For three months, the training yard of the Graythorn estate had been Leonel's entire world. The initial novelty of the wooden sword had long since worn off, sanded away by countless repetitions, replaced by the raw, honest feel of calluses on his palms and a deep, bone-weary familiarity with every chip and grain in the oak. The Skyfall Slash was no longer just a technique; it was a rhythm etched into his muscles, a prayer his body recited at dawn, under the noon sun, and in the long, purple shadows of dusk.
He was a small, solitary figure in that vast, stone-rimmed circle, a boy against a legacy. The sound of his practice was the only music—the scuff of his boots on the hard-packed earth, the whuff of his exhaled breath, and the solid, percussive thwack of wood striking the unyielding training post. He was chasing something, a feeling that danced just at the edge of his perception. It was in the way his weight shifted from his back foot, the way his shoulder turned not with brute force, but with a coiled intention, the way the air seemed to part for the blade when everything was just right.
Lately, however, something else had begun to stir beneath the disciplined surface of his practice. It started as a flicker, a ghost of a sensation so faint he'd dismissed it as a trick of fatigue or the sun's warmth on his skin. It was a pocket of heat, buried deep in his gut, that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. At first, it was nothing. Then, with each passing day, it grew. A small, stubborn ember that refused to be extinguished. He'd feel it as he drew breath for a strike—a sudden, internal warmth that spread through his limbs, making the wooden sword feel less like a dead weight and more like a living extension of his arm. The wind, which usually just was, began to feel like a presence, something he could almost… push against.
Then came the morning it all crystallized.
The air was cool and clean, smelling of damp earth and the distant, resinous scent of pine from the forests beyond the walls. Leonel stood, feet planted in the familiar stance, his world narrowed to the post, the sword, and the arc of the swing. He inhaled, the air filling his lungs, and for a fleeting second, he felt that internal warmth not as a pulse, but as a wave. It surged from his core, down his arm, and into the wood.
He swung.
It wasn't a child's swing. The sound it made was different—sharper, cleaner, a crack that held a note of finality. The impact jarred up his arm, but it was a clean jolt, not a ragged shudder. The force behind it was… impossible. It was more than his meager strength, more than his body weight. For one breathtaking moment, the sword hadn't been wood in his hand; it had been a line of pure intent, a conduit for something he didn't understand.
He froze, his breath catching in his throat. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He stared at his hands, half-expecting to see them glowing, crackling with stolen lightning. But they were just his hands—small, grubby, the knuckles scraped, the new calluses stark against his skin. The sword was just a sword.
But the echo of that power remained, a phantom vibration in his veins. What in the name of the Seven Realms was that?
"Leonel."
The voice, soft yet carrying the unshakable composure of a duchess, cut through his daze. He turned to see his mother, Lady Seraphina, standing in the arched doorway that led back into the main house. She was a vision of silver and calm, her hair a sleek fall over her shoulders, her gown a simple, elegant gray. Her face, usually a mask of gentle affection, was unreadable, her features composed into a serene neutrality that he recognized as her 'official' face.
"Come inside, my heart," she said, her tone leaving no room for question. "The head of the family requires your presence."
The strange energy still thrumming within him was instantly drowned by a cold wave of apprehension. Being 'required' by the head of the family—even when that head was his own father—was never a casual affair. Had he done something wrong? Had someone seen the… the whatever-it-was? He lowered his sword, his mind racing as he followed her across the manicured grounds, the ghost of that impossible strike clinging to him.
Inside the grand hall, with its vaulted ceilings and banners bearing the Graythorn hawk, the air was cool and still, smelling of beeswax and old stone. Waiting for him was Old Man Hemlock, the family steward, whose spine was as straight and unwavering as his loyalty. In his liver-spotted hands, he held a single piece of parchment, sealed with a splash of scarlet wax impressed with the family crest.
"Master Leonel," Hemlock intoned, his voice a dry rustle of leaves. He offered a shallow, precise bow. "By the decree of His Grace, the Duke, it has been formally recognized and announced. You are hereby promoted to the rank of Sword Apprentice of the Graythorn line."
Leonel blinked, his confusion momentarily overwhelming his anxiety. "A Sword Apprentice? But… the trials aren't for another season. I haven't… I didn't do anything to earn this."
