Chapter 2: The Hawk's Talon
The first light of dawn spilled across Delsar Manor, gilding its towers in pale gold. Servants hurried through the halls, carrying trays, buckets, and training gear. The estate always awoke before its lord, for House Delsar was no idle noble family. They had been warriors for generations, their banners raised in countless battles.
From his balcony, Aric watched the morning unfold. The air was cool, touched with mist rolling off the nearby river. He had not slept much, though his body did not ache. Instead, energy thrummed within him, restless, waiting for release. His hand flexed unconsciously, remembering the way wood had splintered beneath his fist the day before.
He should have been afraid of it, of what it meant. Instead, he felt… drawn.
A voice cut through the stillness.
"Aric."
His father stood in the yard below, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared like a man who had never known defeat. Lord Arion Delsar was not a man who wasted words. When he called, you answered.
Aric descended the steps quietly, heart steadying as he approached.
"Today," Arion said, "you will remember what it means to be Delsar."
Two retainers wheeled out racks of blunted blades and polished staves. The scent of oiled wood filled the yard. Carved into the flagstones were faded marks of generations of training—scars of sweat, blood, and discipline.
"This," Arion continued, "is where our family is forged. Not in parlors or halls, but here. Do you recall the Hawk's Talon?"
Fragments of memory stirred—clumsy stances, half-forgotten drills. The original Aric had struggled, often outshone by his sister's sharp talent and overshadowed by his father's expectations. The name of the style had been heavy, not inspiring.
But when Aric dropped into the stance, something was different. His legs bent slightly, one arm coiled to defend, the other raised to strike. His weight was balanced, his breath calm. He felt… anchored.
Lord Arion's brow lifted almost imperceptibly. "Better."
From the balcony, two shadows appeared. Lyra leaned on the railing, arms folded, her sharp eyes already analyzing him. Kael clung to the bars, his grin wide and unashamed.
Arion drew a wooden blade and pointed it at his son. "Attack."
Aric hesitated only a moment. He wasn't trained—but his body was. He stepped forward and swung. The blade in Arion's hands met his strike with a solid crack, and for an instant, Aric felt the shock of strength reverberate through the wood.
His father shifted, his stance firming. "Again."
Aric attacked. Once, twice, three times. Each strike came faster, heavier, his body flowing with strange instinct. Sweat should have clung to his skin, but he felt only a sharp clarity.
On the balcony, Kael's cheers rang out. "Did you see that? He almost pushed Father back!"
Lyra's gaze narrowed, though she said nothing.
"Again!" Arion barked.
They clashed until Aric's wooden blade cracked at the edge. Finally, with a twist, Arion disarmed him, sending the weapon skittering across the yard. Silence fell.
Arion studied him for a long moment. The lord's eyes were as sharp as drawn steel, and Aric met them without flinching.
"You've changed," Arion said at last, his voice even. "Your form is no longer clumsy. Your strikes carry weight. It seems you have begun to awaken to your blood."
Aric lowered his gaze slightly, careful not to let satisfaction show too openly. Blood? No. Something more.
---
The rest of the morning passed in drills. Footwork. Breathing. The three foundations of the Hawk's Talon: speed, precision, ferocity.
Speed—he flowed naturally, feet light against the flagstones.
Precision—his strikes landed where his eyes led them, as though the air itself guided his hand.
Ferocity—each swing carried power beyond reason, a strength that built instead of faded.
Every repetition should have tired him. Instead, it sharpened him. He felt as though his body was drinking in the training, reshaping itself, growing stronger with every breath.
Servants whispered at the edge of the yard. Few could watch without remarking on the boy who moved like he had been reborn.
On the balcony, Kael mimicked every strike with exaggerated sound effects, his laughter carrying on the wind. Lyra remained silent, but her eyes never left him.
At last, Lord Arion raised a hand. "Enough."
Aric straightened, not panting, not swaying, his chest rising and falling steadily.
"Tomorrow," Arion said, his voice ringing with authority, "you will spar with your sister."
Lyra's eyes lit faintly at the words, though her smirk held no warmth.
Kael nearly toppled over the railing with excitement. "Yes! Aric against Lyra!"
Arion dismissed them, striding from the yard with his usual heavy presence. Servants scattered in his wake.
Aric bent to pick up the broken training blade. He ran his fingers over the splintered edge, his thoughts churning.
This body was not normal. Every moment, every movement, it grew stronger. He could feel it, like a tide rising beneath his skin. And if training amplified it, then every day would bring him further from the boy he was supposed to be.
He closed his fist around the wood until it snapped cleanly in his grip.
On the balcony, Kael shouted down, "Brother! You were amazing! I'll train harder too, just wait!"
Aric looked up, meeting his little brother's shining eyes. A warmth stirred in his chest. Once, no one had admired him. Now, Kael's voice rang with unshaken belief.
Lyra said nothing. She only watched, her gaze sharp and thoughtful, as though she could see the truth hiding beneath his skin.
---
That night, Aric lay awake in his chamber, staring at the painted constellations above. His body felt alive, thrumming, restless. He replayed every strike, every block, every breath.
He did not yet know what he wanted from this world, or what it would demand of him. But he knew this:
He could no longer pretend to be the boy they remembered.
And when his strength was revealed, when the world saw what he could become, there would be no turning back.
The rain had ended.
A storm was waiting to begin.