Chapter 14
The gate stood open.
As they stepped through, Alden's eyes moved over the interior. It wasn't what he expected, not lavish or towering. The path ahead was lined with flat stone tiles, neatly swept. Trees trimmed to uniform height dotted the walkways, casting long shadows in the early light.
The estate was large, yes, but not gaudy.
Ahead, he could already see that the structure split into multiple buildings, four main wings, each branching off from a wide, square courtyard. The rooftops were slightly different in shape and tone, which he guessed might signal some kind of internal division. Servants moved between them at a steady rhythm.
Everything was clean. To Alden, who was used to the grittier parts of the city, it felt like he stepped into a new world.
He didn't belong here, and he knew it.
Renna led him away from the central courtyard, down a narrower path that curved toward the rear side of the estate. They passed fewer people there.
They walked along a short hedge wall, then passed through an open arch leading into a secondary courtyard. It was tucked between two long, rectangular servant halls. A single training yard sat at its center: stone-floored, sunlit, quiet. A few wooden practice weapons lined a rack by the wall.
As per Renna's words, this was where the servants' children learned to hold a blade. She stepped onto the stone with barely a glance behind her. "We'll start here."
Alden followed, his boots tapping lightly against the flat tiles. "So, what's the plan?"
"A spar," Renna replied.
She rolled her shoulders once, removed her outer coat, and dropped it neatly on the bench by the wall. "Unarmed. I want to see if you've actually healed or if you're just walking straight out of stubbornness."
Alden smirked. He stepped onto the sparring line and flexed his fingers. "Good, I was actually itching for a rematch for a long time."
They faced each other at the center of the yard. No formal bow. No signal to start. Just a slow shifting of weight, each waiting for the other to move.
Taking the initiative, Renna struck first with a simple, direct jab. Alden deflected it and pushed forward with a counter of his own, a kick to test range and draw a reaction.
She didn't take the bait and switched to a defensive approach. Her hands moved with minimal effort, parrying, slipping, letting him show his rhythm.
Unbothered, Alden pressed harder. He shifted angles quickly, used momentum to chain his strikes, and kept a constant pressure that would've overwhelmed most fighters.
But Renna wasn't a pushover.
She blocked, redirected, occasionally tapped his guard. She wasn't striking, just interrupting, letting him know when he messed up.
Her stance didn't change much, but her eyes tracked every step he took, every time he committed too soon or reset too late.
Alden tried to break the rhythm with speed, feints, and even some footwork. But she adapted to all of it.
After a tight exchange, she let him move in, then turned his weight against him with a shift of the hip. He stumbled a step, caught himself, but he didn't try to attack anymore.
It was clear to him that he was nowhere near beating Renna.
"Damn," he cursed, slightly out of breath. "You're really strong."
Renna answered with a tilt of her head, an almost imperceptible smile quirking the corner of her lips. "Well, yes. Did you expect me to lose?"
"Maybe… at least, I hoped it would be a closer match. I've grown stronger, you know? But against you, I feel like I've made no progress." He complained. Alden knew that his raw stats had grown. His body was continuously improving. But somehow, it hadn't helped during the spar.
Renna stood with her arms crossed, watching him for a moment. "You've learned how to fight in the arena, and it shows. You've built good habits. But they're narrow."
Alden lifted a brow, signaling her to continue.
"You've had no formal training. And no one taught you how to break someone down mid-fight. Or if they did, it was surface-level."
Alden plopped down in the middle of the yard with a focused look on his face.
"You've got a good head. You can read aggression, and your timing under pressure is solid. You know how to feint. You know how to press."
She paused. "But you're still reacting too much. You don't steer a fight. You run it like a race. Your spacing's inconsistent. You cut angles too tight. You rely too much on rhythm, and sometimes forget about the terrain and positioning."
Alden nodded along, absorbing her remarks. Nobody in the arena would waste time to teach him all of that. He was glad to have someone to help him discover his flaws.
If Silver had had a mentor, or at least a capable coach, he wouldn't have been stuck as a mere rank-3 arena fighter. With his strong body and natural talent, he should have had a better life. But unfortunately, he ended with Jarek.
Watching Alden's reaction, Renna suppressed a nod. "You learned to fight by not dying. That's not something I'll ever look down on. But surviving and refining don't always walk together."
She shifted her stance slightly, tone still even. "You've reached the point where instinct alone isn't enough. It's time to bring your technique up to speed."
