The morning mist hung low over Korvan Village, softening the edges of the training yard. Sunlight crept slowly through the canopy, glinting off the steel of practice weapons. The air smelled faintly of earth, smoke, and iron — the scent of another day's work beginning.
Kael stood in the center of the yard, arms folded, as Lysaara approached. The young woman bowed slightly, her twin short blades crossed behind her back. Her stance was balanced, every movement light and deliberate — a rhythm born from speed, not strength.
Kael's tone was calm but firm. "Before we start your training, I want to see where you stand."
Lysaara met his gaze. "A test?"
"A spar," Kael corrected, nodding toward the far end of the field where Seren stood ready with her lance. "Seren will be your opponent."
Seren blinked. "Again? Why am I always the one testing the new ones?"
Kael smirked. "Because you don't go easy on them. And I want to see how this one handles pressure."
Seren sighed and lowered into stance. "Fine, but don't blame me if she collapses halfway through."
Lysaara drew both blades, the sound of metal scraping lightly against leather. Her grip was steady, her breathing slow. "I'll do my best."
Seren raised her lance, spinning it once with controlled grace. "Show me, then."
---
The clash came fast.
Lysaara darted forward, twin blades flashing in the morning light. Her movements were quick — almost too quick — a flurry of slashes and cross cuts that flowed like water. Seren parried with precision, blocking and deflecting with the haft of her lance.
Kael watched intently. Each movement told a story — and Lysaara's story was clear: she was fast, disciplined, and fearless, but every attack lacked weight. Her strikes cut air more than flesh.
"Fast," Seren muttered mid-parry, "but shallow."
Lysaara pivoted, spinning low, her right blade sweeping toward Seren's side. Seren shifted, catching the strike with her shield and countering with a quick jab that sent Lysaara stumbling back a step.
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Too light. She doesn't follow through."
Rogan, standing near the fence, tilted his head. "But her rhythm… it's good."
"Yeah," Kael said, "she just doesn't own it yet."
Lysaara exhaled and charged again, twin blades crossing and separating in alternating patterns — fast, fluid, relentless. Seren blocked, pivoted, dodged. Lysaara's feet barely touched the ground; she was more dancer than duelist.
But Seren had seen this before — speed without anchor. When the opening appeared, she took it.
Seren struck once, clean and direct, her lance stopping just shy of Lysaara's shoulder. "Stop."
Lysaara froze mid-swing, sweat dripping from her temple. Her breath came sharp and uneven.
Kael stepped forward. "That's enough."
Seren lowered her lance. "You've got good rhythm," she said, her tone firm but not unkind. "Your balance and timing are excellent — but your blades don't carry intent."
Lysaara straightened, wiping sweat from her brow. "Intent?"
"You move like you're counting steps," Seren said. "The dual blades aren't a dance. They're a storm. They need a reason — something to hit for."
Lysaara lowered her weapons slightly. "I see."
Kael approached, studying her stance. "You've got stamina. You lasted longer than most do against Seren. But she's right — your strikes lack conviction. You're too careful."
"I was trained to move precisely," Lysaara said quietly. "To avoid wasted effort."
Kael smirked faintly. "That's the Guild way. Here, we fight differently. We don't just move — we commit."
He turned toward Rogan. "From now on, you two will train together."
Rogan blinked. "Me?"
Kael nodded. "She needs strength. You need control. You'll balance each other."
Lysaara nodded respectfully. "Understood."
Kael's gaze softened slightly. "Good. Tomorrow, you both go to the forge. You'll learn the next step of control there."
"The forge?" Lysaara tilted her head. "For training?"
Kael smiled faintly. "You'll see."
---
The next morning, the forge roared to life.
Heat rippled through the air as molten metal glowed in the firelight. Sparks burst and danced, scattering like stars across the stone floor. Rogan stood at one anvil, hammer in hand, his weighted armor gleaming with soot. His movements were deliberate but strong, each strike echoing like thunder.
Lysaara stepped in cautiously, shielding her eyes. "So this is what Kael meant."
From the corner, Maerin turned with a grin. "Ah, the new girl. Good timing. You'll be learning the same as he did."
Lysaara bowed lightly. "Chief Maerin."
"Call me Maerin," the old woman said, waving her hand dismissively. "Titles mean nothing in the forge. Only fire and patience matter here."
Rogan glanced up, smiling. "You'll get used to it. Eventually."
Maerin gestured to the empty anvil beside his. "You'll start with shaping iron. It teaches rhythm and restraint. Two things your hands need."
Lysaara hesitated, glancing at the heavy hammer waiting for her. "I'm more used to lighter weapons."
Maerin smirked. "Then this will fix that."
She guided Lysaara's hands onto the hammer. "Lift from your core, not your shoulder. Feel the weight, don't fight it. Strike like a heartbeat — steady, not hurried."
Lysaara nodded and raised the hammer. Her first strike came too strong — the iron warped, the sound harsh and uneven.
"Too hard," Maerin said calmly. "You're forcing it."
Lysaara tried again — this time, too soft. The sound fell flat.
"Too timid," Maerin said. "Again."
By the fifth swing, the rhythm began to find her. Breathe in — lift.
Breathe out — strike.
Each movement became smoother, less forced. The hammer no longer fought her; it followed.
Maerin smiled faintly. "Good. You're learning what most hunters never do."
Lysaara paused, panting slightly. "What's that?"
"That control isn't strength," Maerin said. "It's restraint."
Rogan nodded from across the forge. "She told me the same thing."
Maerin chuckled. "I tell everyone that. Only a few listen."
---
Days passed in rhythm.
Mornings began with Seren — drills, sparring, footwork.
Afternoons in the forge — shaping, sharpening, forging.
Evenings spent in silence, Lysaara and Rogan practicing side by side under the fading light.
Lysaara's movements grew sharper. Each strike carried more weight. Her breathing fell in sync with her blades.
When she sparred, her dual swords no longer fluttered aimlessly — they struck with intent, controlled yet fierce.
She had begun to understand what Kael meant — that movement without meaning was just noise.
One night after training, as the forge burned low, Lysaara looked at Maerin and said, "I think I'm starting to feel it — the weight of each motion."
Maerin smiled, her eyes glinting in the firelight. "Good. The day your blades stop chasing speed and start carrying purpose… that's the day you'll call yourself a hunter."
Lysaara bowed her head. "Then I'll keep at it."
Maerin chuckled softly. "That's the spirit."
Behind them, Rogan struck the final blow on a piece of glowing iron — the ring of metal echoing through the forge, steady and powerful.
Lysaara looked at him, smiling faintly. "You've improved."
Rogan grinned. "You too."
Their paths were different — his forged in strength, hers in rhythm — but both shared the same goal.