Chapter 3: The Ticking Clock
I. The Anatomy of Agony
The deal was struck, but Kaelen offered no reprieve. The weekly surge of the Sacrificial Magic hit Evan's body like a sudden, scorching illness. His muscles convulsed, not with effort, but with the volatile, foreign energy demanding a release of violence. His skin was cold yet slick with sweat, his jaw locked against the tremors. He was a political mind trapped in a biological crisis.
Kaelen, unaware of the magic's true nature, simply treated the symptoms as profound, shameful weakness born from luxury.
Kaelen: "Survival is not earned by your voice, Prince. It is earned by enduring what breaks other men. You shake because your soul resists the price of your power."
Kaelen's initial lesson was not sword work, but stillness. For hours, he forced Evan to hold the most basic Mecklace Guard Stance—a simple, rooted position—while the fever raged. Kaelen would walk the perimeter, sometimes tapping Evan's knees or back with a stone to test his stability.
Evan felt the Magic pressing against his sternum, urging him to use the immense, unholy power to lash out, to kill, and thus, find temporary relief. To submit was easy; it was survival. But Evan resisted, channeling the former politician's willpower. He focused the shaking, not on his limbs, but deep into his core, finding a terrifying, rigid stability amidst the storm. It was an involuntary, desperate act of control—the first step in forcing the magic to serve his will, rather than its own bloody agenda.
II. The Scars of Discipline
The following days were a study in repetitive, calculated brutality. Kaelen never raised his voice, and he never offered encouragement. He simply expected perfection.
Evan was made to perform endless drills focused on breath and footwork. He spent hours running uphill with chains wrapped around his torso, only to immediately transition into two-hour sessions of balance training on uneven rocks.
Kaelen: "You are a warrior of the Kingdom of the Sword, Prince. The blade must feel like an extension of your thought, not a burden on your hand. Your footwork is a confession of your intent; right now, it confesses fear."
Kaelen used a long, leather whip not for striking, but for correction. A stinging crack near Evan's foot when his stance wavered, or a sharp snap past his ear when his head dropped. Evan's body screamed betrayal. He was constantly bruised, his hands blistered, and his mind was slowly losing the fluency of policy and rhetoric, replaced by the rhythm of stab, block, pivot. He was becoming a blunt instrument—exactly what his Silver Tongue was meant to avoid.
This brutal, mind-numbing regimen served a dual purpose: it built his foundational skill, and it slowly, physically exhausted the Sacrificial Magic, buying him precious time before the next weekly deadline.
III. The Eye of the Strategist
Back at the Royal Palace, Prince Theron was not satisfied with the initial surveillance report. The sight of Evan in agony was compelling, but the existence of the legendary, reclusive Kaelen was a major strategic unknown.
Theron, the methodical strategist, personally took over the surveillance. He used his private resources to launch a more sophisticated, camouflaged aerial unit—a small, silent Reconnaissance Drone hidden within the foliage of the canopy.
He watched Evan endure the training. He saw Kaelen's methods—the relentless focus on a single, powerful Stand.
Theron (to his aide): "Evan has not found a political ally; he has found a weapon. Kaelen is teaching him to be irreversible. But Kaelen only teaches those with a grand destiny. Why Evan? What is the cost of this Master's silence?"
Theron's paranoia focused on the transaction, not the training. He analyzed Evan's withdrawal, his newfound voice, and Kaelen's appearance. He reasoned that Evan must have traded vital Mecklace Intelligence or some precious Royal Secret to acquire the Master's services. He dismissed the physical pain as mere conditioning.
Theron commanded his surveillance to be continuous—not just recording Evan's movements, but now using thermal imaging and sound analysis to uncover the secret Evan must have paid. Theron believed his brother was a political traitor, not a cursed victim.
IV. The Weekly Toll
As the second week began, the fever from the Magic returned, slightly less intense than before, but equally demanding. Evan knew he couldn't maintain this level of suppression indefinitely. Kaelen's training had stabilized him, but it had not cured him.
He realized the terrible, final truth of his inheritance: His weekly existence required a justified death. He needed a victim—a political cancer—to release the energy and maintain his fragile control. He needed a target that would make the morally repugnant act a necessary political virtue.
His mind immediately turned to the whispers he'd heard in the palace: the corrupt Steward Rikus, the official sabotaging the Kingdom's winter reserves.
Evan (internal thought): Rikus is starving the commoners for profit. He is a tool of Volkar's instability. If I must be a murderer to survive, let my target be a true enemy of the Kingdom. The Assassin will be my shield, but the Silver Tongue must choose its targets.
With this chilling internal resolution, Evan accepted the first, dark chapter of his new life. His physical training was preparing him for the deed, and the political threat of Theron was pushing him toward action. He knew his days in the Foothills were numbered; the time to move against Rikus was approaching.