The training fields behind Mystara Academy were vast, tucked into the western slope of the Silver Hollow—a region of rugged cliffs and elemental flux. Most students used the facility only when required, preferring the grandiose dueling coliseums or elegant indoor sparring halls. But here, among weather-worn stones and wild, untamed winds, Vahn Romanoff trained.
The rain had stopped hours ago, but the sky remained veiled in heavy gray clouds. Purple lightning danced intermittently across the horizon, distant enough to be harmless—unless one was like Vahn.
His breath came in sharp rhythm. His shirt clung to his skin, soaked from sweat, not rain. Around him, the soil was scorched with jagged arcs, the air humming with residual energy.
He extended his right hand, calling the lightning once more.
Crack!
A sharp arc surged from the sky, not striking him, but bending toward him, curving unnaturally before halting mid-air—his control, honed by hours of micro-adjustments, was improving.
This was not magic through glyphs.
Not the refined elegance of the Luminaries.
This was raw elemental communion—lightning not cast, but courted.
Each day, before the others awoke, Vahn subjected himself to the Ritual of Endurance—a discipline he had designed using fragments of old battle doctrines and ancient beast-tamer routines. It involved channeling lightning through every fiber of his body, forcing his muscles, nerves, and Source channels to adapt under duress.
He stood at the edge of a cliff now, arms wide, shirtless, scars old and new etched into his skin like sacred runes. Around him, dozens of small iron rods stood erect in the ground, forming a jagged dome—an antenna array.
"Begin."
A whispered word was all it took.
The rods lit up in sequence, activating an energy net—a makeshift cage of magnetically locked Source current. Within seconds, the lightning began to feed in, a controlled storm.
Pain bloomed first.
Then heat.
Then clarity.
Vahn screamed, not in agony, but as a primal roar to sharpen his will. His body trembled, not from fear, but strain. The weave of energy surged through his Source Veins, searing away weakness and smoothing out imperfections like a blacksmith forging steel.
After five minutes, the rods fell silent. Steam rose from his shoulders. His breathing slowed.
His heart was steady.
His mind, clearer than ever.
Later that afternoon, he returned to the Academy's underground training chamber. It was one of the few spaces where he could train in secrecy—accessible only to faculty and, now, him.
A projection construct awaited him—an advanced Spell Construct designed to simulate elemental combat. Vahn had modified it to imitate various combat styles: flame archers, wind dancers, dual-blade illusionists.
Today, he selected something new.
"Load Combat Style: Eleventh Seat—Fragment 0.1," he whispered into the control glyph.
The room shifted. Shadows formed into a figure with jagged, unstable Source energy patterns, mimicking the chaotic structure Vahn had glimpsed during the Circle's ambush. It wasn't perfect—he had little data—but it was a start.
The construct struck first—fast, brutal, unpredictable.
Vahn responded not with counter-spells, but with footwork. Graceful, deliberate, learned from hours studying beast-lord duels and the elemental rhythm of thunderbeasts.
He struck with arcs of controlled lightning—snapping jabs of energy that disrupted the construct's patterns without wasting energy.
The fight lasted ten minutes. The construct adapted quickly.
But so did he.
When the simulation ended, Vahn stood over the defeated image, panting, but calm.
"Faster than last time," he murmured.
Then he reset it.
And began again.
Later that night, as the moon broke through the clouded sky, Vahn sat cross-legged in his chamber. The stolen copy of the Source Weave schematic sat beside him. His left arm still trembled faintly from overuse—but his mind? Razor sharp.
He jotted down new theories.
Integration between beast-spirit resonance and Source Weave harmonics.
Possible fragment signature resonance with Eleventh Seat's energy pattern.
Why did the betrayal occur after Prototype V4, not earlier? Had they underestimated the power jump?
Even as he studied, his body reflexively performed subtle training movements: pulse regulation, micro-muscle contractions, lightning calligraphy through finger sigils.
His training never stopped. It simply changed shape.
A Visitor in the Shadows
Just past midnight, a soft knock echoed at the reinforced door of his room.
He was instantly alert, hand twitching with lightning.
"Enter."
The door creaked open, revealing Lira Ventaris, her expression unreadable. She carried a wrapped bundle under one arm and a barely concealed look of hesitation.
"You missed the Council hearing," she said. "There was talk of suspending your research access again."
"I was training," Vahn replied without apology. "And learning."
She glanced around, noting the complex diagrams pinned to his walls and the burn scars on his gloves.
"You're burning yourself at both ends."
"It's the only way to illuminate both sides of the dark," he said.
Lira stepped closer. "Just don't forget to breathe, Vahn. You can't fight every war alone."
Vahn didn't answer.
Instead, he stood and walked to the open window. The night air smelled of lightning and promise.
"I'm not alone," he said at last. "Not yet."