The training hall was cloaked in shadows.
Lanterns lined the walls, flickering, casting fractured patterns across the polished stone floor. Triangles of gold and darkness sliced the room into uneven angles.
Lucien stood in the center, wooden sword in hand. Muscles coiled, joints poised. Every part of him was alive, alert. The familiar weight of the sword was no longer just wood—it was an extension of himself, a continuation of thought into motion.
He traced his eyes across the room.
The mirrors along the walls reflected fragmented images: his posture, his stance, the alignment of his feet. Yet he saw more than his own form. He saw the air, the space, the light. Every shadow held a possibility. Every reflection could hide a threat.
Beneath the hall, hidden from view, the river pulsed faintly.
Lucien could feel it.
A subtle vibration beneath the floor, a whisper of water threading through stone, unseen and eternal. It pressed lightly against the soles of his feet, threading through the floorboards, flowing through the foundations of the estate. Flow. Adapt. Shape. Never break.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
The first movements were small. Footwork only, a rehearsal of balance and precision. Step forward, slide right, pivot left, sink back, rise. Each motion traced the invisible current beneath the stone.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
He imagined the river curling under the estate, bending around walls, flowing through hallways, guiding every footfall. He felt it testing him, pressing against him, shaping him. Each micro-adjustment of weight, each subtle tilt of his shoulders allowed him to flow naturally with the current.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
The wooden sword moved with him. Every grip, every pivot of the wrist, every shift of the elbow was calculated, precise, fluid. He allowed the weight to settle naturally, to become part of him, not something separate to wield.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
The door at the far end opened without sound.
Alaric Seravain entered.
His father's presence alone made the hall feel smaller, heavier, alive. Alaric moved with the same fluidity as his son, yet every motion carried authority. No words were needed; the room understood the weight of his approach.
"You have improved," Alaric said, voice low, almost swallowed by the shadows. "But improvement alone is meaningless. Flow must be tested—against pressure, against unpredictability, against force, against patience."
Lucien nodded.
He assumed his stance. Feet aligned, body balanced, every muscle ready.
The first strike came swiftly, almost imperceptibly.
Lucien did not resist.
He flowed. Step, pivot, slide. The wooden sword guided the strike into empty space, energy passing through him like water over stone.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
The hall seemed to contract, shadows bending and stretching with every movement. The air vibrated faintly with the rhythm of the strikes, and the river beneath the estate pressed lightly, testing him, challenging him.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Alaric's movements became feints and combinations, subtle and precise, designed to probe the smallest imperfection in Lucien's form.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Lucien adjusted micro-shifts in his wrists, shoulders, hips, even the tilt of his head. He let the attacks flow around him, molding them, redirecting them, absorbing the energy without meeting it with brute force.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
His breath was steady. In. Out. In. Out.
The river beneath him pulsed, guiding the pressure, whispering subtle directions through the soles of his feet, the tendons in his legs, the sinews in his arms. Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Each strike became more complex. A feint followed by a real movement, a strike angled to break his balance, a subtle change in rhythm. Lucien adapted instinctively, flowing, bending, redirecting.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
He realized something profound. This was not about defeating his father. It was about mastering the current. Not strength, not aggression. Awareness, control, patience, and perfect alignment.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
The hall seemed alive, shadows stretching, flickering, bending. Lantern light danced along the polished stone. The river beneath him pressed against him like a guiding hand, invisible yet real.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Muscles burned, joints ached. Sweat cooled along his back, yet his movements remained fluid.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Alaric pressed harder.
Not with brute force. Subtly. Insidiously. Strikes designed to tempt him into resistance.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Lucien let the pressure pass, guided it, molded it. He remained unbroken. He became the river.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Wood met wood softly, echoing faintly. Stone absorbed energy. Shadows reflected motion. The hall itself seemed to breathe with each shift, each bend, each flow.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
His body trembled with exertion, but he continued. Flow was endless. Flow had no pause. Flow adapted, shaped, endured.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Finally, Alaric paused.
Lucien froze, sword extended, stance perfect.
The hall was silent.
"You understand," Alaric said, stepping closer, "this is not victory. It is the beginning. The current will always test you. The families will press, the intruders will probe. And the river beneath the estate will demand more."
Lucien lowered his sword.
"I understand," he said.
Alaric's hand rested lightly on his shoulder. The weight of generations pressed into that simple touch. "You are learning to flow. To bend without breaking. To endure. One day, when the Four Families strike, you will not resist—you will become the current itself."
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Lucien moved to the window overlooking the lower gardens. Shadows pooled beneath trimmed hedges. The river twisted silently beneath the estate, dark, hidden, alive.
He imagined its secret channels threading through stone, bending around obstacles, shaping itself, unseen yet powerful.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
He felt it in every muscle, every tendon, every breath.
He was not just learning to move.
He was learning to become the river.
The Four Families would strike. Lysander had already made the first move. Drayvane and Caelthorn would follow.
But inside the hall, Lucien flowed.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
The current was unstoppable.
And he was its heir.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
The river moves. I move with it. And nothing else can bend me.