The training hall's inner dome was quiet, warmed by the last of the day's sun. When Loren closed the heavy wooden door behind them, the world outside the dojo narrowed to the scrape of sandals and the soft hiss of air through the screens. Arion sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, the hum of his new spirit vein a small, steady drum beneath his ribs.
"Breathe slow," Loren said, sitting opposite him. "Do not try to push the current. Let it settle. The first time you feel Spirit Qi move, the urge is to force it. That is how novices scorch themselves."
Arion obeyed. His breaths grew long and even. He felt the warmth from the Ade pill like a slow current winding through his limbs, a new language of sensation that required patience to understand. He closed his eyes and counted his inhalations, felt the air fill the belly, then exhale it out as if pumping a bellows that fed a sleeping forge.
Thirty minutes was a short span for most students—but for Arion it was enough to balance the awakened strand of Qi with his blood and breath. Muscle fatigue and the raw twinge left in his shoulder smoothed into a dull ache rather than a burning sap. When Arion opened his eyes, the world felt less jagged. He stood and moved his arm—simple, obedient motion—and the sword felt lighter in his hand than before.
Loren watched him carefully. "You channelled the intake well. That will be enough for now. Rest, recover, and avoid spilling the current."
Arion bowed. "Thank you, Master Loren." His voice was low but steady. He felt the small embers of control, and with them came a cautious confidence. He had not reached any grandeur—no elemental storms, no crackling manifest—but the Qi stepped obediently at his bidding. That was victory enough.
When Arion stepped from the dome into the long corridor, the scent of stew and wood smoke wrapped around him. The household hummed with life: servants moving, young apprentices practicing in distant rings, and the low murmur of conversation. He started toward the main hall, thinking only of water and something warm to eat when the door burst open and his father stood framed in the doorway.
Lord Caelum Vale's presence filled the entranceway like the deep chord of a war-horn. He looked older in the soft evening light, but his eyes were as keen as the day Arion had learned to place a blade. For a moment Arion's chest tightened—how many times had he failed Caelum? How many times had those failures bled into ash? He swallowed and inclined his head.
"Arion," Caelum said, but there was an odd not-quite-awe threaded through the question. "I felt the shift. Loren spoke of someone who touched Spirit Qi today. Is that you?"
Arion hesitated only the barest beat. "Yes, Father. After the Ade pill last night, and the practice this morning… I reached the Spirit Initiate stage."
Caelum's face moved through several expressions—surprise, quick calculation, then something that softened to concern. "How is that possible? No mentor has taken you through the early cultivation steps. No one taught you privately. How did you learn to open the vein without guidance?"
Arion met his father's gaze. He could have lied and claimed secret tutelage with some wandering hermit, but the truth—memory, desperate study, and one pill taken in the woods—hung like a simpler, more honest thing between them. "I… practiced what I remembered, Father. I studied the forms in our scrolls, and Loren guided my breathing. The pill helped start the flow. I did the rest by focusing on control."
Caelum's eyes narrowed as if measuring sound and sight against the ledger of command. Before he could say more, Loren himself appeared at the doorway, wiping his palms on a rag. He smiled in a way that carried approval and a teacher's appetite for student growth.
"Lord Caelum," Loren announced, not overbearing but pleased. "You should be proud. Arion's spirit vein is genuine. He has an aptitude that does not often appear without a teacher's hand. Natural talent—raw, but present. If he is willing, I will take him under my guidance. I can mold that fire without letting it consume him."
Caelum's stern face softened in the shadow of Loren's words. Then, shifting his stance a fraction, he looked proud as a father might when watching a child take a first step. "Very well. Loren, if you will train him, do so. We must be careful, though. Power without discipline is a blade that cuts the hand that raises it."
Loren inclined his head. "I will be strict. He will practice the grounding forms, breath holds, and circulation drills. We will not rush."
