Chapter 5 – Part 1 Toward the River Aelreth
The wind howled in her ears, but Sylvara didn't slow down. The world below blurred into streaks of green forests and rolling hills as she soared above the vast lands of the Dragon Empire. Birds scattered as she cut through the clouds, and the fading sunlight cast a silver glow across her dragon light wings.
She had flown beyond the city walls in minutes, beyond the patrol towers, past the spired temples and ancient battlements. All that remained beneath her now were wild meadows and narrow stone paths carved by time.
The River Aelreth. She could feel it before she saw it.
Magic whispered through the air. Not the refined hum of court sorcery or the blazing aura of dragonfire—but something older. Wilder. The river came into view like a silver ribbon, weaving through a deep glade flanked by willow trees and jagged cliffs. It shimmered with an otherworldly glow, said to be blessed by ancient dragons who once bathed in its waters.
And there it was.
The mansion.
Nestled at the edge of a cliff, surrounded by gnarled trees and creeping vines, it looked like it had been carved straight out of stone and memory. Its roof was partially covered in moss, the windows framed in ivy. It wasn't grand like the palace or tall like the towers—it was grounded, built with care and strength. The front doors bore the sigil of a crossed sword and dragon fang.
Sylvara landed softly near the edge of the riverbank, folding her glowing wings into mist that vanished behind her. She walked forward, boots crunching on gravel, heart beating louder with each step.
The place felt… alive. Not in the way that cities breathe with noise and movement—but in the way forgotten places hold their breath, waiting.
She paused at the door. No guards. No barrier. Just the quiet sound of the river and the breeze weaving through the trees.
Sylvara raised her hand and knocked once.
Silence.
Then, a faint creak echoed from within.
The door slowly opened—not fully, just a hand's width—and there he stood. The same man she'd glimpsed near the training fields days ago. Older than time, with eyes like molten gold and hair the color of ash and starlight. His presence was like standing near the edge of a storm—calm, yet impossibly powerful.
He looked at her. Not surprised. Not welcoming. Simply… waiting.
Sylvara straightened her back. "My name is Sylvara Drakonis," she said clearly, voice unwavering. "Daughter of Valtheron. I came here to ask you something."
A long pause.
Then the man stepped aside, leaving the doorway open.
"Then enter," he said, his voice quiet but sharp as a blade. "And speak what is truly in your heart."
She stepped through the threshold, into the shadows of legends and into the path of the one who had once made an emperor into a swordmaster.
And perhaps, if fate allowed it, would make her into something even greater.
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Part 2 — The Mansion by the River
The wind rushed past Sylvara's face as she soared over the verdant hills and rolling forests of the Dragon Empire. Below her, the River Aelreth glimmered like a silver thread weaving through the land. The sky was bright, painted with the gold of late afternoon sun, and the distant calls of wyverns echoed from the peaks.
She had never flown this far alone before, but her wings — shimmering with silver light — moved with purpose and strength. Her heart thudded with anticipation, her mind fixed on the thought of meeting the man who once trained the Emperor himself.
It didn't take long before she spotted it — an old stone mansion nestled near the riverbank, half-covered in creeping ivy and moss. Tall trees circled it like ancient guardians, and the Aelreth whispered just beyond, peaceful and cold.
Sylvara landed quietly in the clearing, folding her wings. The mansion looked abandoned at first glance, but the garden was strangely well-kept. Flowers bloomed in quiet corners, and the training posts in the backyard showed recent marks — slashes, burns, and deep indentations.
She walked slowly, her boots crunching the gravel path, and approached the door.
Before she could knock, it creaked open.
There he stood — the old man. His robes were plain, tied with a dragonhide belt. His white hair was long, tied back loosely, and his sharp, silver eyes studied her without surprise.
"I wondered how long it would take you," he said, stepping aside.
"You knew I would come?" Sylvara asked, her voice low with wonder.
"I knew you'd feel it. The mark you bear... it guides you." He turned and walked inside.
Sylvara followed him into a wide hall lit by dim lanterns. Scrolls, weapons, and strange artifacts lined the walls. The scent of aged parchment and steel filled the air.
"I want to become a swordmaster," she said suddenly, stopping in the center of the room.
The old man didn't turn. "That title is earned, not claimed. Why do you want it?"
"For myself. For my father. For what I must do," she answered.
He finally faced her. "You have your mother's calm. And your father's fire."
"Will you teach me?" she asked.
The silence stretched.
Then he nodded. "I will train you, Silver Flame. But be warned — my path is not easy. You will bleed. You will fail. But if you endure, you will rise beyond even him."
Sylvara smiled slightly, her heart burning with resolve. "I'm ready."
Outside, the sun began to set, casting golden light across the Aelreth. And deep within the mansion, the next chapter of her destiny began — forged not only in flame, but in steel.
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Part 3 — Trial of the Blade
The old man led Sylvara out into the courtyard behind the mansion. The stone floor was marked with countless scars — deep slashes from blades, cracks from powerful strikes, and blackened patches where magic had once burned wild. The river Aelreth whispered nearby, its waters glowing faintly under the orange twilight.
He stopped at the center of the courtyard and turned to face her.
"If you wish to be my student," he said, "you must first prove yourself."
Sylvara stood tall, her eyes steady. "What must I do?"
He unsheathed a simple wooden training sword from his back — its surface smooth and worn from years of use. With a flick, he tossed it to her.
"Land a single strike on me."
She caught the wooden blade without flinching. "That's it?"
A faint smile tugged at the corners of the old man's lips. "If you can."
He didn't draw a weapon himself. Instead, he stood calmly, hands behind his back, like a statue in the wind.
Sylvara rushed forward without hesitation. Her first strike was swift, angled low, hoping to catch him off guard — but he tilted his body slightly, and she missed by inches. Before she could recover, he stepped aside like a breeze and flicked her shoulder with a finger, pushing her off balance.
She didn't fall, but her pride stung.
Again, she charged — mixing footwork with Silver Dragon energy, weaving light through her blade. She struck faster, using every technique she'd mastered with Kaelen. But again and again, the old man evaded with minimal movement — his eyes calm, his posture unchanged.
Ten strikes.
Twenty.
Fifty.
By now, she was panting, sweat glistening on her brow. Her arm trembled slightly from exertion.
"You're fast," he said finally. "But you rely too much on your power. You wield the Silver Dragon like a crutch. You've yet to understand the sword itself."
Sylvara clenched her jaw. She closed her eyes for a moment. Inhale. Exhale.
She thought of her father — the way he moved with elegance and purpose. She remembered the pain he must still endure in Dragon Valley. And she remembered her promise to free him.
Her eyes opened, sharp and clear.
This time, she didn't charge. She circled. She studied him.
Then, she moved.
One clean step. A feint to the left. A twist of the wrist — and she brought the blade upward with controlled speed.
It was small. Precise. And for the first time, his body shifted not in leisure, but in defense.
Her blade grazed his sleeve — just enough to draw a faint line across the fabric.
Sylvara stepped back, breathing heavily.
The old man looked down at the mark. Silence stretched in the evening air. Then, he chuckled — a low, approving sound.
"Better," he said.
"Does that mean…?"
"You passed," he nodded. "Tomorrow, we begin."
Sylvara lowered her wooden blade, a quiet pride rising in her chest.
From the trees, the wind stirred the leaves. The river sang gently on. And within the quiet of the courtyard, a new bond had begun — not just of teacher and student, but of legacy and destiny.
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