Alden gave a small nod and rose to his feet without hesitation.
"Let's work on your forms first," she said, tapping the back of his hand. "Your reach is off. When you extend, you're giving away too much. Keep it tighter."
She demonstrated the adjustment: shoulder relaxed, elbow angled in, and had him mirror it. Once. Then again. Then again.
"Don't throw the arm," she said, circling around him. "Lead with the hand. Don't forget to rotate."
They moved into a simple drill. Strike, pivot, recover. Advance, shift, reset. Renna corrected without slowing the rhythm. When Alden overstepped, she tapped his foot with hers and said, "That's too far forward." When his hand drifted out of guard, she swatted it back in place with a sharp motion. "Guard or get tagged."
"Don't stare at the target. Read their hips. That's where the real tells are."
Alden absorbed each note without complaint. He had the control to copy her movements quickly, but he was not quite there yet. His instincts kept pulling him toward old habits. They weren't mistakes per se, but they just weren't precise.
"Again. Less weight in the heel."
"Subtle hint, not a full tell."
As the exercise progressed, sweat starting to gather at the back of Alden's neck. His muscles started to burn. Holding tension, releasing it in precise bursts, it was starting to get at him.
After a few more minutes, Renna called for a break.
She turned toward the far side of the yard and gave a small gesture with her hand. A moment later, a servant emerged from one of the side halls. Young, dressed in dark grays, she carried a small tray with two clay cups and a simple pitcher.
She approached without a word and set it down on the bench by the side, then gave a slight bow before stepping away.
Renna poured two cups and handed one to Alden.
"Thanks," he said, after a beat.
Renna sat on the edge of the bench and drank her own slowly. She didn't seem winded. Maybe a little flushed from the sun, but her breathing was steady.
"Having a servant around is quite nice," he said quietly.
Renna raised an eyebrow and gave him a look. "Are you saying that I am your servant?"
"That's not what I meant," he corrected, but then he caught the subtle curl of a smile forming on her lips. "Heh, so you can joke."
"I do. I just chose not to, most of the time." She replied.
"I figured," he said. "Thought you were the stuck-up type."
She gave him a sideways glance. "And I thought you were just another loud arena brat with a death wish."
Alden smirked. "Only half of that's true."
Renna set her cup down, still faintly smiling. "Sure."
They sat in silence for a moment longer, the tension eased just slightly.
"Alright," she said, rising and brushing off her hands. "Break's over."
Alden downed the rest of his water and followed. "Back to the death wish part, then."
They resumed training and kept at it for a few more hours. Long enough for the drills to start etching into muscle. Alden picked up the patterns with time, his movements growing more deliberate with each cycle.
It was sometime past mid-morning when Renna finally called for another pause. That's when Alden caught sight of a boy standing quietly at the edge of the archway. He had sharp-features, and was dressed in a muted training robe marked with the Thornevale crest.
He didn't speak. Didn't move. He just watched them.
Alden slowed his breathing and straightened up, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The boy wasn't hiding his presence, but he wasn't making it obvious either. That stillness, that calm, it reminded Alden of Renna.
"You've been standing there a while, Lorian." Renna said, turning towards the boy.
Lorian stepped forward a few paces, hands behind his back. "You didn't seem to need interrupting."
His voice was smooth, clear.
"I don't," Renna replied.
They looked at each other for a moment. Then Lorian's eyes flicked to Alden, studying him.
"Who's this?" he said at last.
"A friend," Renna replied curtly. "I'm helping him train."
Alden gave a slight nod of acknowledgment, but abstained from making any comment. Renna had told him she would handle anyone that came up, and he was intent on following her advice.
Lorian didn't respond immediately. His gaze lingered. "He fights in the arena?"
"Yes."
"That explains the footwork."
Alden had a hard time deciding whether the boy meant it as an insult or not. But he was just content staying silent.
"I thought you would have given up on these pointless things by now."
That… was definitely a jab. Alden eyed Renna curiously from the side. But she didn't give any outward reaction. She just crossed her arms and moved on. "Did you come here for something?"
Lorian's eyes lingered on her a little while longer, then he shook his head. "No. Just saw movement from the courtyard. I was curious."
"Well, is your curiosity sated then?" Renna replied, sounding a little snappy.
He nodded slowly. "Yes. Well… don't let me interrupt. Good luck with whatever this is."
He turned and walked off without another word.
Alden watched his back until the boy disappeared in the archway, then he finally turned towards Renna. "So… that was?"
