— Morning Discipline
Dawn had barely settled across the horizon when the Hidden Training Hall awakened again.
Above, the suspended lamps glowed softly — not bright, not blinding — but like quiet stars holding their posts. Obsidian floors reflected the faint blue mana drifting through the air. Water channels murmured along the carved stone lines. The hall breathed like a living thing, steady and disciplined.
Arcanis was already moving.
Before the captains stepped into the hall, he had run through footwork drills, breath cycles, and blade motions. His rhythm was simple, minimal, but crisp. Strands of sweat lined his jaw. His breath came calm, never ragged.
He stood straight as Serion entered — as if the world had shifted into alignment.
Serion's eyes sharpened at the sight. "You're early."
Arcanis answered with a simple nod. "I wanted my body awake before my lessons began."
Serion gestured. "Show me your stance."
Arcanis lifted the wooden sword.
His posture today was unmistakably different — knees steady, weight distributed, wrists aligned, core tightened. Yesterday's stiffness had softened. Yesterday's hesitation had vanished. The stance belonged not to a beginner… but someone who understood responsibility.
Serion circled him slowly, assessing every joint, every shift of weight.
"You improved," he said quietly.
"Your breath rhythm holds."
Arcanis replied without pride, only fact:
"Repetition sharpens what memory cannot."
Serion nodded once — approval without softness.
They moved.
Sword arcs.
Defensive pivots.
Controlled thrusts.
Recovery steps.
The hall filled with the steady echo of wood meeting wood.
Arcanis absorbed corrections instantly — a foot's angle, a tighter elbow, the timing of a pivot. His discipline wasn't loud; it was silent and relentless.
At one exchange, Serion attacked with a faster tempo — a hidden shift in weight meant to throw Arcanis off.
Arcanis parried cleanly.
Serion's lips tightened in a rare smirk. "You closed the gap."
Arcanis sheathed the practice blade at his side.
"It felt inefficient yesterday. I corrected it."
Serion's reply was simple: "Good."
There was no praise.
No excessive words.
Just two men acknowledging good work.
— Water and Ice with Lyris
After the sword drills, Lyris approached the flowing channels of water.
Her voice, soft yet steady:
"Your Highness, join me."
Arcanis knelt beside her, mirroring her posture.
"Water responds to emotion," she said. "To intention. To breath."
Arcanis extended his hand over the stream.
He inhaled once.
Exhaled.
Let the tension loosen.
The water rippled.
Not wildly.
Not shaking with forced mana.
A gentle resonance — clean, controlled.
Lyris blinked.
"You're matching its rhythm already."
Arcanis didn't respond with pride.
"Water is patient. It listens if approached correctly."
Lyris smiled faintly. "Not many understand that on day one."
She handed him a bowl of water.
"Try again. Focus on the surface."
Arcanis held the bowl.
At first — stillness.
Then — a soft tremor, a smooth spiral, frost forming in a perfect ring at the edges.
It wasn't messy.
It wasn't forced.
It was deliberate.
Lyris's eyes softened with genuine admiration.
"Your control… it's quiet. Rare for someone with Ice in their veins."
Arcanis inspected the frost.
"It responds naturally. But distantly."
"That distance is your strength," she replied.
"With time, it will become instinct."
"Again," Arcanis said.
"Of course."
And they continued.
— Silent Growth
Hours later, after the last drill ended, Arcanis rested on the edge of the obsidian floor.
His fingers trembled from exertion.
Sweat traced down his neck.
His breath carried weight.
But his eyes… steady.
The Ancient Imperial Codex stirred within him.
[TRAINING DATA ABSORBED]
[OPTIMIZING TECHNIQUES…]
Golden runes drifted into view — quiet, organized, efficient.
Every flaw in his stance…
Every misaligned breath…
Every drop of wasted mana…
The Codex mapped it all.
If I adjust my foot angle…
If I lower my center by an inch…
If I merge Serion's pivot with Lyris's breath cycle…
Arcanis exhaled softly.
Tomorrow, he would surpass this version of himself.
— Beyond the Doors
Meanwhile, in the corridor outside, Serion and Lyris spoke quietly.
Their voices low.
Measured.
Weighted with decades of experience.
Serion's tone was the first to break the silence.
"He's progressing faster than anticipated. But speed isn't depth."
Lyris sighed.
"He could go even faster. I could share everything I've learned. He could leap entire stages."
Serion gave a humorless, grounded laugh.
"Leaping stages doesn't teach you how to land."
Lyris grew quiet.
Serion continued, eyes distant with memory.
"I had a mentor once. He taught me drills, forms, patterns. Important things. But none of it prepared me for the Razorfang."
Lyris looked at him with a slow breath.
"The beast attack you survived…"
Serion nodded.
"It struck fast. My sword broke at the hilt. My squad hesitated. My mentor's advice — hold formation, maintain defense — it failed the moment the beast changed rhythm."
His fists tightened.
"I lived because I stopped thinking like a trained knight… and started fighting like a man who wanted to live."
Lyris swallowed.
Serion's gaze moved to the door behind which Arcanis rested.
"If we hand him insight before he earns the instinct behind it, we rob him of a spine forged in truth."
Lyris whispered, understanding slowly dawning:
"You're saying… he must bleed for his growth."
"No," Serion corrected quietly.
"He must own it."
Lyris closed her eyes.
"I only wanted to spare him the worst."
Serion softened — only slightly.
"And deny him the lessons that turn boys into kings?"
A long silence.
Then Lyris nodded, accepting the truth.
"We'll guide him," she said.
"But we will not shape his battles for him."
Serion exhaled, relieved.
"Exactly."
— Return
When the captains returned to the hall, their steps held new resolve.
Serion clapped once.
"Two hours' rest. Hydrate. Eat. Prepare."
Arcanis rose immediately.
"I will be ready."
His voice held no bravado.
No hesitation.
Only certainty.
The captains watched him leave — Lyris with a softer gaze, Serion with the quiet respect one warrior gives another on the path.
—
As Arcanis moved through the palace corridors, the kingdom carried on outside — merchants calling, guards training, citizens laughing in the sunlight.
A peaceful kingdom.
A small kingdom.
But one already placing its future into the hands of a boy with steel in his breath and oceans in his veins.
In his room, Arcanis sat on the bed, closed his eyes once, and let the silence settle.
Not as a child resting after a lesson…
But as a future monarch preparing for a world that would one day demand everything from him.