"Twelve years after the horror and calamity brought by the Stranger, the border kingdom of Aetherion had finally settled its lost lands, its army, and its diplomatic influence into a fragile calm."
Western Aetherion, Noctvarin Family, Tenebris Hall Manor.
Eryndor Noctvarin, the third child of the Noctvarin family—one of the three great branches of the Noxveil Dynasty—was twelve years old. His hair, like the night itself, fell in dark waves across his forehead, sharpening his stern and defined features. His eyes were of a deep black shade, and he wore a dark, neatly tailored, modest uniform. His gaze appeared ordinary, yet the slight upward curve at the corners of his lips betrayed something more, as he stood watching his father, Veythar Noctvarin, step down from the carriage, his attention half on the paper he held in his hands.
Veythar cast his son a cold glance before turning to the elegant Lady Noctvarin at his side with a weary sigh.
"I received the letter of admission from the Academy. However…" His voice was as hard as stone. "He will not be subjected to the test for nobles. This could offend the others. Worse yet… it might make him look ridiculous."
"At least he will go to the Academy," Lady Noctvarin replied, her voice soft yet carrying a tone of helpless resignation.
At the age of seven, Eryndor had learned mana control and displayed an extraordinary mastery over it. In those days, many believed he would become one of the prodigies seen only once in a century. But as the years passed, those expectations gave way to disappointment. Among his peers, the gap in mana power grew into an abyss, nearly as wide as a mountain's divide. His efforts, indistinguishable from the ordinary struggle of any child, only deepened that disappointment.
And yet, despite everything, the Valhiran Sword Academy—founded twelve years ago—had opened its gates to him. Established to seek out talented youths from across Aetherion, the Academy was the crown's attempt to compensate for its dwindling military strength and influence. Though considered a bastion of prestige for the nobility, its practice of admitting commoners on equal terms made it a constant center of controversy.
Eryndor, smiling faintly, silently watched his parents' exchange.
---
Within the depths of the Aetherion Palace, carved into the trunk of the Great Man-Tree.
Swordmaster Hyberg Nickson was preparing Prince Lucenor Aetherion for the upcoming trials at the Valhiran Sword Academy, where noble youths would be tested.
The dim light seeping through the veins of the colossal hollowed tree illuminated the grand hall's stone walls. Hyberg Nickson, holding a long, slender wooden training sword with blunted edges, cast a stern look at his pupil.
"Straighten your stance, Your Majesty. Your sword is not in harmony with your body."
Lucenor, his breath slightly ragged, gripped the sword firmly. His black-and-white training garb slipped from his shoulders, sweat dripping from his brow into his eyes. A faint smile tugged at the edge of his lips.
Lucenor: "Sir Nickson, whether my body is in harmony or not, I could kneel before the sword itself if I must—that is no matter. But my spirit cannot yield. I am one of the heirs to the throne. I must never forget the weight of the blood in my veins, nor let go of my will. When will you teach me to infuse my spirit into the blade?"
Hyberg let out a booming laugh, his deep voice echoing through the hall.
Hyberg: "The sword bows to no one, Lucenor. You listen to it—you move in unison with it. Your lineage does not grant you mastery over the blade; it grants you only the burden of responsibility. You are still green. To wield your spiritual mana, your character and emotions must first be tempered. Otherwise, trying to command such chaos would be disastrous."
He stepped forward, striking the tip of his sword lightly against the floor.
"Do not belittle the foundations. In three years' time, you will stand against true prodigies. When that day comes, it will not only be your lineage that judges you—it will be your sword."
Lucenor did not avert his gaze from his teacher. Despite his youth, an unyielding determination burned in his eyes.