Sol's boots echoed across the training hall, each step measured, heavy, like a countdown only he controlled. The wooden floor creaked under him—not in protest, but in recognition.
Aelar sat stiff at his bench, trying not to move. His back throbbed from posture drills, his arms burned from endless repetitions, but he forced himself still. His whole body screamed for him to relax.
Not now, he thought. Not with Sol watching.
His heart thudded faster, like it wanted to break rank. It wasn't just nerves—it was something heavier. The air itself seemed to lean forward.
"Now that you know the story," Sol said at last. His voice was quiet, but it carried, as if the hall itself had been built to make him heard. The torchlight deepened the scar along his cheek, a mark that seemed more warning than wound.
"Let me show you this blade."
Clang.
The sound of steel leaving its sheath ripped the silence apart. Half the class jumped. Aelar didn't—but only because he was too frozen to move.
The sword gleamed, alive in Sol's hand. Torchlight streamed off it like liquid starlight poured into metal.
Aelar's chest tightened.
What a shiny sword, he thought helplessly, really. First time in front of history itself, and all his brain had was shiny.
Sopl turned the blade slowly, almost reverently. It wasn't a demonstration. It was a ceremony.
"At first glance," Sol murmured, running a hand along the edge, "you might mistake this for something ordinary."
Sol lifted the sword, balancing it flat on his palm. Perfect. Unshaking. The room held its breath.
"But it is anything but ordinary," Sol said. His tone hardened. "This sword… can kill a demon."
The words rolled through the hall like a dropped stone. A girl near Aelar gasped, clutching her notebook like it was armor. Two boys at the back looked at each other, wide-eyed—fear mixing with fascination.
Aelar said nothing. He couldn't. His throat was a desert.
"Steel won't stop them," Sol went on. "Iron just makes them angrier. But this…"
He raised the blade again. Runes shimmered faintly along the edge. The light caught them strangely—too alive to be just reflection.
"This is silver. And demons…" Sol paused, letting the word bite.
"…hate silver. They hate light. And above all… they fear the sun."
He turned slowly, casting the blade's glow across the hall. Faces warped under shifting light—hope, fear, curiosity. Aelar caught his own reflection in one smooth edge: pale, tense, trying not to look like a boy terrified of the future.
Great. Now even the sword knows I'm nervous.
"Silver reflects light," Sol said. "Light weakens them. The sun burns them away. But at night…"
The sword slid back into its sheath with a sound final enough to feel like a verdict.
"…they thrive. And you must be ready."
Aelar swallowed hard, the sound loud to him, though no one else noticed.
So this place isn't about drills, he thought. Not about tradition or prestige. It's about preparing us—for war.
Sol spread a hand toward the fortress walls.
"This was not built for glory," he said. "It was built for protection. To shape you into what the world needs."
A hand rose.
"Darian Crestfall," Sol said immediately.
Aelar turned as Darian stood. His chestnut hair was as messy as ever, his grin smaller but alive. Somehow, Darian always looked like he'd just rolled out of bed and still managed confidence.
"Sir," Darian said, clear but hesitant, "what if a demon does something… unexpected? Something we aren't trained for?"
The room shifted. Students leaned forward. Even Aelar couldn't help it—his ears straining. Good question, he thought. Horrifying question, but good.
Sol's mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not approval. Something else.
"Good question," he said at last.
He leaned against his desk, arms folding.
"They're clever. Smarter than most believe. And when they want something badly enough, there's little they won't do to get it."
His gaze swept the room. His voice dipped lower, heavy.
"To demons, we are just prey that can be plaything if they bored before consuming us"
The silence deepened, until another voice cut through.
"Ser Sol?"
Aelar's head turned before he could stop himself. Lana Rodel.
She stood tall, shoulders squared, eyes sharp as steel. She looked so different here, serious and focused—like a drawn blade herself.
"Yes, Miss Lana," Sol said.
"One last question," she said,
"What is the origin of demons?"
The room froze.
Even Sol hesitated. His fingers tapped once against the hilt of his sword.
"They originate…" His voice slowed, weighted.
"…from us."
Silence blanketed the hall.
Aelar blinked. His thoughts spun. From us? From humans?
Lana's expression hardly changed. Just a faint narrowing of her eyes, like she'd already suspected.
Sol straightened. His tone cut the moment.
"I will explain tomorrow."
A nod dismissed them.
"Class dismissed. Return to your quarters. Tomorrow
Training begins."
Stone scraped as chairs shifted. Conversations sparked at once—hushed, frantic, buzzing. Some students glanced toward the windows, as if the sunset might suddenly bring monsters.
Aelar lingered, slow to gather his things. His satchel felt heavier than it was.
Around him, students laughing, whispering, nudging shoulders. They already had people. They already belonged.
Not me, he thought. Not yet.
He glanced at Lana where she having a conversation with Her friends
He tightened his grip on his satchel and followed the others down the stone steps.
The stairs were cold under his boots, though sunlight still burned outside.