The sun hadn't yet risen, but the courtyard of Aurestra was already alive with quiet movement. The steady rhythm of footsteps echoed softly as the clan's children gathered to begin their morning drills. To an outsider, the scene might seem serene—a peaceful enclave tucked away from the chaos of the outside world. But to me, every breath was a reminder of the war waged in silence.
I gripped the familiar weight of Duskweaver, my scythe, feeling the hum of living metal beneath my fingertips. The blade wasn't just a weapon; it was an extension of my blood, my will, and my heritage. The Pure Clan's secret was simple yet brutal—we turned our own blood into weapons and armor, forging strength that was both physical and spiritual.
"Your control is still unsteady," my brother Korin's voice cut through the quiet morning. He stood a few paces away, his muscular frame tense and ready. Unlike Nirae's grace, Korin embodied raw power. His crimson eyes glinted with the same fire that burned in mine, but his focus was all brute force and relentless training.
I knew he wasn't trying to be harsh. Korin believed in pushing limits, breaking through barriers. But I was different. My power was in my mind, in the subtle thread of prediction my platinum eye wove through the chaos of battle.
"You're too focused on the flow," he continued, stepping forward with the heavy stomp of a warrior used to crushing enemies beneath his fists. "Sometimes you have to hit hard, not just smart."
I tightened my grip, the pulse in my veins syncing with the faint glow of my platinum eye. "And sometimes, you get yourself killed if you don't see what's coming."
He chuckled, the sound low and rough. "We'll see about that."
Our spar began without ceremony. Korin charged like a storm, his fists and legs hammering the air in powerful blows. I moved like a shadow, the scythe tracing precise arcs that deflected and redirected his strikes.
Every moment, my platinum eye flickered—catching muscle twitches, breath hesitations, the almost imperceptible tightening of his shoulders before a strike.
When he threw a heavy punch, I sidestepped, letting his momentum carry him forward. Then, with a swift arc of Duskweaver, I caught the edge of his armor, hooking and pulling him off balance.
He stumbled but recovered quickly, grinning. "Better. But not enough."
Korin was the embodiment of the Pure Clan's relentless spirit—raw strength honed by years of battle and training. He was also my harshest teacher.
After the spar, sweat slicking our skin, we collapsed on the cold stone steps.
"You're different," he said finally, voice quieter. "Not just because of the platinum eye. You think too much. But maybe… that's what makes you dangerous."
I looked at him, the older brother I both respected and competed with. "Maybe. But the clan expects more than danger. They expect dominance."
"Dominance through blood and metal," Nirae said as she joined us, her gaze steady. "And the strength to carry the clan forward."
Her words reminded me of everything I'd been taught since I could remember: the Pure Clan was not just a family—it was a legacy of warriors who had shaped Aurestra's fate for centuries.
But sometimes, I wondered if the legacy would crush me before I could claim it.
Later, in the training chambers beneath the city, I practiced molding my blood into metal, shaping it like clay beneath my skin. It was a painful process—the veins in my arms would burn, and sometimes my vision blurred. But each time I succeeded, I felt the pulse of living metal growing stronger inside me.
"Focus on the flow," Elder Malren's voice echoed in my mind. "Control your essence. Bend it to your will."
I closed my eyes, letting the familiar rhythm guide me. Blood shimmered beneath my skin, turning to glinting crimson threads that I wove around my fingers, extending them into sharp filaments.
It was Lyscrynn Thread—the clan's ancient art of weaving blood-metal into weaponry.
I experimented with a thin strand, stretching it through the air like a spider's silk. It shimmered and hummed with energy, stronger than steel but light as air.
Suddenly, the strands snapped—too weak, too brittle.
Frustrated, I clenched my fists and tried again.
This time, the threads held, and I felt a surge of power rush through me.
The platinum eye flashed, and I saw the faint lattice of forces around me—the invisible framework of tension in the room, the hidden flows of energy.
It was a glimpse of something deeper than blood and muscle—a secret whispered by my unique sight.
The training continued late into the night, the city around me silent but alive with power. I knew my journey was just beginning. The world outside awaited—a vast, dangerous place full of monsters, demons, and families far older and more powerful than my own.
But here, in the heart of the Pure Clan, I was forging myself—one thread of blood, one swing of Duskweaver, one breath closer to the heir I was meant to be.