Hemlock's lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Your evident progress and singular discipline speak for themselves, young master. Even without yet being granted access to the family's cultivation techniques, you have displayed a… clarity of form… that the head of the family finds worthy of recognition."
The words hung in the air, immense and silencing. To be named a Sword Apprentice was the first, crucial step. It was a formal acknowledgment that you were no longer just a child playing with a sword, but a candidate for the family's legacy. Most of his cousins trained for years before being considered. To receive it now, ahead of schedule and without the foundational cultivation that every other Apprentice possessed, was unprecedented. It was an honor that felt, to Leonel, terrifyingly like a spotlight.
"Understood," he managed, his voice barely a whisper.
Before the weight of the proclamation could fully settle, a new voice, laced with familiar, lazy amusement, sliced through the formality.
"Well, well. Look who's decided to join the rest of us mere mortals in the ranks of the officially sanctioned."
Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, was his older sister, Elara. At twenty-three, she was a storm contained in human form, renowned as the second-greatest swordsman in the family, bested only by their eldest brother, Darian. Her jet-black hair was tied back in a severe, practical knot, emphasizing the sharp, elegant lines of her face. Her dark eyes, usually alight with mockery or impatience, now held a glint of something else—genuine approval, mixed with her trademark mischief.
"Elara?" Leonel stammered. "Did you know about this?"
She pushed off the doorframe and sauntered into the room, her movements as fluid and predatory as a stalking cat. "I may not spend my days lurking in the bushes to watch you beat up a post, little brother, but it's hard to miss the determined little cyclone you've become in the yard. You've been swinging that stick with more soul than half the idiots Father pays to train." She stopped in front of him, looking him up and down. "Apparently, someone important noticed."
Leonel felt a flush creep up his neck. "I was just practicing. I didn't think—"
"Clearly," she interrupted, her smirk widening. "And since our illustrious father is currently off reminding some border lords why the Graythorn hawk is to be feared, and Darian is… well, being Darian, that means you're stuck with me. I'll be taking over your training."
The flush on Leonel's neck spread to his face. "You? Training me?"
"Unless you'd prefer Hemlock?" she asked, raising a single, sculpted eyebrow. "I assure you, his critiques are far less… forgiving. And honestly," she added, her gaze sharpening, "I can't have my only little brother embarrassing the family name with sloppy footwork. It reflects poorly on me."
He opened his mouth to protest, but the look in her eyes—a blend of jest and absolute, unwavering seriousness when it came to the sword—made him snap it shut. Elara joked about everything, but she never joked about this.
"Besides," she continued, her tone shifting into one of business, "you're ready for the next step. You've mastered the falling sky. Now, you need to learn to dance with the wind. I will teach you the second form of our family's technique: the Gale Shadow Strike."
Leonel straightened instinctively, the name alone sending a thrill through him. "The Gale Shadow Strike? It sounds… fast."
"Oh, it is," Elara said, her eyes gleaming. "But speed is the crudest part of it. The Gale Shadow Strike is about rhythm. It's about listening. It's the strike that isn't there until it is. You don't overpower your opponent; you out-time them. You move when the wind calls for it, and you strike in the breath between heartbeats."
Leonel frowned, his father's lessons rising to the fore. "But Father always says strength is the foundation. That control comes from power."
Elara let out a short, exasperated groan, rolling her eyes to the ceiling as if seeking divine patience. "Father is a mountain. He believes in overwhelming force. I am a storm. I believe in the single, perfect lightning bolt that decides the battle before the mountain even knows it's begun. Strength is what you use when you're too slow or too stupid to be somewhere else. The Gale Shadow Strike is finesse. It is control made manifest."
She stepped away from him, into the center of the hall. Her hand went to the hilt of her sword, a real blade of polished steel that sang a soft, deadly note as it left its scabbard. Her posture was flawless—not stiff, but alive with potential energy, like a drawn bowstring.
"Watch," she commanded, her voice dropping to a whisper.
Leonel held his breath.
She didn't seem to move so much as unfold. One moment she was still, a statue of a warrior. The next, there was a blur of silver, a sound like a razor-edged sigh, and a movement so fast his eyes couldn't truly follow it. It wasn't a slash; it was an implication of a slash, a line drawn in the air that became reality.
