Cain took a few slow, measured steps forward, each one crunching against the gravel with deliberate weight. His arms were crossed, but his voice was sharp and biting, cutting through the heavy silence like a knife.
"You really think this is going to get you anywhere?" Cain said, gesturing with a lazy flick toward the broken line of kitchen knives littering the ground. "What's the plan, Calien? Scare a dummy to death? Or maybe you're hoping to impress someone with how bad your throwing is?"
Calien stayed quiet, jaw tightening.
Cain smiled wide, sensing the resistance. He circled him slowly now, like a predator toying with a wounded animal, letting his words dig deep.
"This little act of yours… it's pathetic. You've got no form, no control, no aim. You're just flailing with those cheap knives like some lowborn trash hoping for a miracle."
He leaned in close, whispering now. "Maybe that's what you're hoping for, huh? A miracle to make up for everything you lack."
Calien's grip on his last kitchen knife tightened.
Cain straightened up, walking a slow arc until he was ten paces away. His eyes wandered toward a rack on the side of the training yard, half-covered in cobwebs and dust.
Nestled between splintered shields and warped wooden swords were a bundle of unused wooden knives—short, stubby, and generally ignored by all trainees.
Most considered them a joke. Spare parts. Tools for children or cowards.
Cain grabbed one with a chuckle. "Look at these things," he muttered, giving the blade a few experimental tosses in his palm. "Useless, right?"
He turned, suddenly flinging the wooden knife across the yard toward Calien. Calien caught it by reflex, the dull weight almost disappointing in his hand.
Cain smirked. "There. That suits you better."
He flexed his shoulders and took a few steps forward, loosening his arms as he continued, "You know, I never really cared much for knife training. Too basic. Too weak. But even then... I'm sure that my 'basic' skills are better than your fancy sword tricks."
Calien's breath grew uneven.
Cain's tone dipped low, like a shadow. "Tell you what," he said. "Let's make it interesting."
He stepped into the center of the yard and turned with arms wide, smugness radiating from every part of his body. "You beat me in a knife duel right here—just once—and I'll let you go."
Calien narrowed his eyes. "Go?"
Cain grinned. "Yeah. Go to that Academy of yours. Take their stupid assessment. Pretend to be a knight among farmboys and washed-up sword-wavers. I'll even keep my mouth shut about it."
Calien's breath caught in his throat.
"But," Cain continued, his voice darkening, "if you lose… I'll go straight to Father. Tell him his weakest son is trying to sneak into a lowborn academy behind his back. Tell him how desperate you are to crawl your way out of my shadow."
Calien's fists clenched.
He couldn't let that happen.
The Silverhart family was a proud knight lineage, bound by old codes and older prejudices.
The Silver Blade Academy, while respected among commoners and outlanders, was viewed with utter disdain in the family.
It was the place for second-rate knights and non-noble trash.
If their father, Crosun Silverhart, found out Calien was even thinking of taking the assessment, he wouldn't just disown him—he might drag him out of the academy himself and flog him for the disgrace.
Cain knew all of this. Of course he did. That's why he said it. That's why he smiled when he did.
"What's wrong?" Cain taunted. "You afraid?"
Calien's teeth ground together, his knuckles whitening around the wooden knife. He had no choice. This wasn't just about pride anymore—it was about survival.
Cain raised his hand lazily, and for a moment, the air shimmered.
"I'll make it fair," Cain said mockingly. "No tricks. I'll match my mana to yours. See?" He flared his energy, leveling it to Calien's baseline. His aura shimmered pale blue, pulsing with containment. "Now we're equal."
But Calien wasn't fooled. He knew Cain's control was on another level.
The veterans who trained Cain were personal instructors of the Silverhart bloodline—many of them knights who had turned down positions in the Royal
Academy just to stay under Crosun's favor.
They were stronger, sharper, and leagues ahead of the professors in Silver Blade. Even the assessment officers at the academy couldn't match them.
Still, Calien stepped forward and picked up another wooden knife. It felt light, fragile. But in his hand, it also felt… real.
Tomorrow, he was supposed to start training under those same veterans—same ones Cain had been molded by. But instead, he planned to sneak away. To stand before Nolan. To keep his promise and take that test.
He couldn't back out now.
Cain whistled, cocking his head. "Sweet," he said. "I knew you'd accept. You always do."
The brothers faced each other across the stone yard, wooden knives in hand, mana thickening around them like storm clouds.
Sparks of energy crackled from their bodies, subtle but growing.
The pressure built with every heartbeat.
Then, just before the clash—
"What is going on here!?"
A voice thundered across the yard like a hammer blow.
Both Cain and Calien snapped their heads toward the gate at the far end of the courtyard.
A tall man in dark armor and flowing silver-trimmed cloak stood there.
His face was hard as carved stone, every line etched with command and cruelty. His piercing gray eyes landed first on Cain, then slowly to Calien.
Crosun Silverhart.
Behind him, a small group of armored soldiers stood at attention, their expressions unreadable.
Calien's stomach dropped like lead.
He didn't even need to hear his father speak again. One look from those eyes, and he already felt like he was suffocating.
Cain's grin widened as he took a slow, triumphant breath. He didn't even need to say anything—the smugness dripping from his expression said it all.
