The campfire crackled softly beneath the open sky, stars freckling the black above. Most of the escort had retired to their tents, save for the man on watch and Lucan, who moved through slow drills with a practice blade. They were about halfway through their trip to The Great Oak Academy.
His breath steamed in the cold. He'd repeated each motion a thousand times under Thorne's gaze, but now they felt strange. He felt too loud and too heavy in the silent night.
A shape moved near the edge of the firelight. Veyne.
He stood, arms folded, watching.
Lucan paused mid-motion. "You don't look too pleased, Veyne."
"I'm not," Veyne said simply. "I see something."
Lucan blinked. "What?"
Veyne stepped forward and pointed. "When you parry low. Your left foot always shifts in. Slightly. Over time, that draws your center forward."
Lucan frowned. "Thorne never mentioned that."
"Because Thorne broke through your guard with weight. You trained to stop an avalanche, but sometimes it is just the wind you need to stop." Veyne stepped into stance. "Try me."
Lucan hesitated, then took a ready position. They exchanged a few light blows. Veyne's movements were clean, measured and almost silent. Then, with a sudden flick, he feinted low. Lucan reacted, parried and stumbled forward off-balance.
"See?" Veyne said, lowering his sword. "If I wanted, you'd be bleeding."
Lucan stared, cheeks flushed.
Veyne stepped forth. "Fix your balance. Learn to recover, not resist. Strength meets strength. Precision beats both."
Lucan nodded slowly, then reset his stance.
They sparred a little longer in silence. No praise. No lectures. Just the sound of steel meeting steel in the cold night air.
As they slowed, Veyne stepped back, gaze settling on the fire.
"I won't be allowed to stay once we reach the gates," he said. "Personal attendants are not permitted within the Academy."
Lucan looked over, surprised. "I figured… I mean, young nobles need to learn to handle themselves."
"I know," Veyne said quietly. "This next part, she walks alone."
He turned to Lucan, eyes steady. "So I'll ask once. Can I trust you to keep watch over her?"
Lucan's throat tightened. "Of course. You can."
Veyne studied him a moment longer, then gave a small nod. "Good."
No ceremony followed. No words of gratitude. Just the flicker of firelight between them and the wind rustling the canvas.
Later, as Lucan sat alone by the embers, he thought about Veyne's skill. It made sense that Emberlily would choose a suitable guard for his daughter, that much showed when Veyne slashed through fifteen bandits in the Brightstead incident.
---
By the time the tall trees gave way to cobbled roads and stone markers etched with ivy, Lucan could smell the city on the wind, the smoke, bark, and spice. The gates of Caldenhal rose before them like fangs, open wide to receive carts, travellers, and the daily flood of coin.
As they passed through the gate, Lucan leaned out of the carriage window, eyes widening.
Caldenhal was alive.
Timber-framed buildings stretched into the canopy, and layered walkways connecting tree to tree high above them. Forest-green banners snapped in the wind. Dozens of vendors shouted beneath lantern-strung stalls. People bustled everywhere, and not just humans... Lucan saw pointed ears, strange eyes, and elegant robes, they were half-elves, and some who might be pure elves.
"I read about them," he murmured, unable to stop staring. "I didn't think I'd ever actually see one."
Lyra glanced at him, amused. "Don't stare. It's rude."
"He's doing that squint again," Veyne muttered. "He is not going to hear a word you say until he snaps out of it, my lady."
Lucan flushed and looked away.
Veyne, seeing his chance, launched into one of his dry monologues. "Caldenhal was founded by woodcutters and druids five hundred years ago and eventually grew into a trade hub between Thornevale and the eastern wilds. The population's about forty thousand now. Known for timber, bows, and carving. They say elven traders first helped lay its higher walkways. You know, forest bridges, hidden terraces, harmony with nature."
"Veyne," Lyra said with a sigh, "you're not a tour guide."
"No, but someone ought to appreciate the history."
They turned off the main road and began weaving through narrower side streets. Caldenhal was booming, children laughing as they chased one another across suspended bridges, armored scouts returning from patrol, merchants negotiating loudly in the shade of an old oak.
Eventually, Lyra opened the carriage and pointed toward an uncommon stone building pressed against the roots of a massive tree.
"Lucan," she said. "It's time you got a real sword."
Lucan blinked. "What? I mean, mine's fine."
"That little practice blade?" she scoffed. "You'll need better than that for the Academy."
He shifted in the saddle. "Aren't swords expensive?"
Veyne pulled a thick leather pouch from his belt. The coins clinked heavily inside.
"Fortunately," Veyne said, "your sponsor anticipated your stubbornness. Lord Emberlily told me to bring you here and get you a proper weapon. From someone he trusts."
They dismounted. As they stepped into the shop, the smell of burning coals and hot steel washed over them. The blacksmith's forge was tucked beside the main shop, open-air but protected under thick eaves. Tools hung from the walls, blades gleamed on racks, and smoke drifted lazily from the chimney.
