Morning light spilled across the rooftops of Korvan Village, soft and golden, brushing over the mist that clung to the valley. At the training grounds near the eastern edge, three mentors stood together — Hunnt, Kael, and Seren — their voices low but steady.
The rhythmic clatter of wooden weapons echoed faintly in the distance where the trainees gathered, waiting.
Hunnt crossed his arms, eyes following the early sunlight glinting off the blades. "I'll take Rogan first," he said simply. "He's got strength but no rhythm. I'll need to break him down before I can rebuild him."
Kael chuckled quietly. "Only you would say that like you're repairing a weapon."
"Sometimes people aren't so different from weapons," Hunnt replied.
Seren's tone softened as she adjusted her gloves. "And what about the others?"
Hunnt nodded toward the horizon where the other trainees waited. "Willa's yours, Seren. She has the right mindset but still freezes when the flow of battle shifts. She needs to learn composure. And Kael — Will's yours."
Kael tilted his head. "The bow user?"
Hunnt nodded. "He's observant, but his distance from the fight keeps him from understanding teamwork. He'll listen to you."
Seren raised an eyebrow. "And Lyssara?"
Hunnt's gaze shifted to where the young woman stood alone, sharpening her twin blades. Her expression was calm, but her motions were clipped and hard — frustration hidden under control.
"She needs time," Hunnt said. "Yesterday's fight didn't sit well with her."
Kael frowned slightly. "What happened?"
Seren exhaled. "She lost her temper when Hunnt criticized Rogan. She wasn't wrong to defend him, but she let emotion guide her mouth."
Kael ran a hand through his hair. "I see. I'll handle it. She'll train under me for now."
Hunnt nodded in agreement. "Then it's settled."
The mentors looked ahead to where Rogan, Lyssara, Will, and Willa stood in a neat line — four young hunters-in-training, silent and waiting, unaware their next trial was about to begin.
---
When Kael and Seren approached, the air in the training ground thickened. Rogan stood tall but tense, his knuckles white around the hilt of his chipped sword. Lyssara's jaw was tight, her eyes fixed ahead, still holding onto the sting of yesterday's words.
Will tried not to stare at her — and failed. Willa, meanwhile, looked from face to face, reading the tension like an open book.
Kael stepped forward, his tone calm but edged with authority.
"From today onward," he said, "the three of us will train you individually. Each of you has different flaws, different strengths. But before we start—"
He turned sharply toward Lyssara. "Lyssara. Apologize to Hunnt."
Her head snapped up. "What?"
Kael's voice carried no anger, only firmness. "I heard what happened from Seren. You spoke out of emotion. I know you care about Rogan — we all do. But Hunnt wasn't insulting him. He was telling the truth. You need to understand that."
Lyssara's hands trembled slightly as she clenched her fists. "I… I was just angry. He's been working so hard, and it felt like—"
Kael's expression softened, but his tone stayed steady. "And yet, here you stand, defending his pride instead of his survival. Apologize, not for him, but for yourself."
Lyssara hesitated, her pride warring with her reason. Then she took a slow breath, turned toward Hunnt, and said quietly, "I'm sorry."
The group waited for Hunnt's response.
But instead of accepting, he shook his head. "No."
Shock rippled through the others — even Kael's eyes widened.
Hunnt's tone was calm, not cold. "I won't accept it yet. When you've seen with your own eyes how Rogan changes — how control can save a life — then you can apologize. Until then, your words are empty."
Lyssara blinked, speechless. Rogan's eyes flicked toward her, guilt and determination both visible in his expression. Kael and Seren exchanged glances — both understanding exactly what Hunnt was doing.
Finally, Kael broke the silence. "Then it's decided. I'll take Lyssara and Will under my wing."
Seren nodded. "Willa's with me."
Hunnt looked to Rogan. "And you — you're mine."
Will hesitated. "Wait, me and her? Together?"
Willa grinned mischievously. "Ooooh, go get her, brother."
"Willa!" Will turned bright red. "Stop it!"
Kael chuckled under his breath. Even Hunnt smiled faintly before he turned away toward the training yard.
---
The groups split off — Kael leading Will and Lyssara into the shade of the forest, Seren guiding Willa toward the open fields, and Hunnt and Rogan remaining in the main arena, where the morning sun beat down across the dusty ground.
Hunnt unsheathed his longsword and planted the tip gently into the soil. "Alright, Rogan," he said, "let's start. You ready?"
Rogan straightened. "Yes."
"Good." Hunnt studied his stance. "You know the basic forms, right?"
"Yes, sir. Overhead Slash, Right Slash, Left Slash, and Thrust."
"Show me."
Rogan nodded and began his routine. His movements were heavy, each strike powered by raw strength. The air whistled sharply each time his blade cut through it. He finished the final thrust and lowered his sword, breathing hard.
Hunnt's face gave nothing away. "Not bad. Now — tell me where your mistakes were."
Rogan blinked. "My mistakes?" He hesitated, frowning. "I… don't know."
"Exactly," Hunnt said. "Watch."
He drew his own blade and assumed the same stance. His movements were slower, more deliberate — each strike flowing naturally into the next, with subtle pauses, like a song with rests between notes. When he finished, he sheathed his sword in one smooth motion.
"See the difference?"
Rogan shook his head. "You were slower. That's all."
Hunnt sighed. "Then look closer."
He repeated the sequence, this time exaggerating each pause, each breath. His foot shifted between strikes — inhale, exhale, movement, stillness — all balanced in rhythm.
Rogan watched carefully, his brow furrowing deeper with every motion. Then his eyes widened slightly. "Wait… my swings are too fast. I'm forcing each strike without breathing. You — you pause. You let the movement settle before the next. You have rhythm."
Hunnt nodded. "Exactly. That's what control is. Not stopping the swing — feeling it. Understanding when to strike, and when to breathe."
He stepped aside. "Try again."
Rogan closed his eyes briefly, inhaled deeply, then began the sequence again. This time, slower — more deliberate. His sword moved through the air with less noise, his muscles less strained. He finished the thrust and exhaled, steady.
Hunnt watched closely, then nodded once. "Better. Your sword didn't fight you this time. It followed."
Rogan lowered his weapon, surprised. "It… feels different. Lighter."
Hunnt smiled faintly. "That's because it finally trusts you."
The young hunter blinked in confusion. "Trusts me?"
Hunnt nodded. "Every weapon has rhythm. A heartbeat. You've been trying to overpower it instead of listening to it."
Rogan looked down at the chipped blade, sunlight glinting off the scars in its edge. "Then I'll learn its rhythm," he said quietly.
Rogan took another breath, slow and steady. For the first time in weeks, his stance looked natural — calm.
Hunnt turned toward the open sky, where the sun had risen fully now, the light breaking through the mist. "Raw strength can break stone," he murmured, half to himself. "But rhythm… rhythm can move the world."
Rogan swung again, the wind carrying the sound of steel — smooth, clean, alive.
And for the first time, the blade did not chip.