned. That is the only victory that matters now."
The words struck deeper than they should have, not because of what was said, but because of how easily his father dismissed the outcome—as if he had seen this moment play out long before it happened.
Eryndor hesitated, then spoke the question that had been clawing at him since the courtyard. "Father… our techniques… my lightning, my instincts… They're not ordinary, are they?"
The candlelight flickered across his father's face. For the first time in years, the mask of calm slipped, just slightly. A pause. A measured inhale.
"They are not," his father admitted at last. His gaze lowered to the papers on his desk, though his voice carried a weight that settled in Eryndor's chest. "Your grandfather… and your parents before me… we were never meant to be ordinary. We walked a path that others cannot, and should not, understand. That path followed us even here."
Eryndor's breath caught. His suspicion confirmed. He pressed further. "So the Eightfold Flow, the way I fight—it's part of that path?"
His father's eyes met his, calm and unwavering. "It is more than a martial art. It is a language written into your very blood. You've felt it, haven't you? When your body moves before thought, when the storm answers without you calling."
Eryndor nodded slowly. He remembered every instinctive counter, every surge of power that had come unbidden.
His father leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "You are only touching the surface. Your grandfather trained you in fragments, enough to give you discipline but not enough to drown you in truths you were too young to carry. What you felt in the trials… that trance… it was your blood remembering."
The words made Eryndor's heart pound. His blood—remembering. His body wasn't just learning new techniques, it was reclaiming something ancient, something hidden.
"Why didn't you ever tell me?" Eryndor asked, his voice quieter now.
His father exhaled, gaze drifting toward the candle flame. "Because the world you stand in now would not forgive you for it. Knowledge can be as much a burden as it is a weapon. One day, you will understand why we chose silence."
Eryndor wanted to demand more—about his parents, his grandfather, about what they had left behind—but the steady look in his father's eyes stopped him. It wasn't avoidance. It was protection.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint crackle of the candle.
Finally, his father spoke again, his voice firm, final. "You are walking the path now, Eryndor. And paths like ours… they do not allow turning back. Whatever you discover from here, whatever awakens inside you—you must be ready to carry it."
Eryndor lowered his head, his fists tightening at his sides. The storm inside him stirred, restless, hungry. He understood only fragments, but one truth had rooted itself deeply tonight.
He wasn't walking an ordinary road. And the shadows of his family's past were already reaching for him.