Caelum turned to Arion, the iron edge of command giving way to familial warmth. "Good job, son. Keep it up. Your mother and Elandra and I will support you—do not worry." He reached out and tapped Arion gently on the shoulder in a gesture that was small but heavy with meaning. For Arion, that touch felt like an anointment—recognition from the man whose name and judgment weighted the household.
Arion swallowed and managed a careful smile. "Thank you, Father. I will not fail you."
Caelum's brow lifted as he continued, business replacing parental tenderness the way seasons follow each other. "A month from now, the council will hold the clan's internal selection. We need three disciples to represent Valeheart in the Dominion's trials. It is not only about skill—it is about bearing the clan's name with honor. You are among those I expect to vie for a place."
The words landed in Arion like a stone into still water. Represent the clan. Compete. This was no casual spar; this was a public test, a place where reputations were won or ruined. He felt both fear and a bright, cold resolve kindle in equal parts.
"Father," Arion said, head bowed, "I will prepare."
Caelum nodded once. "Good. For now, focus on your training and the night patrol rosters. I want the counts accurate. Harlan will oversee the watch, but you will learn command responsibilities. Get used to planning and not just striking."
Arion blinked, surprised. Command responsibilities? He had expected training, drills, and private sparring—he had not expected leadership tasks. But the assignment fit the larger plan. To protect his family, he needed more than strength. He needed influence, a presence that mattered to others. He nodded. "Yes, Father. I will do it."
Caelum turned and slowed at the hall's threshold, glancing back. "One more thing—no reckless solo sorties. The clan's safety is paramount."
Arion's eyes met his father's, and in that look was the unspoken truth: he could not tell them everything. For now, discretion was a weapon. "I understand."
After Caelum left, Arion found his mother in the kitchens, hands stained with herb preparations. Serenya looked up and her face softened as she saw him. She wiped her hands and came forward, fingers gentle on his cheek in the way only mothers allowed.
"You look tired," she murmured. "But brighter." Her smile held a secret—hope curled inside it. "Your father told me. I am proud of you, my child. But promise me you will be careful. Power can be a heavy cloak."
"I promise," Arion answered, the word layered—practical, strategic, and tender. He hugged her briefly; the warmth of the contact soothed a part of him that memory could not reach.
Later that evening, he found Elandra in the herb garden, brushing the dirt from a sprig of mint. She looked up, eyes bright. "Father says you're competing," she chirped. "You have to show them everything, Arion. You'll win."
Arion laughed softly. "I won't be reckless, Elandra. But I will train hard."
She moved to stand with him, quick as a sunlit bird. "We will help. I can tend to your meals and your herbs." Her small hand found his forearm and squeezed. "And Mother will braid your hair if you need it." She grinned, and the sight of her youthful earnestness made the ache in his chest ease.
The evening air carried the distant sounds of practice—steel ringing, grunts of effort, and the occasional bark of instruction. Arion sat on the low wall and counted the steady lights of the night patrol torches as they passed the gate. Each torch was a promise: watchful eyes while the clan slept. When his father asked him to keep the rosters and understand watch duties, it meant trust. It meant that in a month he would stand not only as a fighter but as a representative of his house.
As the last patrol torch dwindled into the night, Arion fingered the small metal shard he had buried in his sash—the relic of the cook pot on the ridge. That small scrap reminded him of the night the smoke had risen and of the fragile lives caught in that web. The climb ahead would be long. The contest in a month would not only test his blade or spirit but his resolve to be steady under scrutiny.
He stood, feeling the small river of Spirit Qi hum in his belly like a fledgling thread, and whispered into the dark, "One step. One day. One training."
Outside, the banners of Valeheart as they folded in the breeze seemed to promise him nothing and everything at once. Inside, his family gathered—supporting, trusting, expecting. He pledged again, silently, to protect them. The ember in his chest was tended now, banked in patient fuel.
The ascent would be slow. The path would ask for more than strikes and pills. It would ask for choices.
Arion smiled, small and certain. He would answer each one, step by step.