Chapter 3: The First Clash.
The training yard rang with the clang of weapons as the Delsar household gathered to witness the spar. Servants lined the edges, whispering amongst themselves. It was rare for Lord Arion to call for a formal bout between his children, but the decision carried weight: it was a test of blood, of pride, of legacy.
The morning sun burned away the mist, casting long shadows across the flagstones. At the center stood Aric, wooden blade in hand. His stance was steady, his breath calm. Yet inside, his heart beat with a strange rhythm—an eagerness, a hunger, something he hadn't felt in his old life.
Across from him, Lyra stepped forward. She wore the training leathers of House Delsar, her dark hair tied back, her eyes sharp as drawn steel. There was no hesitation in her movements; she had trained daily under their father's watch, praised for her natural talent. If Aric had once been the stumbling shadow, she had always been the shining hawk.
The servants murmured as they compared the siblings.
"She's already mastered the first three forms of the Hawk's Talon."
"And the young master? He was always…"
"Clumsy."
"Soft."
Aric heard them, but he didn't flinch. Let them speak. Words are nothing. I'll answer with action.
Lord Arion raised a hand, silencing the yard. His voice carried, deep and commanding.
"This is not a brawl. This is not play. Today you will spar, and in doing so, reveal the truth of your training. Do not hold back, for the Hawk never strikes lightly."
Lyra smirked faintly, her gaze fixed on Aric. "Try to last at least three exchanges, brother. I'd hate for this to end before it begins."
Kael, perched on the wall, waved eagerly. "Come on, Aric! Show her!"
The signal was given.
Lyra moved first. Her blade cut through the air with speed and precision, the first form of the Hawk's Talon: The Swoop. Aric raised his weapon instinctively, the impact sending a shock through the wood. But instead of faltering, he felt the strange, rising strength again—his body absorbing, adapting, surging.
He pushed back.
Lyra's eyes widened for the briefest instant as her strike was checked. She spun smoothly into the second form, a sweeping arc aimed to unbalance him. But Aric flowed with it, his feet finding perfect placement, his counter-strike almost effortless.
How…? He shouldn't know the forms, not like this. The old Aric had fumbled through them. Yet now, every movement felt natural, as though his body remembered what his mind could not.
The servants gasped. "He blocked it?"
"Not just blocked—did you see that counter?"
Lyra pressed harder, her blade flashing with practiced speed. Each strike was faster, sharper, her talent undeniable. But with every clash, Aric's arms felt lighter, his strength swelling. The longer the bout stretched, the more certain he became.
I am not the boy they remember.
Their blades locked, faces inches apart. Lyra's breath came quick, her eyes narrowing. "You've been hiding something."
Aric met her gaze calmly. "Or maybe you never looked closely enough."
She pushed away, leaping back into stance, her smirk returning though thinner now. "Good. Don't disgrace the family name. Fight properly."
The bout resumed, fiercer than before. Lyra's strikes grew clever, weaving feints and sudden shifts. She was skilled—she had trained for years under Arion's eye, and it showed. Aric didn't match her with technique, but with raw instinct and unyielding strength. When she feinted left, his body moved before thought, intercepting. When she aimed for his shoulder, his blade was already there.
The whispers grew louder.
"He's improved overnight."
"No… this is something else entirely."
Kael's voice rose above them all, his young excitement uncontainable. "He's amazing!"
Finally, with a sharp cry, Lyra launched into the fourth form of the Hawk's Talon: The Plunge. She dropped low, her blade thrusting upward in a vicious strike aimed at his chest.
Aric didn't retreat.
He stepped forward.
His wooden blade came down with ferocity, smashing her thrust aside. The impact echoed through the yard, sending a tremor across the flagstones. Lyra stumbled back, her footing nearly lost. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Aric lowered his weapon slightly, his stance steady, his eyes calm.
It wasn't arrogance. It was certainty.
Lyra's chest rose and fell, her smirk now tinged with something sharper—respect. "Not bad, brother. Perhaps you're finally worth taking seriously."
Lord Arion's voice broke through the silence, heavy and decisive. "Enough."
Both siblings froze, lowering their weapons.
Arion's gaze moved from Lyra to Aric, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke:
"Aric. You are no longer the shadow of this house. From today, you will train alongside your sister, not beneath her. The Hawk does not favor the weak—it favors those who rise."
The servants bowed their heads in acknowledgment. The judgment had been passed.
Kael nearly toppled off the wall in excitement. "I knew it! I knew Aric would surprise everyone!"
Lyra sheathed her practice blade, her smirk fading into something quieter. "Don't get comfortable. I won't hold back next time."
Aric met her gaze steadily. "Good. Neither will I."
---
That evening, the manor hummed with rumors. Some said the young master had been blessed by the gods. Others whispered of hidden bloodlines awakening. But none knew the truth—that every hour, every moment, Aric's body was changing, growing stronger.
In the solitude of his chamber, he clenched his fists, feeling the raw vitality thrumming through his veins.
He had revealed only a glimpse of his strength. Enough to silence doubt. Enough to shift his place within the family.
But deep inside, he knew this was only the beginning.
The world was vast. The Hawk must one day leave the nest.
And when it did, it would soar higher than any before.