The training dummy she had targeted, a heavy thing of leather and packed straw, simply split. There was no dramatic crash, no splintering of wood. The top half slid cleanly from the bottom, landing on the stone floor with two soft, successive thuds.
"See?" Elara said, sheathing her blade with a definitive click. She wasn't even breathing heavily. "It's not about how hard you hit. It's about becoming the strike itself. The blade is just the proof."
Leonel stared, his mouth agape. The display was beyond anything he'd seen from her before. It was artistry. It was murder made beautiful. "How… how do you do that?"
"The breath," she said, tapping a finger against her own lips. "It's the metronome. When your breath, your body, and your blade all move to the same rhythm, you stop fighting the air. You let it carry you. You become part of the current."
He looked down at his own practice sword, a lump of dead wood suddenly feeling absurdly inadequate. "I don't think I can ever do that."
Elara laughed, a bright, genuine sound that echoed in the hall. "Not with that whiny tone, you can't. Come on. Up. Let's see if you can manage to not trip over your own feet."
Self-consciously, Leonel moved to stand beside her, raising his sword into a crude imitation of her ready stance.
"Your center is bobbing like a fishing cork," she said immediately, nudging the back of his knee with her foot, making him wobble. "The strike doesn't live in your shoulders, little brother. It lives here." She poked him hard in the stomach, just below his navel. "It's born in your core, travels up your spine, and is delivered by your arm. The sword is just the messenger."
He adjusted, his cheeks burning. He swung.
"No," she said, her voice flat. "You're muscling it. You're trying to push the air out of the way. Stop trying so hard. Relax. Breathe. Listen to the space around you."
He took a deeper breath, trying to quiet the frantic beating of his heart. He swung again, slower this time, focusing on the feeling of the air sliding over the blade.
"Better," she conceded. "A flicker of understanding. Now you're just thinking about it too much. You're trying to solve the swing. Don't think. Feel."
He exhaled, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. He closed his eyes for a second, forgetting Elara, forgetting the promotion, forgetting everything but the weight of the sword and the whisper of the air in the great hall. He let his body remember the strange warmth from the yard, the feeling of the blade as an extension. He swung.
The movement was smoother. There was no explosive power, no blinding speed, but for the first time, it felt… integrated. It felt whole.
Elara clapped her hands once, a sharp, approving sound. "There! Finally! A spark! A tiny, pathetic, barely-visible-to-the-naked-eye spark, but I'll take it. We can work with a spark."
A grin broke through Leonel's concentration. "I'm not a prodigy like you."
"Not yet," she corrected, tapping his forehead lightly with her knuckle. "But you will be. Technique can be beaten into anyone. Talent is just a head start. What you've got…" She looked at him, her teasing fading into something more thoughtful. "What you've got is a stubbornness that borders on divine madness. That's rarer. Don't lose it."
Her words, for all their bluntness, settled in him, warm and solid.
For the rest of the afternoon, she put him through his paces. She was a demanding, often infuriating teacher, her corrections sharp and her praise backhanded. But her eyes missed nothing, and her guidance was flawless. With each failed attempt, she would adjust his elbow, reposition his hip, remind him to breathe from his diaphragm, not his chest. Slowly, achingly, the movements began to feel less foreign. The wooden sword began to feel less like a club and more like a partner in a delicate, lethal dance.
By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the high windows in shades of orange and gold, Leonel was drenched in sweat, his muscles trembling with a fatigue so profound it felt like a kind of purity. Every swing of the sword was an effort, but there was a new exhilaration humming beneath the exhaustion, a sense that he was finally, truly, beginning.
Elara sheathed her own blade and looked him over, her critical gaze softening at the edges. "You didn't completely disgrace yourself today, Leonel. There's hope for you yet."
"Thanks, Elara," he panted, leaning on his practice sword for support. "I… I'll keep trying."
"I know you will," she said, and her voice was quiet, almost gentle. "That's what you do. And one day, you're going to make this entire family sit up and shut up."
She turned and left him there in the darkening hall, the sound of her footsteps fading. Leonel stood alone, the silence pressing in. He looked down at the wooden sword in his hand, the instrument of his new title. And as he stood there, breath slowly returning to normal