The air outside the estate was cool, touched by the faint scent of pine from the woods nearby. Eryndor stood barefoot on the stone courtyard where he had trained countless nights under the moonlight. Tonight, however, it wasn't his cousins, or Kael, or even Dorian standing across from him.
It was his father.
Clad in a simple black training robe, his posture straight yet relaxed, his father radiated a quiet intensity. Not through words, nor even through visible aura, but in the stillness of his presence. Eryndor felt the weight of it pressing against him, a reminder that the man before him was counted among the strongest in the world.
"Draw your stance," his father said. His voice was calm, but beneath it carried the subtle command of one who expected no hesitation.
Eryndor nodded, sliding into the foundation of the Eightfold Flow—low guard, shoulders loose, breathing steady. Sparks flickered faintly across his fingertips as his lightning responded to his heartbeat.
His father's lips curved almost imperceptibly. "Good. You've sharpened since the competition. But strength in the academy means little here. Now… come."
Eryndor moved first. Lightning pulsed through his veins as he launched forward with Pulse Step, his form blurring in an instant. His strike was sharp, direct—a straight thrust to test his father's guard.
A simple turn of the wrist deflected it. The movement was fluid, effortless. Before Eryndor could reset, his father's foot slid forward, sweeping his balance with the precision of someone who had mastered not just the body, but the rhythm of combat itself.
Eryndor staggered, barely regaining his footing before he snapped into a Gale Feint, wind bursting at his side as he twisted and drove a knee toward his father's ribs.
This time, his father shifted no more than a half-step. The strike passed harmlessly through empty air. In the same breath, a palm pressed against Eryndor's chest—not hard, not even fast—but the impact carried him three steps back, as if an invisible weight had shoved him aside.
"Predictable," his father said. His tone wasn't harsh, but measured, like a teacher pointing out flaws on a scroll. "Lightning and wind crave speed. They tempt you into chasing what looks like an opening. But strength isn't speed. It's timing."
Eryndor grit his teeth, sparks flaring more violently. He reset his stance and surged forward again, weaving lightning into his arms, wind into his legs. His movements grew sharper, more aggressive, chaining strikes in quick succession—palms, elbows, a spinning kick that crackled with elemental force.
For a moment, he thought he caught his father off guard. The lightning-threaded fist was about to connect—
But in a single pivot, his father's body shifted, redirecting the strike with such precision that Eryndor felt as though he had punched through water instead of air. The next instant, his father's leg hooked behind his own, sweeping him to the ground with humiliating ease.
The stone floor hit hard. Lightning scattered across the courtyard like broken glass.
Eryndor groaned, trying to push himself back up, but his father's shadow loomed over him, calm and immovable.
"Do you feel it now?" his father asked. "You have power, Eryndor. Your affinities make you dangerous even at this stage. But until you master control—until your instincts are not just fast but refined—you will always burn out before your opponent."
Eryndor clenched his fists, frustration and admiration tangled in his chest. He forced himself up again, sweat dripping down his face. "Then I'll keep coming until I learn."
A silence passed. His father studied him for a long moment before giving the faintest nod. "Good. That is the only answer worth giving."
They clashed again. And again. Each exchange taught Eryndor something new—not just about the Eightfold Flow, but about the gulf between potential and mastery. His father never struck harder than necessary, never humiliated him, but each deflection, each sweep, each calculated strike carved the lesson deeper.
By the end, Eryndor's body was battered, his breath ragged. He was kneeling, unable to rise for another bout. His father stood untouched, not a single bead of sweat on his brow.
"You lost," his father said evenly, "but you learned. Remember this, Eryndor: a defeat where you gain clarity is more valuable than a hundred victories."
Eryndor bowed his head, lightning still faintly sparking around him, not in frustration—but in determination. He understood now. His power wasn't meant to burn recklessly. It was meant to strike with precision, with intent, like the storm his father embodied so effortlessly.
As his father turned away, he added one last thing, voice softer but carrying immense weight:
"When you can make me take a single step back… only then will you be ready for the world beyond this academy."
The words sank into Eryndor like iron. And for the first time, he smiled through the ache.