The training yard of the Veylan estate from above looked like layers of circles, where the heirs of the family trained in the second most inner layer, hidden from the common view. Morning mist clung to the flagstones, curling around the spear racks and the wooden dummies scarred by years of strikes. Alaric stood in the center, barefoot, shirt already sticking to his back.
"Again."
Kaelen Dorran's voice cut through the morning mist. The veteran stood rigid, hands clasped behind him, his eyes cold and sharp, watching every tremble in Alaric's posture.
Alaric gritted his teeth, adjusted his grip on the practice spear, and lunged, drawing on the lessons etched into him. The slow, deliberate flow of the Ashen Whisper. It is said that this art was developed during the War of Three Rivers, when the first Earl Veylan rose from soldier to noble. The spear's wooden tip slid forward in a smooth, silent arc—precise and unhurried—before snapping sharply against the dummy's chest.
"Too shallow," Kaelen said flatly. He stepped forward, pressing a finger against the spear's tip. "A real opponent would have crushed you before you struck."
Alaric blew out a ragged breath, his arm trembling from the repeated drills. "You know, most heirs spend their mornings eating honeyed bread and seducing handmaidens."
Kaelen's lips twitched, but his gaze never wavered. "Then they grow soft and die early. Again."
At the yard's edge, Harun leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed and grinning. "He's right, young master. Most heirs are as soft as overripe fruit. And you," he looked at Alaric's trembling arms, "you are barely half-ripe."
"Helpful as always, Harun," Alaric muttered, resetting his stance. This time, he let the spear rest lightly in his hand, reducing his presence to its minimum, a stillness before an inevitable strike. He rooted his feet, sinking weight into his legs, turning his hips deliberately, the spear a whisper of silver in the mist.
Crack! The dummy rocked back a step.
Kaelen's face remained impassive, but the faintest glimmer of approval shone in his eyes. "Better. Again."
The rhythm settled into Alaric's muscles: strike, retreat, circle—mirroring the Ashen Whisper's quiet presence that constricts the enemy's options until only one path remains. Sweat dripped onto his eyes; breath ragged in the cool air. By the fiftieth thrust, his arms quivered like fragile reeds.
"Drop the spear," Kaelen ordered.
Alaric let it fall, chest heaving as he wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Now we run."
Alaric groaned, "We just—"
"You want to inherit your family's Myth?" Kaelen's voice sliced the morning stillness. "Then you need a body that won't break after a few swings. Five laps around the inner wall. Out the gate."
Harun snorted. "Five laps? At least he's still got legs. I'll fetch a bucket for when he pukes on lap three."
Alaric shot Harun a glare but obeyed, feet pounding the flagstones as he sprinted toward the estate wall. His lungs burned immediately, but the thought of his family's legacy drove him forward.
The Veylan estate unfurled around him—its grandeur both unfamiliar and heavy. The lower courtyard buzzed with life: servants carrying buckets of herbs, stablehands brushing down sleek warhorses, squires sparring under a knight's watchful eyes.
The banners of House Veylan fluttered in the air. Everywhere he went, it seemed as if everything was watching him, to see if he was worthy.
By the third lap, Alaric's legs screamed. Harun jogged alongside for a moment, offering a waterskin.
"You're not dying, are you?" Harun asked casually.
"Not… yet," Alaric wheezed.
"Good. Your mother would kill me if you tripped over your own feet and cracked your skull."
Alaric managed a weak laugh, pushing on. By the fifth lap, he stumbled to a halt. Kealen awaited him.
"Better than yesterday," Kaelen said. "Barely."
Alaric collapsed onto the cold stone, staring at the pale sky. "You are trying to kill me."
"No," Kaelen said. "I'm trying to make it strong. The world cares little for the weak, Alaric. Power is the only currency that endures."
The words hung heavy, thicker than the mist. Even Harun remained silent.
Alaric looked towards the high windows of the estate's main hall, where his father—one of the seven strongest people in the Arista Kingdom—sat, surrounded by kin and advisors.
He wanted to be worthy, to make his father proud.
Kaelen stepped closer, his shadow falling over Alaric's sweat-filled face. "Rest. Then we begin stance training again at dusk."
Alaric groaned into the stone floor. "I hate you."
"Good," Kaelen said, a faint smile breaking through. "Hate is lighter than weakness. Now get up, Heir Veylan. You've got a long road ahead of you."
As the estate bells toIled for the morning session, Alaric rose, determination mingling with exhaustion, sweat, and resolve clinging like a second skin.