The Argent Sanctum's training yard lay shrouded in predawn mist, the air biting with the crisp tang of dew and iron. Ser Varek stood at the center, his breath fogging in the chill, the hilt of his practice sword worn smooth by decades of calloused hands.
The first rays of sunlight speared through the mountain peaks, gilding the fog in silver, but the yard remained a realm of shadows and silence—until Aden arrived.
The boy moved differently now.
Varek noted it instantly. Aden's footsteps, once heavy with exhaustion, barely disturbed the gravel. His aura, once a sputtering candle, now hummed like a honed blade—sharp, controlled, 'dangerous'.
It coiled around him, invisible but palpable, pressing against Varek's senses like a challenge.
"Begin," Varek barked, tossing Aden a practice sword.
The wooden blade thudded into Aden's palm. He rolled his shoulders, the motion fluid, and fell into stance. No hesitation. No wasted breath.
Varek struck first, a diagonal slash meant to test reflexes. Aden parried, the clash echoing through the yard. Wood groaned, but the boy's grip didn't waver.
'Too precise', Varek thought. 'Too fast.'
They circled, boots crunching gravel. Varek feinted left, then lunged right. Aden pivoted, his footwork a blur—*Vasco Tempest*, the whirlwind technique Varek had demonstrated only days prior. The boy shouldn't have mastered it yet. No one did.
But here he was, spinning through the forms like a storm given flesh.
"Again," Varek growled, tightening his stance.
Blades clashed, faster now. Sparks flew where wood met wood, though neither wielded steel. Aden's movements were tighter, leaner, every block a hairbreadth from Varek's strikes. The mist swirled around them, torn by their dance.
'He's adapting', Varek realized, a cold knot forming in his gut. 'Not learning—remembering.'
Memories flickered—decades of trainees stumbling through these drills, their auras raw and unrefined. Even Ed Vasco, the family's last true prodigy, had taken weeks to bend the Tempest to his will. But Aden? Three days. Three days, and the boy moved like the technique had been carved into his bones at birth.
Aden's blade slipped past Varek's guard, the tip grazing his ribs.
Varek disengaged, breathing hard. "Your form's tighter," he admitted, grudging. "But don't get cocky."
Aden lowered his sword, chest heaving. Sweat dripped from his brow, but his eyes—'gods, his eyes'—glinted with a faint crimson hue in the low light. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said, voice steady.
Varek's jaw tightened. He'd seen that shade before, in the depths of the Sanctum's forbidden archives. In the eyes of things that should never see daylight.
But he said nothing. Questions were luxuries he couldn't afford.
"Again," he ordered, raising his blade.
By midday, the mist had burned away, the yard scorching under a merciless sun. Aden collapsed to one knee, his practice sword splintered, palms blistered and bleeding. Yet his aura remained—smooth, unbroken, a blade sheathed in velvet.
Varke tossed him a waterskin. "Tomorrow, steel," he said, turning away before Aden could see the unease in his eyes.
The boy nodded, drinking deeply. As he left the yard, his shadow stretched long and jagged behind him, a shape too sharp for the fading light.
Varke stared after him, the taste of ash on his tongue.
'What are you, boy?'