*WHAACK!*
The wooden blade connected sharply with Kylen's shoulder, causing him to stumble back, dropping his sword. The shock radiating through his arm. He stared at Ignas , who had lowered his blade.
(No way....how did he? Don't tell me his already on par with a 3rd rate cadet. But, this quick? He only began training a month ago. Just what is this kid?)
Kylen thought to himself as he looked at Igans.
(Now I get it, the reason why Jerek patented calling him his lord. This is beyond talent. It wont be long until he catches up to Jerek and I, if he continues to grow at this fast pace, if that's the case, maybe it wouldn't be too bad to get on his good books right now while he is still in need of support.)
"I yield, Young master. That was impressive. You looked like a veteran fighter."
"Thank you. I learned a lot from this exchange of ours."
.
.
.
.
HOUSE VOLKOV
Meanwhile, in the Grand estate of house Volkov, the seventh child, fourth son of Lord Aegon Drachmere, Tiberius Drachmere is seen on his training grounds. He was wearing a blindfold, sitting in the middle of the ground.
"Begin"
He signaled at the 20 knights who were all holding their wooden weapons. They attacked silently, coordinating their strikes from multiple angles, a human wave designed to simulate the chaotic environment of a battlefield. Tiberius didn't move his body, he moved his senses. His head was perfectly still, but his ears tracked the spuns of shifting Wright, creaking armor , and displaced air. This was his family preferred, brutal method of training. They believe that one who has obtained the sixth sense was strong, and due to his hard work and efforts, Tiberius had unlocked it a little over a year ago.
The first wooden spear thrust was towards his left flank. Tiberius, whioyr opening his eyes, snatched a single training dagger from his belt and deflected the blow. He immediately senses two heavy broadswords swings for his head and right knee. But he didn't panic, in a blink of an eye, he used the butt of his dagger to slam against the incoming.ing broadsword, diverting its path, and then executed a quick, powerful spin, kicking the knee of the knight who held the second sword. The knight roared in pain, dropping his weapon. Tiberius had successfully disarmed one opponent and blocked two simultaneous attacks, all while blindfolded and fighting twenty trained knights at the Wyrmling scale rank.
A tall, austere man, Lord Volkov, watched from the balcony.
"Well, well. It looks like my grandson has surpassed the Wyrmling Scales in terms of power, to think his only 15."
Lord Volkov murmured.
Turning to his side, addressing a woman wuth the piercing gaze, wearing a dark robe of the Iorn Dragon Unit. This was Lady Valeria Volkov, Tiberius's mother and the daughter of Lod Volkov, a woman whose ambition had been channeled into ensuring her son's triumph.
" He truly is the Iorn Dragons made flesh, father. His focus is absolute. Imagine what should happen once he awakens his prana and mixes it with his sixth sense."
Said Valeria in a prideful tone.
"That's true, once he unlocked his prana and mixes it with the sixth sense he will obtain the Prana sense. While others waste time trying to match power, Tiberius is learning to read the soul of the attack. To think he us the third in our family to unlock his sixth sense, truly a genius."
Lord Volkov said, as he nodded slowly.
" Valeria, your son's path must now be secured politically. He has the skill, we shall provide the structure."
"Are you speaking of the Interim Patriarch position?
Lord Volkovs voice droped to a conspiratorial whisper, edged with generations of suppressed ambition.
"That, and many more. Tiberius is not merely fighting for a title, he is fighting for the honor of the Valkov name. We are currently on 14th Patriarch, and there's only been one who came from the Volkov family. While other families had produced one or more. Once Tiberiusi sits on the throne, we will restore order to Drachmere, with Volkovsitting at the apex of the Monarchy. "
He straightened, his posture radiating the hard, unyielding pride of the Iron Dragon.
"Do you know when a Drachmere Patriarch last came from the Volkov bloodline?"
Valeria recited
"The Sixth Family Head. Over five hundred years ago. It was the last time the Monarchy was truly stable."
Lord Volkov said, with a chilling smile touching his lip.
"Precisely, It is time we corrected that historical error. Aegon has too many distractions, too many low-born influences. The Monarchy needs our iron hand."
"But, father. That shall require absolute dominance to archive."
Valeria said with a hint of worry in her voice.
Her father's gaze hardend before he continued talking.
"Then absolute dominance he shall achieve. The Dragon's Den will be where he will forge his political destiny. Go to him now. Remind him of his blood, his duty, and the legacy he must reclaim."
" Yes, father."
As Lady Valeria left the balcony, descending the winding stone steps, Lord Volkov remained, watching the knights retrieve their weapon he murmured to himself.
