The training yard was empty again. Just how I liked it.
Well—mostly.
Instructor Calden stood off to the side, arms crossed, face carved from stone. He didn't say anything yet. He never did, at first. He liked to let the silence stretch long enough for me to feel it. Like the weight of the sword in my hand wasn't enough already.
I rolled my shoulders, trying to shake off the morning chill. The wooden practice blade felt heavier than usual. Or maybe I just felt smaller today.
"You're late," Calden finally said, voice like gravel.
"It's my birthday week," I muttered. "Technically."
He raised an eyebrow. "And you think your enemies will wait politely until you've had cake?"
Nope. There it was. The usual Calden wisdom. Brutal. Pointed. And somehow always involving blood, enemies, or dying in a ditch.
"Form one," he barked.
I dropped into position. Dragon Style. High stance. Shoulders square, grip tight, back straight.
Strike. Block. Turn. Thrust.
The moves came slower today. My muscles ached in places I didn't know existed. Beast Style had torn something loose inside me, and now even Dragon felt… foreign. Like it was borrowed. Like I didn't quite fit in my own body anymore.
"Foot too wide," Calden snapped. "Again."
Strike. Block. Turn. Thrust.
"Loosen your shoulders. You're not a statue."
Strike. Block. Turn—
Thud.
The blade flew from my fingers and clattered against the training yard stone.
I stared at it.
My hands trembled.
A long breath hissed out of me. "Sorry."
"You're not sorry," Calden said, walking over. He didn't pick up the blade for me. Of course not. "You're tired. You're distracted. You're somewhere else entirely."
I didn't answer.
Because he wasn't wrong.
Part of me was still in the greenhouse. In the shadows. Feeling the dirt under my feet and the weight of a blade that didn't care about honor or grace. Only survival.
"Pick it up," he said.
I did.
And then I stood there, frozen.
"Kaelen."
I didn't look at him.
"What's going on?"
That was new.
Calden never asked. He ordered. He commanded. He drilled the weakness out of you like it was rust on a blade.
But right now, he was looking at me—not like a soldier in training. Not even like a noble.
Just… a boy. Shaking.
"I don't know," I whispered.
He studied me for a long time.
Then, quietly, he said, "Form one again. Slower. Breathe with it."
So I did.
Strike. Block. Turn. Thrust.
But I breathed with it.
And for the first time that morning, the blade felt a little less heavy.
Strike. Block. Turn. Thrust.
The rhythm slowly returned, like a heartbeat. Not perfect. Not clean. But mine.
Calden didn't speak again for a while. Just watched. He only stepped in when my footwork dragged or my strikes turned sloppy. But he didn't bark, didn't sneer.
He just… watched.
Corrected.
Waited.
"You're not weak, Kaelen," he said at last, as I paused to wipe the sweat from my eyes. "You're just thinking too much. A blade doesn't think. It cuts. It moves."
He tapped my temple. Not hard, but enough to jolt me.
"This," he said, "can be your greatest weapon. Or your heaviest chain. You need to choose which."
I wanted to say something sharp in return. Something witty. But the words just curled up in my throat and died.
So I nodded.
He grunted, satisfied, and walked off toward the bench where he always left his cloak.
That's when I saw her.
Nareva. Standing near the edge of the garden wall. Just out of sight. Or at least, where she thought was out of sight.
Her posture was different than usual. Not straight-backed and regal. She leaned slightly, hands folded in front of her. Watching.
Not me.
Calden.
She didn't say anything. She didn't wave. Just turned and walked away as Calden pulled on his cloak.
He didn't glance her way. But maybe he didn't have to.
"Again," he said, without looking back. "Slower this time."
Strike. Block. Turn. Thrust.
I didn't ask why she was watching.
But part of me wondered… how long she had been.
And part of me hoped she'd come back.
I don't know how long I kept moving—just that my shirt clung with sweat and my legs felt like they were carved from soaked wood. My grip faltered. My breaths came too fast.
Still, I didn't stop. Because Calden hadn't said to.
