Long before the kingdom of Eryndor had a crown, it had bloodlines.
Four great houses, born from war and bound by oath, shaped the realm from its earliest age.
House Drayvane, the Crimson Flame — conquerors whose blades burned with magic and pride.
House Caelthorn, the Iron Bastion — builders of fortresses, masters of discipline and law.
House Lysander, the Veiled Eye — scholars and seers who whispered to spirits and commanded the winds.
And House Seravain, the Silver Stream — knights whose swords danced with the grace of water and the certainty of the moon.
Where Drayvane taught might, and Caelthorn demanded order, the Seravains sought harmony.
They believed a sword should not fight against the world, but move with it.
Their art — the Seraphic Flow — was not a set of strikes or patterns, but a conversation with motion itself. Every slash, every pivot, every breath was one note in a melody as ancient as the rivers that carved Eryndor's mountains.
The Seravains were knights, yes, but they were also poets of battle. Their victories were quiet, their duels graceful, their legends whispered more than sung.
Yet even rivers, no matter how pure, run red in time.
And it was in such a time — when the kingdom's peace trembled and the great houses watched one another with veiled suspicion — that a child was born beneath the crescent moon.
His name was Lucien Alaric Seravain Vaelthorne, heir to the Silver Stream.
The river sang that morning.
It wound beneath the marble arches of Seravain Keep, whispering through the stones like breath through a blade. Dawn had not yet broken, but the courtyard shimmered with the faint light of lanterns reflected in mist.
Lucien stood alone in the center. Barefoot, shirt clinging to his back, silver eyes focused on the ground before him.
The sword in his hands was almost too long for his frame — a practice blade forged from riversteel, its surface flowing with faint blue light.
He inhaled.
Then he moved.
The blade arced through the air — one smooth motion, fluid as water slipping between stones. His feet glided, pivoted, swept. Each strike transitioned into the next without pause or effort.
Where a lesser swordsman would cut, Lucien flowed.
The faint sound of steel kissing air filled the courtyard. Mist coiled around him like smoke.
"The Flow does not resist," he whispered, repeating the lesson his father drilled into him since childhood. "It yields, it bends, and it endures."
He exhaled with the rhythm of the stream below.
His sword flashed once more — the final stroke of the Seraphic opening form — and stopped just short of stillness.
Then the world stilled with it.
The river below seemed to quiet, the mist to hang motionless.
For one fragile instant, Lucien stood between motion and silence — and in that pause, he felt it.
That pulse.
That rhythm.
The Flow.
Then came the sound of boots.
"Still dancing with ghosts before sunrise?"
Lucien turned. His brother Ronan stood at the archway, arms crossed, a half-eaten apple in his hand. Older by four years, broader in the shoulders, Ronan carried the effortless swagger of a man born knowing his place in the world.
Lucien's place, however, was always moving.
"I'm training," Lucien said simply.
Ronan took a bite of his apple. "Training? You call waving a sword at fog training?"
Lucien said nothing.
Ronan sighed, flicking the apple core aside. "Father says the Flow teaches patience, not madness. Maybe sleep once in a while before you start glowing like the river."
Lucien ignored him, resuming his stance. The blade rose again, silver in the dim light.
Ronan's grin faded. "You really believe all that, don't you? The Flow, the balance, the water that guides the blade… you sound like one of the priests in the lower halls."
Lucien's reply was calm. "The river doesn't stop. Neither should I."
The older brother rolled his eyes. "You sound just like him."
Before Lucien could respond, another voice — deeper, colder — cut through the mist.
"Then perhaps that's not a bad thing."
Both brothers turned.
Lord Adrast Seravain, their father, strode into the courtyard, the morning light catching on the silver trim of his black armor. His hair was pale as ash, his expression carved from stone. In his presence, the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Ronan bowed quickly. Lucien lowered his blade and knelt.
"Rise," Adrast said. "A sword kneeling is a sword that hesitates."
Lucien obeyed.
His father's eyes fell upon him — sharp, unblinking, weighing every motion. "You've been awake since the third bell."
"Yes, Father."
"And how many forms have you practiced?"
"Thirteen, twice over."
Adrast stepped closer, the faint echo of his boots mingling with the sound of the river below. "Precision is admirable, but the Flow is not memorized. Did the river repeat itself? Did it follow your count?"
Lucien hesitated. "…No."
"Then why should you?"
The boy's gaze lowered. "Because I want to master it."
"Then stop trying to control it," Adrast said. "Mastery of the Flow is not found in command, but surrender."
Lucien said nothing, but his grip on the sword tightened.
He hated that word — surrender. It sounded like weakness.
Adrast watched him for a long moment, then exhaled softly. "Your blood runs too fast. You'll learn in time that strength without stillness is just noise."
He turned, glancing toward the distant horizon, where the mountains faded into dawn. "There are whispers from the capital. The Drayvanes beat their war drums again. Pride will burn this kingdom long before steel does."
Ronan straightened. "Do they want our swords, Father?"
"They'll have them," Adrast replied, "but not yet. The king calls for diplomacy before war."
Then his gaze fell on Lucien again — quieter now, but heavier.
"You'll come with me to court tomorrow. It's time the realm sees the boy who'll inherit the Silver Stream."
Lucien blinked. "Me?"
Ronan's jaw tightened, a flicker of surprise — and resentment — crossing his face.
"Yes, you," Adrast said. "A Seravain does not hide behind his river. He stands where the water meets the fire."
The lord turned and walked away, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. "Be ready by dawn."
The courtyard fell silent once more.
Lucien stood motionless, the river whispering beneath the stones again, its current unbroken.
Ronan's voice came softly behind him. "Careful what you wish for, little brother. The court isn't the river. There's no flow there — just teeth."
Lucien didn't answer.
He raised his sword once more. The morning wind stirred the mist. His eyes reflected the soft silver of the water below.
"Then I'll learn to flow around the teeth," he whispered.
And with that, the training began again.