"The Iron Dragon waits five centuries for the right moment. That moment is now."
HOUSE VESPERUS
In the Grand estate of House Vesperus, a structure of soaring white marble and glittering crystal that reflected their alignment with the Flame Dragon Unit, felt pretty warm. Unlike the military precision. Of the Volkov estate, Vesperoys vakyed intellectual contemplation, often. Mistaking late-morning slumber for deep study.
The head maid, Clara, approached the heavy, silver-inlaid door to the chamber of Lysandra Drachmere, tjr fifth child and second daughter of Aegon Drachmere. She delivered three crip knocks.
"Lady Lysandra, your morning regimen with the master-at-arms awaits. It us time foe Vesperus blade flow theory."
She said as she waited the protocol-mandated fifteen seconds before experiencing the silence, resulting to her knocking again. This time louder.
"Lady Lysandra, the master does not favor tardiness, especially when detailing the Zenith of the flame stance."
Still, no answer. With a deep sigh, Elara unlocked the door. The chamber was enormous amd sumptuously furnished with deep crimson velvet. Sunlight streamed through a high, arched window, illuminating the dust motes dancing over a massive, ornate four-poster bed. And in that bed,tangled in silks and fine lace, was Lysandra. She was sound asleep, sprawled like a magnificent, albeit extremely lazy cat.
Elara paused in the doorway, her lips thinning. But, her reaction was as if she was used to what she was seeing.
(For a descended of the Drachmere Monarchy, she is by far the laziest one I know. She carries the name of the founder of the Monarchy, yet she threats her swordsmanship training like an inconvenience. Her brothers and sisters are drilling, and she's drooling.)
Elara, closrd the door, and took another sigh before moving closer to her. She looked at Lysandra intensly, before she also collapsed to the empty side of the bed.
"Hey, move over, will ya? I've been up since four you know."
Elara said at Lysandra, before she drifted to her thoughts again.
(Yeah, she's the laziest Drachmere in history. But, that's what I like about her. Me and her a pretty much the same.)
Lysandra feeling the sudden chance of weight move, turns around and notices Elara.
"Oh, it's just you. Is it time for training already?"
Elara pulled the pillow down enough to expose one eye, which fixed Lysandra with a look of pure solidarity.
"It's ten o'clock. The old man, I mean Lord Vesperus is waiting for his little princess so he can bore her to death, I mean train. So yes, it's time."
Lysandra sighed dramatically, rolling onto her back.
"Damn old geezer. Fine, but you owe me. What's the schedule today? And can we skip the footwork drills? My ankles are sore."
Their friendship was an anomaly within. The rigid structure of the Drachmere court. Lysandra, one born of high status, sixteen-year-old heir of the Drachmere Monarchy, and Elara, the sharp-witted head maid in her late twenties, were inseparable due to their shared disdain for the relentless, toxic ambition of their world. Their bond wasn't based on shared activities or deep philosophical discussions, it was built of share avoidance and laziness. To Lysandra, Elara want just a maid, she was her director of Strategic sabotage. While the other heirs pored over battle tactics and political treaties, Lysandra and Elara spent their time finding the most efficient ways to do the absolute bare minimum required to maintain the illusion of being a serious contender.
Elara yawned, stretching luxuriously on the royal sheets.
"The bad news is, your mother insists you do the sun-strike Drill today. The good news is, I've loosened the handle on the training grounds saber by exactly 0.4 millimeters. So if you swing it just right on the two-thousandth repetition, the hilt will fly off, giving you a mandatory three hours rest while they fetch a replacement."
Lysandra laughed, a bright, genuine sound of appreciation.
"That's why you're my favorite, Elara. You're more like my personal shadow Dragon, not a maid."
Elara smiled grimly.
"Well, someone has to protect the heir to the Monarchy's founder from the crushing weight of hard work. Now get up, my lord. Go earn your nap...oh and wake me up when you're done bathing, and don't finish before 11, I need the rest."
"Yeah, yeah. Geez, who do you think you are, my mom"
Lysandra said as she slowly got up.
Sylas Estate
In the center of the lowest, deepest training hall, a smooth, obsidian walled room lit only by flickering, recessed Prana lamps sat Morgana Drachmere, The Sixth Child and third daughter of Aegon. At sixteen, she passed a quiet intensity, her dark hair and sharo features inherited from her mother's side. Morgana was not merely sitting for fun, she was chained. Thick, cold iron manacled clamped her writes and angels, securing her to the flood in a rigid lotus position.