And when he finally turned, cloak draped over his arm, I expected him to nod, grunt, or maybe mutter one of those rare almost-praises that never sounded like praise at all.
Instead, he tossed the cloak aside.
"Duel me," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." Calden stepped into the center of the training ring, cloak thrown aside, wooden sword in hand. "No more drills. No more steps. You want to get stronger? Fight someone who won't wait for you to catch your breath."
My heart skipped. He wasn't joking. His voice was too flat, too steady. Not angry, not mocking—just final.
I stared at the sword in my hand. It suddenly felt much too light.
"What are the rules?" I asked, though I already knew what he'd say.
Calden shrugged. "You hit me, you win. You don't—well." He didn't finish the sentence.
I swallowed, then stepped into the ring.
The grass underfoot was patchy here. Bits of stone poked up through the earth like crooked teeth. This was no padded sparring mat.
We bowed—me stiffly, him barely.
He raised his sword with one hand.
I inhaled, then dropped into stance.
Dragon Style. Form Four. The Rising Tide.
Left foot forward, blade angled down. Exhale steady. Weight low, but not crouched. Everything Instructor Rendal ever drilled into me came rushing back.
And then I moved.
A flowing step—like water catching wind—straight into an upward slash aimed toward Calden's shoulder. I pivoted on my heel, using momentum to keep the arc smooth, precise.
Calden deflected it like swatting a leaf.
I used the recoil, spun low, and came in again. Diagonal, controlled. No waste. No wildness.
But again, he blocked without shifting his stance. Like he knew exactly where I was aiming before I did.
I pressed harder. Quickened my strikes. Form Two into Form Five, then back to Four again—each movement connected like a river's flow, pushing forward with everything I'd been taught.
My muscles ached, but I kept going. Sword sweeping, stepping, parrying.
Calden stayed in place.
His movements were minimal, efficient—just enough to parry, to angle my blade away, to make me miss by an inch. Always an inch.
"More weight on your back leg," he said, almost bored. "You're telegraphing your follow-through."
I shifted. Adjusted.
Went again.
Form Three—The Weaving Gale. I slashed wide, then short. Feinted, pivoted, twisted into a thrust.
He batted it away and struck my ribs with the flat of his sword.
Pain bloomed sharp through my side.
I stumbled back.
"Again," he said.
The tone didn't change. He hadn't raised his voice. He hadn't mocked me. But the word struck harder than the sword.
I charged.
Form One—The Mountain Breaks the Sky. A hard overhead slash, followed by two cross-cuts meant to drive him backward.
He gave up ground this time—but not because I pushed him.
Because he let me.
I hated how calm he was. How patient. Like this was all part of the lesson.
I bit down and pushed faster. Every cut was precise. Every step angled, timed. I knew these forms like breath and heartbeat now. I'd bled for them. Cried through them.
So why wasn't it enough?
He turned my blade aside again and stepped in with a short strike—not even full force—and tapped my shoulder hard enough to bruise.
I recoiled. Breathless.
"You dropped your guard."
"I know," I snapped.
He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
I fell into stance again. My grip tightened. Hands shaking.
Focus.
Flow.
Dragon Style is about rhythm, I reminded myself. Not brute force. Not rage. Control.
I moved again, more carefully this time. Clean footwork. Arc-and-return. I used every form I remembered, switched stances mid-combo. Attacked high, then low. Waited for his counter and tried to bait an opening.
Still nothing.
He read me too easily.
Every motion I made, he broke apart before it could matter.
It was like fighting a cliff with a stick.
And every time I thought I had him, every time I poured myself into a perfect strike, he met me with a glance and a step and ruined it.
I was losing.
Not in some dramatic, sword-clashing way—but in the slow, exhausting realization that I was outclassed in every way that mattered.
My sword sagged.
My arms burned.
My knees buckled slightly before I caught myself.
But Calden didn't strike.
He stood still.
Watching.
Waiting.
Testing.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to hurl the sword at his feet and spit curses and say I was done with this style that looked pretty and meant nothing.
But I didn't.
Because deep down, I still believed in it.
And that hurt most of all.