A month had passed since Liam's victory at the Oulbeck Tournament and the terrifying glimpse of his own burgeoning Aura. The days had been a relentless cycle of training, guided by Sir Lucas's unwavering discipline. The Aura he had manifested was a fleeting, shimmering thing, a whisper of power he could not yet command. It was a dragon's breath, beautiful and terrifying, but it refused to be tamed.
Liam meditated for hours, his focus a razor's edge, attempting to replicate that first, spontaneous manifestation. He had come to understand that Aura was not simply a flow of mana, but a direct extension of one's spirit, a visible manifestation of their will. His will, forged in the fires of a past life's betrayal, was strong, but it was also chaotic.
The Ring of Azure Depths, now a constant weight on his finger, hummed with a quiet power, steadily replenishing his mana and allowing him to train for longer durations than a normal person ever could. Yet, even with its aid, Aura proved to be his most elusive challenge.
He sparred with Sir Lucas, pushing himself to his limits, using Draconic Manifestations to test his control. The obsidian scales shimmered to life at a thought, a cool, dark second skin that deflected strikes with a jarring thud. His Adamantine Claws tore through the air, a primal echo of the power within. But always, Aura remained just beyond his grasp, a flickering golden ghost he could only summon with a desperate, all-consuming effort.
"Don't force it, boy," Sir Lucas would often say, his weathered face grim. "It's like trying to hold sand in your fist. The harder you squeeze, the more it slips away. You have to learn to let it flow."
Liam's frustration grew. He felt the immense power within him, a raging storm held back by a dam of his own inability.
As the month neared its end, the somber weight of his father's final words settled upon him. He was a target. Vorian's silence was more terrifying than any open threat, a quiet promise of a more insidious plan.
The journey back to Oulbeck was a stark contrast to the first. There was no longer a sense of joyous anticipation. It was a grim procession. Sir Lucas rode at Liam's side, and the ten Black Knights, disguised as common travelers, formed a quiet, lethal ring of steel around them. They were shadows on the road, their presence a silent reminder of the dangers that lay hidden in every whisper of the wind, every rustle of the leaves.
They arrived at the Oulbeck keep as the sun set, its final rays painting the ancient stones in hues of orange and gold. The atmosphere was different now. The courtyard, once bustling with the vibrant energy of a tournament, was now quiet, almost monastic. The only sounds were the clang of a blacksmith's hammer in the distance and the rhythmic chants of a group of men training in a far-off field.
Liam and his escort were led to a secluded barracks, far from the main courtyard. It was spartan, with only a few simple cots and a small wooden table. Waiting for him was Grandmaster Orin Oulbeck, his immense presence filling the room. At his side were a handful of other youths, all looking as tense and exhausted as Liam felt.
"So you came," Orin said, his voice a low rumble. "Good. Cowards and the weak of spirit have no place here. This is not a tournament. This is a crucible. A forge where we will either temper your will into steel or let it shatter into dust."
Orin gestured to the other youths. "These are your companions. They, too, possess the latent fire we seek to ignite. You will train together. You will eat together. You will sleep together. You will either rise as one, or you will fall alone."
Liam's Dragon's Gaze immediately took in his new companions. There was a young man with a haughty sneer and a flawless-looking sword at his hip. His name was Ser Damon, heir to a powerful northern House. His Aura was weak, but his potential was a clear B. He would be a formidable rival.
Next to him was a quiet, unassuming girl with keen, intelligent eyes. Her name was Lady Lyra, from a scholarly family in the west. Her Aura was a faint, shimmering silver, a sign of her immense intellect. Her potential was an impressive A-. She would be a challenge.
And finally, a brutish, heavily muscled boy with a scarred face and a grimy training tunic. He grunted, his eyes fixed on Liam's chest, as if looking for a fight. His name was Bronn, a son of a minor lord from a barbaric clan in the east. His Aura was a chaotic, burning red, a sign of his immense, but unrefined, power. His potential was a clear B+.
Liam felt the silent weight of their gazes, a mixture of envy, suspicion, and rivalry. He was a champion, a hero. But here, in this training camp, he was just another contender.
"I am Grandmaster Orin Oulbeck," Orin continued, his voice a hammer of authority. "And my master, the Sword Sovereign Eldrin, has seen a glint of potential in each of you. That is all. Today, we begin our work. The first lesson is this: Aura is not a weapon. It is not a shield. It is a part of you, a mirror of your very soul. You cannot force it. You must become it."
He led them to a circular, unadorned training ground. The ground was hard-packed earth, with a single, massive stone in the center.
"The first trial is a simple one," Orin said, gesturing to the stone. "I want you to manifest your Aura. You will not use your hands. You will not use your swords. You will sit on that stone and you will focus. You will feel your mana. You will feel your body. You will feel your will. And you will become it. Show me your soul."
Ser Damon went first. He sat on the stone, his face a mask of determination. He grunted. He strained. His mana surged. But nothing. Bronn, the brutish boy, went next. He roared, his face turning red. A faint, chaotic flicker of red light appeared around his hands. He had succeeded. He had manifested.
Liam sat on the stone, the cool surface a strange comfort. He closed his eyes. He didn't try to force it. He let go. He felt his mana, a quiet, humming current, flowing through his body. He felt his will. He remembered the betrayal. The knife in his back. The taste of blood. The rage. The unyielding determination to rewrite his legacy. He felt the draconic essence, a faint, cold whisper of power, awakening in his soul. He embraced it. He became it.
The mana flowed. It surged. It coalesced. A faint, shimmering, golden light appeared. But it was not just golden. There was a faint, dark, spectral shimmer, a ghostly echo of his Obsidian Scales, a hint of the Dragonheart Vigor. He had done it. He had manifested his Aura.
Ser Damon, watching from the sidelines, his face a mask of envy and frustration, stared at the sight, his eyes wide with disbelief. Bronn, the brutish boy, just grunted. But in his eyes, there was a new, cold fire. A dangerous recognition of a true rival.
"You have succeeded, young Lithian," Orin said, his voice a low rumble. "But this is just the beginning. The path ahead is long. And it will be filled with pain. Do you understand?"
Liam nodded, his eyes fixed on the distant, silent figure on the highest balcony. He knew. He had a long way to go. His journey was just beginning. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the game was now afoot. And he was a piece on a board far larger than he had ever anticipated.