Her posture was perfect, her breathing deep and even, focusing on the theoretical flow of the Sylas Hunter Art, the family's specialized swordsmanship that prioritized assassination and stealth. Watching from a shadow alcove was Melantha Sylas, her grandmother. She was the true power behind the Sylas family and former master of the Shadow Dragon Unit, her presence alone radiating a silent, dangerous authority.
"They may start."
Melantha's voice whispered, a dry, rustling sound that cut through the silence of the underground room.
Immediately, ten figure detached themselves from the surrounding shadows. These were Sylas Shadow-Skulkers. Rank 6 (Flight scale) assassins of the Shadow Dragon Unit. They moved without sound, their faces masked, each holding wooden training daggers. Their objective,overwhelm and subdue Morgana.
The moment the command was given, the assassins charged. They expected Morgana to struggle against her bonds, and pin her to the floor. They were entirely wrong. Morgana did not struggle. She simply pulled. She focused, she demonstrated a explosive surge of raw physical strength honed by years of specialized isometric training , the iron wrists and ankles shattered, sending the fragments of steel skittering across the floor.
She didn't discard the broken chains. In a move of brilliant, improvised lethality, she twisted and rose, seamlessly transitioning her body's momentum into the first attack. The first shadow attacked amd aimed for her throat, but she ducked low, letting the manacles swing pass the assassins head, and then she snapped her arm upward. The heavy chain link whipped out, smashing against the assassins forearm wuth bone-jarring force. The assassin cried out, dropping the dagger and stagging back.
She didn't stop. Using g the Sylas Hunter Art, Morgana became a whirlwind of improvised destruction. She was fighting not with the swordsmanship she learned, but with pure, applied force, turning her restraints into deadly extensions of her will. The combat was brutal, fast and silent, ending when the tenth and final assassin was disarmed and pinned against the wall, a heavy iron chain looped around his neck.
Morgana stood still, her chest rising and falling rhythmically, the metallic scent of sweat and crushed stone filling the air. Melantha finally stopped out of the shadows, sher expression unreadable.
" Good, Morgana. You defeated ten Flight Scale warriors using only your restraints. You showed excellent improvisation and applied Shadow Dragon's leverage."
Melantha walked toward her, her light steps making no sound on the obsidian floor.
"But you wasted energy when you broke the initial chains. You could have defeated them by using less, by remaining tethered and letting them come to you. You acted with the impulsiveness of a Flame Dragon, must be from your father's side."
She looked at her granddaughter, her eyes cold.
"We are Sylas. We do not waste effort. We do not waste movement, if you wish to be the Scaled Regent (New title for Intrim Patriarch / vice family head), you must perfect your patience. We do not win through brute force, Morgana. We win through inevitable calculation. Am I clear?"
"Yes,Grandmother."
Morgana responded bowing her head.
"Go rest, training will continue later tonight."
HOUSE KESTREL
Garrick, the 3rd son and fourth child was in the middle of his Dailey regimen. At sixteen , he passed a lean, almost wiry frame, built for speed and endurance, and eyes the constantly scanned the horizon like a eagle looking for prey. His focus was not the sword, but the spear.
He stood atop a single, narrow Aerie-pillar, a natural spire of rock worn smooth by centuries of wind, jutting hundreds of feet over a rocky chasm. His training requires him to move across these isolated pillars without the aid of safety lines, using only his natural equilibrium and the knowledge of the Kestrel Sky-drill Spearmanship.
His mother, Lady Serr, a hard featured woman whose skin was perpetually weathered by the high altitudes, observed him from a nearby stone perch.
"The wins is extra strong today, Garrick. It seeks to break your center. Find your Prana-Anchor."
Lady Serra called out, her voice barely audible over the howl of the air currents.
Like his siblings, Garrick had not yet taken the Prana Purifier Pill, so the Anchor was a mental concept if rooting his strength into his dormant spiritual core. He was forced to use sheer physical training and mental discipline to mimic the effect.
A various Crosswind slammed into the pillar. Garrick's body whipped violently, his free leg flying out for balance. His arms, however, remained rigid, holding his pear perfectly steady. He caught his balance just as the gust passed.
"I need speed, Mother. The Sky- Drill is useless if I can't generate the force. Tiberius and Valerious are training to hit hard, I need to hit fast."
Garrick yelled back.
Lady Serra smiled, a rare, wolfish expression.
"They fight on the ground, Garrick. You fight in three dimensions. Hardness is slow, speed is inevitable. Now, transition to the Talon-Strike sequence."
(If you like the story,leave a powerstone and add to library)