The next morning, Eliot woke up to the sound of armor clanking.
It wasn't an unusual sound in Astervale Manor—his older brother, Benedict Astervale, always trained at dawn—but today, the sound was too close.
Like, inside his courtyard close.
He groaned, rolling over on the grass, still sore from last night's insanity.
Then he froze.
A polished silver boot stopped inches from his nose.
"Up," Benedict said calmly, his tone sharp as a sword's edge. "You're late."
Eliot blinked. "Late for what?"
"For your next lesson."
He turned his head, squinting at the sunlight. "I thought that was last night. Whisper nearly fried me."
Benedict folded his arms, expression unreadable. The faint shimmer of spirit energy danced around him—calm, precise, controlled.
That was Benedict Astervale: the family's perfect son. Polite. Brilliant. Terrifying.
Eliot sighed, dragging himself up. "I don't suppose I can bribe you with tea?"
"No."
Benedict tossed him a wooden sword. "Show me what you learned."
Eliot caught it, wincing. His arms still felt like lead, but the spark from last night still lingered—an echo of Whisper's energy humming faintly under his skin.
He took his stance, shoulders tight, trying to mimic Kieran's posture from their lessons.
Benedict's gaze sharpened.
"Your stance is stiff," he said. "You're fighting the flow instead of guiding it. Spirit combat isn't about strength—it's about rhythm."
"I know," Eliot muttered. "Whisper said something similar."
"Whisper?"
Benedict raised a brow, faintly intrigued. "The fox spirit?"
Eliot nodded. "Yeah. She's been helping me train. Sort of."
A faint gust stirred Benedict's hair—his contracted Wind Spirit responding to his emotions.
"I see. Then show me."
Eliot swallowed. "Right now?"
"Right now."
The air stilled. Even the wind seemed to wait.
Eliot took a breath, remembering Whisper's words from the night before.
Follow the flow, not the form.
He stepped forward, swinging the wooden blade.
It wasn't fast. It wasn't perfect. But the energy around him rippled, responding—soft wind coiling around the sword's arc before dispersing harmlessly.
The motion carried a faint echo of resonance.
Benedict's eyes narrowed, a spark of surprise flashing within them.
"That was… controlled," he said quietly. "Unrefined, but genuine."
Eliot blinked. "Wait, was that a compliment?"
Benedict smirked faintly. "Don't think too much. "
Then he raised his own blade—sleek, steel, alive with pale blue spirit light. "Now defend."
"Wait, what—"
Too late.
The next few seconds were a blur. Benedict moved like a storm—his strikes were clean, fluid, and utterly merciless. Eliot barely had time to block before being sent sprawling again, grass flying in all directions.
"Your reaction time is slow," Benedict said evenly, offering no pause. "Your grip's too tight. You rely on instinct without control."
Eliot groaned, face buried in the dirt. "I didn't even get to breathe."
"You won't, not until you learn to predict," Benedict said coldly. "Spirits respond to calm minds, not panic."
He pointed his sword toward him. "Again."
From the veranda overlooking the courtyard, Kieran watched silently, arms folded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Lord Benedict's going a little hard on him, isn't he?" asked a maid nervously.
Kieran shook his head. "Young Master Eliot needs this. Training is the only mirror that never lies."
He watched as Eliot stumbled, fell, got back up, and swung again—each motion a little steadier than the last.
For someone who used to fake illness to skip sword lessons, Eliot now looked… different.
Tired, yes. But determined. Alive in a way he hadn't been before.
"Interesting," Kieran murmured softly, the faintest flicker of shadow essence coiling around his gloved fingers. "The young lord's spirit has changed since that night."
Whisper's presence shimmered faintly near the window, invisible to human eyes but visible to Kieran's old assassin senses.
The fox spirit smirked from her perch. You can see me, can't you?
Kieran didn't look up. "A servant's eyes miss nothing."
Then you see it too—the boy's growing resonance.
"I do." His tone was neutral, yet something warmer hid beneath. "And it's worrying."
Worry? For him?
"For what he'll attract," Kieran murmured. "The stronger his bond with you grows, the louder the world will listen."
Whisper's expression softened briefly. Then, as if embarrassed, she flicked her tails and disappeared back into the wind.
Back on the field, Eliot struggled to keep his footing. Each of Benedict's attacks came with precision and spiritual pressure—sharp gusts of air that tested his endurance.
"Stop blocking blindly," Benedict said sternly. "Anticipate."
"I'm trying!"
"Trying isn't doing."
Eliot gritted his teeth. His arms burned, his breathing ragged, but a voice whispered in his mind, calm and taunting all the same.
He's right, you know. Stop thinking of defense as survival. Think of it as conversation.
"What does that even mean?" Eliot hissed under his breath.
It means stop arguing and listen.
Whisper's tail flickered through his thoughts, and suddenly—he felt it. The wind patterns Benedict created weren't random; they had rhythm. A pulse. A natural cycle.
Each swing had a beat.
And then—he moved.
Not fast, not strong, but in sync.
He parried Benedict's next strike, redirecting the force instead of absorbing it. The air shimmered as his spirit flow stabilized, guiding his body in motion rather than fighting against it.
For the first time, Eliot stood firm.
Benedict's sword stopped inches from his face.
The elder brother's eyes widened slightly before he lowered his weapon. The faint smile that touched his lips was rare, fleeting, but genuine.
"Well done."
Eliot blinked in disbelief. "Wait, seriously? I—did it?"
"You're improving," Benedict said simply, turning away. "Don't waste it."
And just like that, the Storm Knight walked off, leaving Eliot standing there, sword still raised, unsure if he should feel proud or insulted.
Later, as he sat by the fountain nursing his bruises, Whisper's laughter filled his head again.
Not bad, Master Trash. You almost looked heroic for a moment.
Eliot scoffed. "I nearly died."
You nearly lived, she countered softly. There's a difference.
He leaned back, letting the cold water drip from his hair. "You know, you're getting pretty philosophical lately."
Perhaps your idiocy is contagious.
Eliot smiled faintly. "And yet you stay."
Whisper's tails curled lazily in the air, shimmering faintly before fading. Perhaps I'm curious about what kind of monster you'll become when you stop pretending to be lazy.
He looked at the rippling water, his reflection blurred by the sunlight. "Monster, huh? Maybe that's what it takes to survive in this world."
Or maybe, Whisper said softly, you'll be something worse.
"What's worse than a monster?"
Someone who changes the fate of monsters and gods alike… without meaning to.
Her voice faded as the wind stirred again, scattering petals across the courtyard.
Eliot watched them fall, unaware that from the highest tower of Astervale, two unseen spirits stirred—watching, waiting, and whispering his name through the flow of the world.