The morning light filtered weakly through the high windows of the Seravain estate.
Lucien woke before anyone else. Thirteen years old. The number pressed heavier on him than he expected. Not just an age—thirteen was the threshold. The point where preparation became reality, where the world beyond the estate's walls would finally begin to test him.
Beneath the polished stones, the river pulsed faintly, threading through the foundations of the estate. He felt it beneath his feet, a secret rhythm guiding his awareness. Flow. Adapt. Endure. Never break.
He dressed quickly, donning the training tunic his father had prepared. Every fold, every alignment, precise. Every movement deliberate. Today, even the way he wore cloth mattered.
In the great hall, Lord Alaric Seravain waited. Calm, distant, commanding. A shadow that seemed to fill the space around him.
"Thirteen," Alaric said quietly. "The age of threshold. The age when the river calls you to more than practice."
Lucien's heartbeat quickened. He had trained for years, but today felt different. Today, he would receive his family's artifact.
Alaric gestured toward a chest carved with the Seravain river motifs. Lucien approached, reverent, and lifted the lid. Inside lay a sword unlike any he had seen.
Its blade shimmered faintly, as if the river itself had been forged into steel. The hilt was wrapped in black leather with silver filigree, depicting eddies and currents. A deep sapphire set at the base of the blade glimmered in the light, shifting like a hidden current beneath the surface.
"This is one of the artifacts of our family," Alaric said. "It is not merely steel. It is flow made tangible. You will learn to wield it, and it will teach you. Its name is Aethercurrent."
Lucien felt the blade hum faintly as he lifted it. The river beneath the estate seemed to respond, pulsing faster, threading through the metal into his hands. Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend. The weapon became an extension of himself, the current running through him and the sword.
Alaric stepped closer. "You are thirteen. Soon, the Academy. Soon, the heirs of the other houses will watch and test you. You must be ready—not just with your body, but with the flow itself. Today, you learn the true techniques of the Seravain family. Their names, their purpose, and their form."
He gestured to the training hall. Mirrors lined the walls, but Lucien hardly glanced at them. He let the river beneath him guide every step, every shift.
"First: Eddystrike," Alaric said, demonstrating a low, spinning strike that curved like water around a stone. "It is not a swing. It is a redirection of force, a flow around resistance. The enemy meets not your strength, but the current itself."
Lucien mirrored the motion. The sword moved as if alive, a part of him. Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend. He felt the flow bend around him, shaping his motion, testing his precision.
"Second: Torrentguard," Alaric continued, blocking an imaginary strike with a motion that enveloped the blade in circular momentum. "Defense is not static. It is continuous. The river does not stop. Neither can you."
He demonstrated again. Lucien repeated, letting the flow carry him. The blade hummed faintly with each pivot. Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
"Third: Ripcurl Parry," Alaric said, shifting forward, demonstrating a subtle twist of wrist and hip to redirect force from one strike into another. "Anticipation. Awareness. Flow. All in one movement. Nothing wasted. Every gesture shapes the current."
Lucien moved, executing the technique under his father's watchful gaze. Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend. The sword felt alive in his hands. Each named technique was no longer just a motion—it was an extension of thought, a physical manifestation of the river beneath the estate.
For hours, they trained. Alaric pressing, testing, subtly shifting rhythm and weight to probe Lucien's reaction. Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend. Every strike flowed into the next, every parry led seamlessly into another motion. Sweat streaked across Lucien's face, muscles burned, but he did not falter.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Between exercises, Alaric's words lingered: "The Academy is not merely a school. It is a field of currents. Other families will watch, probe, and test you. Lysander. Drayvane. Caelthorn. Each heir will try to bend you before you even draw a blade. But you have something they do not. The river beneath your feet, and Aethercurrent in your hands. Learn its flow, and you will endure."
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
As the day waned, Lucien paused at the window overlooking the lower gardens. Shadows stretched beneath trimmed hedges. The river twisted silently beneath the estate, hidden, alive. He imagined its secret channels threading through stone, carrying strength and knowledge, guiding him.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Thirteen years old. Artifact in hand. The Academy approaching. Other heirs watching, waiting. Shadows and currents pressing against him from beyond the estate walls.
Step. Pivot. Slide. Bend.
Lucien tightened his grip on Aethercurrent. He felt the river pulse through the blade, the estate, his body, and into the shadowed corners of his mind.
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.