Moonlight painted silver edges across the practice yard. Max counted his breaths as he moved through the first stance, wooden practice sword cutting a clean arc through the night air. One. Two. Three. Four.
The citadel slept around him. Perfect silence except for the whisper of his blade and the controlled rhythm of his breathing. He preferred it this way—no eyes to track his progress, no questions about techniques his younger body shouldn't know.
Max shifted to the second stance, feet sliding across packed earth in a pattern perfected through thousands of repetitions in a future that no longer existed. His muscles protested. This body remembered nothing of war.
Your stance is too wide for your current frame, Cinder observed inside his mind.
Max adjusted, narrowing his footwork. The formless dragon spirit remained invisible to others, but their connection strengthened daily. He felt Cinder's presence like a warm coal beneath his sternum, pulsing with each controlled breath.
Better. Now channel aura through your third meridian point.
"Still figuring that out," Max whispered, closing his eyes to visualize the energy pathways. In his previous life, aura manipulation had become second nature. Now he struggled with basics, like teaching clumsy fingers to play a once-familiar instrument.
He pushed raw aura from his core, directing it through his arms into the practice sword. The wood grew warm, almost imperceptibly heavier as energy saturated the grain. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
You're forcing it, Cinder commented. Aura flows like water, not like battering rams.
Max exhaled slowly, releasing tension from his shoulders. He performed the next sequence of movements, focusing on rhythm rather than power. The sword became an extension of his arm, cutting clean lines through darkness.
Three hours into training, sweat plastered his shirt against his back despite the cool night air. Max paused, assessing his body's limits. Fatigue burned his muscles. His previous self could maintain this intensity for twelve hours straight. This younger body faltered after just three.
"Patience," he reminded himself, resuming the fourth stance sequence. "The body follows where the mind leads."
He concentrated on fundamentals. Proper wrist angle. Foot placement. Weight distribution. The sword became heavier with each passing minute, but he refused to stop. His previous life taught him that battles weren't won by those who trained until they got it right, but by those who trained until they couldn't get it wrong.
Your aura pattern stabilized, Cinder noted. Circulation improved by twelve percent.
Max nodded, pleased. Small victories. He moved to advanced forms, pushing energy through specific meridian points while maintaining breath control. The wooden practice sword vibrated slightly, responding to aura channels that shouldn't exist in someone his age.
Midnight passed, then the first bell after. Stars wheeled overhead as Max repeated the same sequence for the hundredth time, mapping his limitations. Too slow on the counter-pivot. Insufficient strength for sustained overhead guards. Wrist stability compromised after repeated strikes.
Each weakness cataloged. Each deficiency noted for correction.
Someone approaches, Cinder warned.
Max continued his form, adjusting nothing in his movement. He'd sensed the presence too—the particular footfall pattern of his fifth brother.
"Most people sleep at this hour," Hazel called from the edge of the practice yard.
Max completed his sequence before lowering his sword. "Most people aren't me."
Hazel approached, golden eyes reflecting moonlight. His combat leathers suggested he'd been out hunting rather than sleeping himself. "Interesting form. Not standard Citadel Guard training."
"Just experimenting," Max replied, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Experimenting with techniques that take years to develop?" Hazel tilted his head, studying Max with unusual focus. "That counter-pivot comes from Eastern Mountain swordmasters. Nobody teaches that here."
Max shrugged. "Saw it in a book."
"Books don't teach muscle memory." Hazel picked up a practice sword from the weapon rack. "Show me again."
"It's late. I should go."
"Scared I'll tell the others their baby brother has secrets?"
Max considered his options. Hazel never bullied him like the others, but every interaction risked exposing knowledge he shouldn't possess.
"Another time," he said, returning his practice sword to the rack. "Dawn comes early."
"You're bleeding," Hazel noted, pointing to Max's hand.
Max glanced down. The wooden sword had opened blisters on his palm, blood seeping through calluses not yet formed in this timeline.
"Training takes sacrifice," Max said, wiping his hand on his practice tunic.
"Training takes discipline, not just sacrifice," Hazel countered. "You'll damage the tendons if you continue with improper grip tension."
Max nodded acknowledgment without commitment. "Good night, brother."
He felt Hazel's gaze follow him across the courtyard. Of all his siblings, Hazel possessed the sharpest instincts for combat anomalies. In his previous life, they had fought back-to-back during the final siege. Now, Hazel represented both potential ally and security risk.
He suspects, Cinder observed as Max climbed the stairs to his quarters.
"He notices," Max corrected. "Suspicion requires context he doesn't have."
In his chamber, Max cleaned his hands methodically, applying healing salve to torn blisters. The pain centered him. Each sting reminded him of purpose—of a kingdom burning, of siblings falling one by one to demonic claws, of Violet's death throes as the citadel collapsed around them.
He unrolled a small map on his desk, marking patrol schedules and defensive weaknesses. The Citadel of Burning Stone housed five thousand souls who would perish without his intervention. Every night of training pushed him closer to adequate preparation.
Max glanced toward his bed but returned to the map instead. Sleep brought nightmares of a future that still haunted him—screams echoing through fallen halls, the stench of burning flesh, Atlas's final defiant roar cut short by chittering demon hordes. Those memories drove him more effectively than rest ever could.
Morning would bring political maneuverings. Nobles jostling for influence. Church officials with hidden agendas. His siblings chasing glory or inheritance or approval.
Let them scheme for titles and recognition. Let them dream of crowns while he prepared for consequences they couldn't imagine.
Outside his window, the first hint of dawn touched the eastern sky. Another night of training complete, another fraction of strength regained. Max studied his reflection in the window glass—a boy's face with ancient eyes, carrying burdens no one else could see.
Not enough. Not yet. But progress nonetheless.
Tomorrow night, he would train again.