A broad-shouldered man with a soot-streaked apron looked up from the anvil. His face was all sharp lines and bushy eyebrows, and he grunted without enthusiasm.
"We're not open for browsing," he said flatly.
Then his eyes landed on Lyra's cloak, more precisely, the silver-threaded Emberlily flower embroidered near the collar.
His eyes widened. "By the gods," he whispered. "Is that Lyra Emberlily?"
Lyra offered a smile. "It is. Good to see you again, Master Garrun."
"Ha! I'll be damned." The gruffness melted from his voice. "Last time I saw you, you were still shorter than my forge tongs. How's your father?"
Her smile dimmed a little. "Not with us for this trip. He's well, though. Staying behind in Emberkeep."
"Ah," Garrun nodded, face softening. "He'd hate this city anyway." Then, more brightly, "So what brings Lady Emberlily to Caldenhal? You're a bit far from your rolling hills."
"I'm heading to the Great Oak Academy."
That stopped him cold. "Makes sense, now that you say it." He turned his gaze to Lucan, who stood quietly by the door.
"And this one?"
Veyne stepped in. "This is Lucan, Lord Emberlily's ward. I've been instructed to see that he receives his first personal sword from you."
Garrun barked a laugh. "Knew it! Knew he always admired my work, even if he pretended my blades were too flashy."
He gestured them inside with a big, soot-covered hand. "Come on, then, boy. Let's find what calls to you."
The walls were lined with weapons, longswords, sabres, and falchions, all gleaming.
"This," he said proudly, "is what happens when you forge for love, not coin."
Lucan stared, wide-eyed. He picked up one blade but it was too heavy. Another was too short. Garrun guided him, while Veyne and Lyra threw in the occasional remark.
"That one's suitable," Veyne said as Lucan struggled to lift a greatsword. "If you plan to duel ogres."
Lyra smirked. "Try not to get one that drags when you walk."
Veyne watched him carefully. "The sword's for you, Lucan. Not for how people expect you to fight but how you fight."
Then Lucan saw it.
It wasn't the largest sword on the wall, nor the most imposing but it drew the eye. Slender and elegant, it was a straight, double-edged blade with a slight taper for thrusts and an edge honed for precision. The grip was wrapped in midnight-black leather, but the real flourish was the hilt, silverwork spiralled across it like flowing thread. It looked less like a soldier's weapon and more like something meant for court duels or noble ceremonies, beautiful and easy to underestimate.
Lucan lifted it.
It felt perfect.
"Good weight," he said quietly.
Garrun nodded. "That's not just balance. That's intention. That blade was forged for someone who thinks before they strike."
Lucan ran a thumb along the inscription on the blade.
All threads fray at the edge.
He glanced up. "What does that mean?"
Garrun's expression softened. "Every fighter's a knot with tension, timing and movement. You pull at the wrong spot, you get nothing. But you find the edge, the weak point, and everything comes undone."
Veyne added, "You don't break your opponent, Lucan. You break their pattern."
"What's it called?" Lucan asked.
Garrun's smile returned. "Threadcutter. Never made another like it. Always figured it was waiting for someone who could use it properly. I was beginning to worry it would just become a showpiece on some high lord's wall."
Lucan gave it a test swing. Fast. Quiet. Precise.
"I'll take it."
Lyra raised an eyebrow. "A little flashy on the hilt, don't you think?"
Garrun gave a gruff laugh. "Let them laugh at it. Pretty hilts don't win fights, but they might just make the other fool underestimate you."
Lucan's fingers held tightly to the grip. The weight felt right. Balanced. It moved with him, not against him.
Veyne, watching silently until now, gave a small nod."I'm glad you came to this sword yourself," he said. "It was the one I was going to suggest had you not."
Lucan looked at him. "Really?"
"I've seen how you move. You're quick, and calculating. You look for openings, not brute force. That sword's made for someone who sees the fight before it happens."
Lucan's fingers held tightly to the grip.
Threadcutter. A weapon meant for a thinking fighter. Not the strongest, not the fastest but sharp where it mattered.
He gave it one final thrust, then sheathed it carefully.
"Thank you," he said.
Garrun nodded once. "Take care of her."
Outside, the wind had shifted. Colder. Sharper. The sky had dimmed to deep violet, and lantern light now lit the upper bridges of Caldenhal like stars scattered among the trees.
Lyra stood by the carriage, arms folded.
"Enjoy the city while you can," she said. "We leave before dawn. The next stop is the Great Oak Academy."
Lyra climbed into the carriage, her voice almost casual.
"And Lucan?"
He turned to look up at her.
Her expression had shifted cooler, more serious.
"They don't just test your skills. The Academy tests you."
Then the carriage door shut with a quiet click.
Rich coming from someone who doesn't have to take the test he thought.
Lucan stood in the fading light, Threadcutter at his side, the city's warmth behind him and something colder waiting in the woods ahead.
The entrance exam was the only thing on Lucan's mind. That only motivated him though, losing his routine had hurt him but he picked up new ones and the exam was like his next big tournament.