Calien, on the other hand, felt his lungs tighten, as though the very air had turned into heavy ash.
"You planned to sneak away?" Cain finally said, voice light and theatrical as he turned to face their father, who stood at the head of the training yard like a pillar carved from fury itself. "To the Silver Blade Academy, of all places?"
Crosun Silverhart's face remained unreadable, but the air around him shifted, subtle yet suffocating.
A quiet, dark pressure unfurled from his body like a shroud, and even the seasoned soldiers behind him—veterans of campaigns long past—tensed, shoulders lifting slightly as if to brace for something.
"What did you say?" Crosun's voice was deep and quiet, but it landed like a boulder in a still pond.
Cain didn't even flinch. He gestured to Calien casually. "He wants to run off tomorrow and join the Academy. Said he'd take their knight assessment. That he wants to be one of them."
The silence afterward was thunderous.
Crosun turned his gaze slowly, mechanically, toward Calien.
The intensity of that stare felt like a sword pressing into the side of his neck. Calien couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
"You," Crosun said. Just the word—low and accusatory—held a weight that made Calien's knees want to buckle.
The soldiers behind him, all Silverhart-trained knights in polished gray armor, began whispering amongst themselves.
Calien could hear it, even though they tried to keep their voices low.
"Did he say… Silver Blade Academy?"
"He wouldn't… That's suicide."
"Why would the young master want to shame the family like that?"
"Running away to be trained by… outsiders?"
"This has to be a joke. Calien… that one? He wouldn't dare—"
"He always was a bit soft…"
"I thought Cain was exaggerating…"
They kept whispering. They didn't even bother to hide the disbelief. Calien's eyes dropped to the ground. His fingers dug into his palm.
"Is it true?" Crosun asked, and now the pressure in the air pulsed with a rising storm. "You planned to abandon your training and sneak into that backwater academy?"
Calien swallowed, throat dry. He nodded, slowly, each inch of movement more painful than the last.
"I… I owe Teacher Nolan a promise," he said at last. His voice cracked. "And I must fulfill it."
The silence stretched once more. The name meant nothing to Crosun, that much was obvious. His face didn't twitch. His jaw remained set.
"Who?" he asked, not angrily now, but with something worse—complete dismissal. "Who is this Nolan?"
Calien lifted his head, trying not to break under the glare of his father. "He's an outsider… a new instructor. He's going to be at the Silver Blade Academy's assessment tomorrow. He specializes in knife art."
Crosun didn't speak. He just stared. The soldiers behind him shifted uneasily, the tension growing unbearably thick.
Then Cain, ever the instigator, stepped forward and lifted his arms as if to mediate the air.
"We had a deal," he said lightly, feigning innocence. "If he beats me in a duel, he goes. If not, he stays. I'll even keep quiet about it."
The soldiers began whispering again. Their murmurs were louder this time, charged with disbelief and anticipation.
"They're actually going to fight?"
"Calien against Cain?"
"I've never even seen them spar seriously before."
"They're brothers! This is…"
"Cain will destroy him."
Calien could feel his heart pounding in his ears, his thoughts spinning, but still anchored to one unshakable thing: if he didn't take the duel, he would never be allowed to go. If he won, though… he had a chance. Just a chance.
He recalled Nolan's words. About surpassing stage six Novice Mana Knights, even while still in the fourth stage. That wasn't arrogance—it was something deeper. Nolan believed in that truth. And in them.
That was the strength Nolan had shown with just a throw. Calien had never seen someone command such danger with such simplicity. Not even his father is capable of that.
If there was ever a time to trust Nolan's judgment, it was now.
He clenched his fists.
"I'll do it," he said, forcing the words out. "We'll duel."
Crosun raised an eyebrow but didn't interrupt. He let Calien speak.
"I'll fight him. And if I lose… I'll stay. I won't go to the Academy. Ever."
Cain tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Well, well."
Crosun's eyes narrowed. Then, after a long pause, he finally spoke again. "Very well."
He turned to one of the guards standing closest to the edge of the courtyard. "Summon Fergan and Guch."
The guard saluted instantly and disappeared with practiced speed.
Crosun turned back to his sons. "You will not duel here like amateurs. You will fight in the arena. I want to see exactly what my sons are capable of when they have something to prove."
His gaze locked onto Calien. "Understand this. If you lose… you are not to take one step toward that academy. If you so much as breathe its name again, I will cut you off from our bloodline and you will be nothing but a dishonored bastard. Do you understand?"
Calien's heart twisted, but he stood straight. "I understand."
"Good," Crosun said coldly, then turned. "Prepare yourself."
As he strode away, the tension didn't break—it only thickened. The soldiers looked at Calien now not with scorn, but something else. Curiosity, maybe. Pity, perhaps. Cain, however, just winked and stretched his neck, already savoring the battle to come.
The training yard was emptying as guards moved to prepare the arena. Cain walked off to one side, bouncing a wooden knife in his hand as if this was all a game.
Calien stood alone in the yard for a long moment, watching the last of the soldiers disappear into the manor corridors.
He turned his head slightly and looked down at the practice knife still in his hand. It felt heavier now.
He whispered to himself, low and steady.
"I'll win. No matter what."