The first morning of Jade Spring, in the Year of the Willow, felt unreal—like waking from a nightmare and finding the world had decided, just for a little while, to be gentle again.
Cael woke before sunrise, lying flat beneath his thin blanket, waiting for that old surge of fear. But there was no shouting, no echo of flames, no panic clawing at his chest. Only the sound of a distant cart creaking through empty streets, a sparrow's call from the garden wall, and—somewhere close by—the soft, steady sweep of a broom across stone. The air in Lady Seraphine's house was calm, filled with a promise he barely trusted.
He got up and dressed slowly, the fabric of his new tunic too soft, almost slippery against his skin. Aylin, already up, spun in her own—grinning as the cloth flared around her knees. Cael rubbed the sleep from his eyes and laughed, the sound strange and unfamiliar in the quiet.
"I'll bet you outrun me today," he teased, fumbling with the sash at his waist.
Aylin stuck out her tongue. "Only if you don't trip over your own big feet, Cael."
They found Lady Seraphine waiting in the courtyard, hands folded behind her back, hair tied in a simple knot. She wore plain training clothes and boots, no jewelry, no show. To Cael, she looked more like a stern instructor than a noblewoman.
"You're not here to learn fighting or healing to show off," Seraphine said as they approached, her voice carrying clear and kind. "You're here to build strength—the kind that lasts through every season's hardship. Jade Spring will pass into Crimson Harvest before we know it. By then, you'll face the sect trials. That's six months of hard work ahead, and I want both of you ready—not just in body, but in mind and spirit."
She knelt beside Aylin, meeting her at eye level. "You're young. That's your blessing. No need to rush headlong into warrior life. Your greatest gifts—your heart, your mind—need time to grow strong. Each morning, you'll run with us. Not fast, but steady, until you can breathe the whole way. You'll practice stances and balance, learn how to avoid trouble instead of chasing it. The rest of the day, you're my apprentice. We'll garden, study rare herbs, and you'll learn every remedy I know. I won't just let you watch—you'll be helping before you know it."
Aylin looked up, nerves and excitement mingling in her eyes. "I want to know every plant in your garden," she said softly. "Someday, I'll fix anything."
Seraphine smiled, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "That's the spirit. But remember—sometimes the bravest thing is waiting for the right moment to act. Patience is just as hard as running headlong."
When Seraphine stood and turned to Cael, her tone shifted—firmer, but proud. "You, Cael, need a body strong enough to shield others. Every day, you'll run a little farther, carry a little more, train to meet each blow without fear. Shield work is with Old Bo. He's no cultivator, but he's survived more than most nobles ever will. Listen to him. After, you'll train in the halberd with me—one hand on shield, one on weapon. By Crimson Harvest, I want you standing taller than any city guard."
Cael tried not to show his nerves. "I'll do my best, Lady Seraphine."
She nodded, half proud, half warning. "Strength isn't just muscle. Watch the world. Learn to read a fight before it starts. Sometimes, protecting someone means you stand your ground when everyone else runs."
Training started with a jog through the dew-soaked grass. The first lap felt easy, the second burned, the third tested the stubbornness in Cael's bones. Aylin huffed alongside him, her cheeks flushed, but Cael slowed to match her each time she faltered. They finished together—not fast, but together.
Seraphine walked them through basic stances: feet apart, knees bent, arms moving slow and patient. Cael's body felt awkward, every limb too loose or too stiff, but he watched the way Seraphine's weight shifted and tried to match it. Aylin's moves were lighter, all balance and giggle when she stumbled—but she always started again, more focused each round.
After, Aylin trailed Seraphine to the herb garden. The sun pulled the scents of mint and earth up from the soil. Aylin dug in with both hands, learning which roots healed and which could harm, practicing the names of flowers under her breath, and watching as Seraphine checked the pulse of an old patient or mixed a careful dose of powder.
"Healing," Seraphine told her, "means noticing what others miss. You'll need patience to wait, and courage to act when everyone else hesitates."
Meanwhile, Cael crossed the yard to Old Bo—a city guard with a limp and a face like an old tree, full of stories and scars. Bo tossed Cael a battered shield.
"Shield's not about looking tough," Bo barked. "First lesson—root yourself. Knees bent, feet wide, toes pressing the earth. If your feet give out, you're no good to anyone."
Bo rapped the shield with a stick—sometimes gently, sometimes with a sharp smack that made Cael's hands sting. "Don't just block. Angle your shield, let the blow slip past. Don't fight every hit—deflect, absorb, move. A stiff shield snaps, a smart one bends."
At first, Cael felt ridiculous—legs wobbling, arms tired, sweat burning his eyes. "Don't freeze," Bo said, circling him. "Don't swing wild. A good shield never panics."
When Cael started to tire, Bo made him close his eyes, listening for the strike, feeling the vibration through wood and bone. "See without seeing. Let your shield tell you what's coming."
After shield drills, Seraphine handed him the halberd. At first, it felt clumsy and heavy. Cael's hands slipped, his swings slow and awkward. Seraphine corrected his stance, guiding his hips, making him repeat each motion until it flowed a little easier. "Let your whole body move," she told him. "It's not just your arms."
Each evening, Cael and Aylin met in the kitchen for soup and bread. They traded stories—Aylin about a flower that glowed blue in the dark, Cael about the deep ache in his shoulders after blocking Bo's hardest strikes. They laughed about their mistakes and marveled at how much they'd changed in a day.
On rest days, Seraphine sat with them beneath the willow tree, her voice soft and patient. "A healer's strength is patience. A shieldbearer's greatest courage is knowing when not to act. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is wait for the right moment."
The seasons passed. Days stretched out and folded back again. By the end of Jade Summer, Aylin could run the garden circuit twice without stopping, her fingers quick with every herb and her mind sharp with remedies. She could dodge during practice, keep her hands steady tending a fever, and stand her ground even when tired.
Cael's back and arms thickened. He could block Bo's hardest blows and wield the halberd in one hand, shield steady in the other. The shield felt lighter now—almost a part of him. Even the system's quiet messages faded into the background, a private reassurance:
**[Shield Mastery: Intermediate. Halberd Strength: Adequate. Endurance: High.]**
Crimson Harvest came with cold air and swirling leaves. Cael stood tall—taller than he'd ever been, shield an extension of his arm. Aylin's eyes were bright, her hands steady and confident, her black hair long and wild in the wind.
At dusk, Seraphine called them to the garden, pride clear in her voice. "You've come farther than I hoped. The city isn't always kind. But you're ready—body, mind, and heart. The most important thing is this: never forget what you learned here, and never let go of each other."
That evening, Cael and Aylin walked back to their rooms as the last sunlight faded from the rooftops. They were tired—the good kind, the kind that comes from honest work and hope. Their six-month promise had become more than routine; it was the foundation for everything they'd build together.
As night settled over Yuanshan, Cael lay awake, flexing his hand and feeling the strength in his bones. He listened to Aylin's gentle breathing in the next bed and, for the first time in a long while, smiled. Whatever tomorrow brought, they would face it side by side.