The hall was quiet.
Lanterns flickered along the high walls, casting long, uneven shadows that twisted and stretched across the polished stone floor. The mirrors lining the walls reflected more than Lucien's form; they reflected intention, potential, and the infinite patterns of movement that could arise from a single strike.
Lucien stood in the center, wooden sword in hand. His stance was firm yet fluid. Muscles coiled like springs, every joint aligned, every tendon tuned to the slightest shift in balance. The weight of the sword felt no longer external, but a continuation of thought and motion, a channel through which he could redirect force and energy.
Beneath the stones, the river moved unseen. Its pulse threaded through the estate like a living current, pressing lightly against his feet, teaching him the essence of Seravain flow: to bend without breaking, to shape without resisting, to endure without pause.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
The first exercises were familiar: balance, alignment, and basic footwork. But today, his father had instructed him to integrate advanced Seravain techniques. Movements that were no longer linear, no longer predictable. Every motion had to flow into the next, a continuous cycle of energy, awareness, and adaptation.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
He imagined the river beneath him expanding into his limbs. Every movement became both offensive and defensive simultaneously. Each strike, each parry, each step redirected not only physical force but mental pressure. He did not resist, he did not attack—he flowed.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Alaric Seravain entered the hall without a sound, as always. His eyes swept over Lucien's form, noting every subtle tilt of the shoulders, every micro-shift of weight, every flicker of muscle.
"You are ready to sense beyond the surface," his father said softly. "The river is not only beneath you. It moves through the air, through the stones, through intentions. Learn to feel it. Anticipate it. Become one with it."
Lucien nodded.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
The first advanced exercise was the Mirrored Flow. The mirrors around him were not merely reflections. Each one represented a potential adversary, a shadow of himself, a future opponent. He moved through imagined attacks, adjusting instantly to strikes and feints that existed only in his mind, yet pressed upon him with the weight of reality.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
The second was the Current Extension. Lucien projected the flow from his core into the wooden sword, imagining the invisible current extending beyond the blade's tip. Every strike he made redirected not only the force of his motion but also the pressure of the surrounding space. The air itself seemed to bend around his movements, flowing with him, shaping itself to his form.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Alaric watched silently. Then, with subtle, almost imperceptible movements, he began to apply pressure. Not direct strikes, but distortions of timing, shifts in rhythm, almost invisible adjustments to the hall's environment. A creak in the floor, a flicker in the lanterns, the faint echo of a displaced mirror pane—all became tests.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Lucien sensed each variation, each ripple, and adapted instantly. His movements became seamless. The wooden sword guided each imagined attack into empty space, the energy dissipating harmlessly. Each step, pivot, slide, and bend became an extension of the river itself.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Next came the Internal Current. Alaric instructed him to close his eyes mid-movement and let the river guide him entirely. Lucien felt the stones beneath his feet, the pressure of the air, the unseen pulses of the estate. Every strike, every step, every pivot had to align with the current. Balance, form, awareness—all became instinct.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
He opened his eyes slowly. Alaric was still observing, silent, the shadow of his presence weighing on the hall like stone.
"You are nearing the age to enter the Academy," his father said. "There, the other heirs will test you. But they do not know the river beneath their feet, nor the flow that lives within our family. You must be ready—mentally, physically, spiritually. One mistake, one break in the current, and all will be lost."
Lucien swallowed. The weight of that responsibility pressed on him, heavier than any sword or strike. Yet beneath it, he felt the river pulse, steady and constant, reminding him: he was ready.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Finally, Alaric allowed him to spar directly. Not a simulated exercise, not an imagined opponent—real movement, real pressure, real intent. The elder Seravain moved like the river himself, strikes coming from angles unseen, deflected, redirected, reshaped by Lucien's flow. Each clash of wooden swords was a conversation, every parry a question, every pivot an answer.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Lucien's muscles burned, sweat streaked across his back, yet he did not falter. Every movement was a continuation of the previous one, a seamless cycle of motion, thought, and energy. The river beneath the estate pulsed in rhythm with him, guiding, testing, approving.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
By the time the exercise ended, the hall was silent except for the soft rustle of cloth and the distant pulse of the river. Lucien lowered his sword, chest rising and falling with controlled breath.
"You have improved," Alaric said. "But mastery is never complete. The current never stops. And neither can you."
Lucien nodded. He felt it deep in his bones: the flow, the endurance, the unbroken river that ran beneath the estate and now ran within him.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Soon, he would leave for the Academy. Soon, he would face heirs trained in different styles, different philosophies. But the river would remain with him. It had always been his teacher, his guide, his secret.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
He would flow.
He would endure.
He would shape the world around him without breaking.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
The river moves. I move with it. And nothing else can bend me.