The cold of a Western dawn was a familiar, grounding thing. A clean, sharp bite that smelled of pine and damp stone, a world away from the capital's soft, perfumed air laden with intrigue. I stood in the center of the main training yard, the packed earth firm beneath my boots, the rhythmic thump-THUMP of my two hearts a steady, quiet drum in the pre-dawn stillness. The golden laurel sat heavy in its box. The silks were packed away. I wore simple training leathers again, the familiar weight a comfort after weeks of courtly pretense. The roar of the colosseum was fading, replaced by the imminent clang of Ashworth steel. This was the forge.
The yard hummed with disciplined energy. New faces mingled with veterans among the household guard, their numbers swelled, Damian had quipped, by my unlikely victory. As I walked towards the weapon racks, conversations quieted, drills paused slightly. Eyes followed me – respectful, yes, but also wary, measuring. I saw it in the slight hesitation of Rolan across the yard, polishing his shield with unnecessary vigor, his usual easy grin replaced by an uncertain tightness around his eyes.
I was no longer just Lancelot, the third son who trained alongside them. I was the Champion, the 'Dragon of the West', a name whispered with a mix of pride and something akin to fear. The distance that came with that title was a subtle, isolating thing, a new wall rising between me and the men I had bled beside. I gave Rolan a deliberate nod, an attempt to bridge the gap, and received a quick, almost startled, dip of the head in return.
My hand hovered over practice swords before settling on the ancestral blade my father had bestowed upon me. It rested heavy on my hip, belted over my leathers, its unadorned silver pommel cool against my palm. I drew it now, the dark, rippling steel whispering from its sheath, catching the first pale rays of dawn. A magnificent weapon, humming with latent power, with history. And, in my hands, profoundly awkward.
My Path was rhythm, body, hands sheathed in gauntlets – my true blades. I tried moving through the opening forms, the sword held awkwardly. The fluid harmony vanished, replaced by a clumsy, unbalanced mess. The weight threw off my center, the length snagging, disrupting the flow. It felt like asking a master pianist to compose using only a sledgehammer. Frustration, hot and familiar, coiled in my gut. This symbol of acceptance felt like an anchor.
"Admiring the new steel, little brother?" Damian's voice held dry amusement. He leaned against a rack, already sweating, two blunted training swords in hand. "Or wondering how you'll avoid tripping over it?"
"It feels… disconnected from my Path," I admitted, lowering the blade. "Cumbersome."
"Then connect it," he countered, tone shifting to mentor. He tossed me one of the wooden swords. "A weapon is a tool, not a replacement. Your strength is your rhythm, your infusions. Can that not flow through steel as well as flesh? Show me."
It wasn't a request. I raised the ancestral sword again. I took a breath, tried to settle into the cadence, and lunged – clumsy, telegraphed. Damian parried with an almost lazy flick, wood clattering against steel.
"You're trying to force it to be the center," he critiqued, his own blade a blur, effortlessly deflecting my increasingly desperate attacks. He wasn't even using his full Aura, just pure, honed skill that left me breathless. "Let it serve the rhythm. Let it be the lightning rod, not the thundercloud."
He didn't attack back, just moved, flowing around me, forcing me to react, his words sharp. "Too slow. Footing compromised. You rely too much on evasion; what happens when there is no room? Stop trying to strike with it. Channel through it."
A revelation. Not a replacement, an extension. On his next advance, a probing thrust, I shifted, letting the cadence guide me. I met his training sword with the flat of my ancestral blade. At impact, I let the rhythm flow. Thump-THUMP. A tiny, controlled Rhythmic Infusion pulsed down my arm, into the hilt.
PING. A high, sharp sound. Damian's blade was knocked jarringly aside, vibration traveling visibly up the wood. He grunted in surprise, eyes widening with interest, quickly masked. "There," he said, grudging approval in his voice. "Now you are thinking."
The morning became a grueling lesson. Damian pushed me relentlessly, forcing me to integrate the sword not as a cutting edge, but as a conduit. Extend reach, parry, block, deliver disruptive infusions with speed and safety my hands couldn't always afford. Use the weight for pivots, the length for distance, make the steel an extension of the rhythm.
It was exhausting. Muscles burned. My mind ached, reprogramming instinct. But with each failure, each small success, I felt a shift. My Path wasn't being replaced; it was expanding. Adding a new instrument to the orchestra.
Near midday, a winded courier arrived, horse lathered, dispatch tube bearing the capital agent's seal. Damian scanned the message, expression hardening. He looked at me, a grim understanding passing between us. We were summoned.
The study felt colder than usual. Father stood by the window, staring at the unforgiving peaks. Elias was already there, pale and tense. "It has begun," the Count said without turning, his Aura an oppressive weight. "House Vane moves. The High-Pass caravan… halted at the Triumvirate Bridge checkpoint. Citing 'newly decreed Imperial tariffs on strategic resources from border territories'." He turned, eyes like ice chips. "Effective immediately."
"A tariff that doesn't exist," Damian growled.
"A tariff that exists only for us," Father corrected, voice dangerously quiet. "Bureaucracy as a cudgel. The caravan isn't seized, merely… delayed. Indefinitely. Strangling our supply line under the guise of legal process. Cowardly. Brilliant."
I looked from Father's cold fury to Damian's grim resolve, Elias's pale anxiety. The economic squeeze had started. My victory felt distant, hollow. I had won a battle of fists and fire. But this war, fought with seals and ledgers, was one my Rhythmic Infusions couldn't touch. We were under siege, and the enemy hadn't drawn a blade. The weight of steel in my hand felt suddenly heavier, a reminder that the true battles were often fought far from the training yard.