"My little brother." She replied curtly.
"He's sharp." Alden said.
"He is."
She didn't say more, and Alden didn't push. Instead, they reset their stance and returned to work.
************************
In the eastern wing of the Thornevale estate, removed from the main courtyard and tucked behind a stretch of decorative cypress trees, an office was quiet save for the scratch of brush against parchment.
Taran Thornevale moved through the papers on his desk as he took notes of the increasing request for helps from the nearby villages. The latest reports on the wraith sightings were laid out across the left side of his desk, marked with red threads and lacquered pins indicating movement patterns, suspected infiltration zones, and inconclusive field notes.
A quiet dread hung under the details. There were too many unknowns, and too many gaps to build anything conclusive.
He sighed and reached for a fresh slip to transcribe a formal reply for the inner wardens' reports. His brush had barely touched ink when the door to his study creaked open.
His son, Lorian, stepped inside, not bothering to knock.
"Back early." Taran said without look up.
"I wasn't out long," Lorian replied.
Taran nodded and kept writing. "So, what brings you here?"
"I saw Renna," Lorian said. "She's still using the back yard."
That made Taran pause. He glanced up at his son and raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"She's picked up another project. A boy, a fighter from the arena. He looked older than me. She says he's a friend." Lorian explained, then after a small pause, he added: "He's probably another toy she uses to sharpen dull edges on."
"I see." Taran nodded non-commitally, thought he knew better, he refrained from explaining.
Lorian lingered for a moment longer, his eyes shifting on the pile of papers on his father's desk, then turned. "I thought you'd want to know."
Taran gave a nod of acknowledgment. "You've said enough, thank you."
The boy then nodded and left without closing the door fully behind him.
Taran stood and crossed the room to push it shut himself. He locked it with a quiet click, then turned back toward the desk, his eyes drifting past the papers, the pins, the maps.
He didn't sit right away.
Instead, he walked to the window and looked down toward the inner yards of the estate. The training grounds weren't visible from there, but he could imagine it clearly. The shape of his daughter's movements. Her dedication. Her fire.
There was a time when Renna had been their branch family's pride.
They had invested in her early. Tutors. Specialized drills. A rotation of private sparring partners. Taran himself had cleared his schedule more than once to watch her progress, to discuss her potential with his father, the branch head.
Back then, there were talks of Renna becoming a contender for a prominent role within the clan's wider hierarchy. Not just a solid cultivator, but a symbol of what their line could produce.
And then came her first breakthrough attempt.
She was fourteen then. She had a good grasp of Qi, her spirit was strong, and her body stood in optimal condition. They had prepared her, guided her, monitored her growth with almost obsessive care.
Taran remembered standing beside the branch head as Renna stepped into the ritual chamber. And he remembered the silence that followed when the girl walked out with a defeated posture. And the days of explanations, where they tried to tell themselves that an accident has likely occurred, that they had been too hasty.
The first failure had been disappointing.
Then the second attempt, three months later, had introduced doubt. Their excuses grew thinner. The instructors grew more cautious. And his father's excitement had grown quieter.
The third time, they had gone further. They had procured a rare beast core, a costly investment. Renna had tried again with more intensity than Taran had ever seen in her. And… she failed again.
That one had been hardest. Not because of the cost, but because of how much hope had been pinned to it.
The branch head gave up after that. His father, Isaac, saw no further reason to believe in Renna's potential. And in truth, Taran couldn't blame him.
But Taran himself hadn't let go. Not yet. He couldn't simply give up on his only daughter.
He arranged a fourth attempt. Then a fifth. And finally, a sixth. By then, Renna had turned sixteen. The girl who once moved with fire in her veins had become quiet, driven, tightly wound around the same hope no one else held anymore.
By then, even he had given up. He turned his focus onto his younger son.
Lorian had talent. He wasn't Renna, but he wasn't ordinary either. He was obedient. He absorbed instruction, followed schedules, met expectations. And when the time came, he broke through without drama, without failure.
Taran had been proud.
Grateful.
But from time to time, his eyes fell on Renna.
She still trained. Still worked. Still pushed herself forward through sheer force of will, long after it should've broken her.
He couldn't decide if that was strength, or a refusal to let go of something long dead.
Even now, watching the morning light pool across his desk, he couldn't stop thinking about the shape of her stance. The stubborn line of her shoulders, and that confident look that was once glued to her face.