Unaware of the secret conversation between Artur and his father, Leo had finally given in to his sister's constant pressure and retired to his room. No sooner had he left the main hall than a shadow materialized behind Skye.
It was Aaron, a man of around sixty with gray hair and a butler's suit that could not conceal his trained physique. His gemstone-black eyes exuded a mysterious power. As Skye's shadow, confidant, and mentor, he was a peak Master, specialized in infiltration and assassination, and teetering on the edge of Grandmaster.
"What do you think of my brother's suggestion, Aaron?" Skye asked.
"It is a wise one," he replied. "It ensures our survival while lulling our enemies into complacency. For the proud Roschilds to willingly abdicate their throne will make us appear as cowards who have lost our fangs. They will lower their guard, and we can use this opportunity to sharpen our claws for our return."
Skye nodded in agreement; it was precisely what she had hoped for.
"I hope Leo awakens a great gift in four weeks," she said, her thoughts turning to the upcoming ceremony.
"Do not worry, Young Miss. I am certain it will be something worthy of restoring our former glory."
Comforted by his words, Skye felt a surge of confidence. The path ahead would not be easy, but together they would survive and shine brighter than ever.
"Teacher," she said suddenly, "let's spar for a moment."
Aaron was about to refuse, to suggest she rest after her grievous losses. But for that very reason—because she needed an outlet for her grief—he relented. "Very well. But only for one hour."
´´Thank you, teacher,'' Skye felt grateful her mentor accepted her request. They moved toward her private training ground located underground.
The air in the underground training ground was cool and still, carrying the faint, clean scent of ozone and polished stone. Skye, now clad in form-fitting training gear of dark gray, stood at the center of the vast chamber. The familiar weight of a training spear in her hands was a comfort, a grounding force against the storm of emotions she'd been holding at bay.
Across from her, Aaron stood with a similar, unadorned spear. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but his gemstone-black eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that saw everything.
"Your grief is a weight in your limbs, Skye," he stated, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. "It makes you slow. Your enemies will not grant you time to mourn. Now, show me the Phoenix Thrust. Begin."
The command was sharp, a lash that cut through her introspection. Skye's body reacted on instinct. She dropped into a fighting stance, her feet firm on the textured floor. With a sharp exhale, she lunged. The spear shot forward, a line of pure, aggressive intent. The air around the tip shimmered with latent heat, a pale echo of the SS-rank flames she could command at will.
It was a good thrust. Fast, powerful, and true. But to Aaron, it was a collection of errors.
He didn't parry with force. Instead, his own training spear moved with infuriating economy. He tapped the shaft of her weapon, a light, precise click of wood on wood, just behind the tip. The impact was minimal, but the angle was perfect. Her thrust was deflected harmlessly past his shoulder.
"No," he said, his voice calm. "You are pushing the spear. You are a conduit, not a laborer. The power originates from your core, travels through your shoulder, down your arm, and extends through the point. You are trying to force it. Again."
Skye reset, her jaw tight. She repeated the thrust.
"Your back foot is lifting. You are off-balance. A child could push you over. Root yourself. You are a mountain, and the spear is the lightning it casts forth."
She thrust again, the muscles in her shoulders burning.
"Your grip is too tight. You choke the life from the technique. Hold it like a bird—firm enough that it cannot fly away, but gentle enough not to crush it. Again."
For thirty minutes, it continued. Not a spar, but a dissection. A single technique, broken down into its constituent parts and rebuilt under Aaron's relentless, observant eye. He corrected the angle of her hips, the alignment of her spine, the focus of her gaze. He spoke not of emotion, but of physics and geometry, of leverage and kinetic chains.
The grief and frustration that had been a cold stone in her chest began to heat, transforming into a fire of pure concentration. The outside world—the loss, the political schemes, the worry for Leo—faded away. There was only the spear, the target, and the teacher's voice.
"Good," he said finally, after a thrust that snapped through the air with a clean, sharp sound.
"Now, the Flowing River sequence. Fluidly. Do not think. Move."
This was more complex—a weaving, defensive pattern of sweeps and circular parries. Skye flowed through the motions, her body remembering the drills of a thousand previous sessions. But Aaron was there, his spear a ghost that found every gap.
As she swept her spear in a wide arc, he didn't block it. He stepped inside the arc, his own spear butt striking her lightly but firmly on the ribs.
"You have created a fortress with a wide-open gate," he chided. "The arc is too wide. Control the space, do not abandon it. Tighten the circle."
She adjusted, her movements becoming more compact, more efficient. The clack-clack-clack of their training spears meeting became a rhythmic percussion. Sweat dripped from her brow, but her eyes were alight with a fierce, clean light. This was the outlet she needed. Not mindless violence, but focused, purposeful discipline.
Aaron pressed his attack, a series of three quick thrusts aimed at her throat, heart, and knee. Skye parried the first two, but the third was a feint. As she dropped her guard low, he reversed his grip and swept her legs out from under her with the shaft of his spear.
She hit the mat with a grunt, the air rushing from her lungs.
She looked up, expecting a critique. But Aaron was simply looking down at her, a rare, almost imperceptible softening around his eyes.
"You left an opening because you were anticipating the next strike, not reading the one before you," he said, his voice quieter now. "But your form on the first two parries was excellent. The fire is there, Skye. It has not gone out. It was merely banked, waiting for air."
He extended a hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet with effortless strength.
"The grief will not vanish," he said, holding her gaze. "But now it is in your muscles, not your mind. You have given it a form. You can control it. That is the first lesson of any weapon—mastery begins with mastering the one who wields it."
Skye stood panting, her body aching, but her spirit felt clearer than it had in days. The storm had not passed, but she had learned to sail in it.
"Thank you, Teacher," she said, her voice steady.
Aaron gave a single, slow nod. "The hour is up. Clean your spear. Remember the feeling of the correct thrust. That is the foundation upon which we will rebuild everything else."
He turned, his form seeming to blend back into the shadows of the training ground. "And Skye… your little brother is strong, like you. Have faith."
Skye understood what her master was implying, she must shoulder everything alone.