The throne hall smelled of warm stone and old cedar, the kind of scent that settled into tapestries and lingered in the carvings of past kings. Late morning sunlight poured through stained crystal panes, scattering gold and amber across ministers' robes. Petitions had been reviewed, border reports documented, grain stores balanced — the quiet machinery of governance turning with the steadiness Aravell was known for.
When the session concluded, the court dispersed with the polite rustle of layered fabric. King Alistair and Queen Elara remained a moment longer, speaking softly with senior ministers — their tones low, thoughtful, choosing measured consequence over theatrics.
As they turned to leave, the captains entered in disciplined sequence — two at first, then three more joining with silent bows that echoed the kingdom's well-worn rhythm. Serion and Lyris stepped forward and knelt.
"Rise," Alistair said, voice sovereign but gentle. They rose with the same grace they had knelt.
Serion spoke without ornament. "Your Majesty, we come to report on the Crown Prince's training."
Lyris folded her hands at her back, respectful and composed. "He has progressed faster than we expected."
"Speak plainly," the king said.
Serion did. "His foundation is sound. His stance is cleaner. His breath is measured. Yesterday was correction; today was consolidation. He learns the habit of repetition, and he remembers form with fewer faults than nobles his age."
Lyris added softly, pride threading beneath her words, "His water resonance stabilized quickly. He's already shifting from reaction to guided intent. He will not be raw force — he will learn refinement."
Queen Elara's eyes warmed, though she kept composure. King Alistair's gaze lingered on the captains with a quiet, fatherly gratitude. "Good," he said. "Continue. Report anything unusual."
Serion hesitated — only for a heartbeat — then said the one thing only a soldier with a lifetime behind him could say:
"Your Majesty… to make him a true warrior, we must test him beyond polished halls. He must meet storms. He must meet beasts. Manuals teach basics, but only the world teaches survival."
A low ripple moved through the remaining ministers. Not fear — but the awareness of what such a decision carried: risk, responsibility, and the shaping of a future ruler.
King Alistair breathed deeply, that brief moment when father and king collided in the same chest. "I will not send him blindly," he said. "I will observe him myself today. If he surpasses expectation, I'll approve a supervised mission."
The captains bowed low. "As you command."
When they left, the king and queen walked into the alcove behind the throne — a dim, quiet place where their voices softened into something more intimate.
"He will go," Alistair murmured, "when he is more than ready." Regret and hope braided together in his tone. "I was crowned too early. I never walked the world. If he travels the road I could not, he may grow… and perhaps teach us to grow too."
Elara took his hand. Her smile was soft but resolute. "We will guide him, not shield him. And when he returns—" her voice lowered, warm with certainty, "—we will see what the world taught him… and what he will teach us."
They left, and the captains moved to inform the prince.
The Royal Training Ground — The King Arrives
When Arcanis stepped into the vast training hall, he felt something different in the air — a taut expectation, like a string pulled tight but not yet plucked.
Serion and Lyris informed him that the king and queen would be observing.
A quiet tension ran through his chest… not fear, but gravity.
When the royal couple entered, the hall shifted. Servants fell silent. Courtiers pressed back against the walls. King Alistair's presence was steady and disciplined; Queen Elara's was a tide of warm observation.
"Continue," the king said. "I will watch."
Training resumed.
Arcanis's sword arcs were clean. His water resonance controlled. Every movement measured.
For a time, Alistair simply watched — eyes narrowing at certain angles of Arcanis's stance, studying him with the precision of a man who understood the language of blades intimately.
Then the king stepped forward.
He unsheathed a sword.
Not as a ruler showing power.
As a man who had once lived and breathed martial discipline.
Light mana traced the steel in a thin, radiant thread — nothing flamboyant, just controlled authority, bright enough to make the hall's own lamps seem dull.
"Arcanis," he said softly.
"Spar with me."
Arcanis swallowed once. His chest tightened — not with fear, but with the weight of being tested by the man whose approval meant everything.
He bowed and raised his practice sword.
The hall went still.
--- Radiant Dominion — A Style Few Ever Witnessed
The first strike was quiet — almost respectful.
But the next—
The king's blade moved like light had learned discipline. Swift, precise, sovereign. Every stroke carried weight, not from force but from intention. The air thickened around each arc of golden mana.
Serion watched with something like awe.
Radiant Dominion.
A style known but rarely seen — light made authoritative, each movement sculpted by the quiet brutality of a man who had learned to win arguments before they began.
If he had traveled the world… Serion's heart clenched with silent recognition.
This man could have climbed to heights no crown would ever allow.
Lyris saw the other side — breath, tension, the organic flow of strain through the prince's body.
If he had been free… she thought.
The idea glowed at the edge of her mind like a painful, beautiful truth.
Arcanis blocked — barely.
His wrist ached. His shoulder burned. His breath hitched.
But he did not falter.
A technique Serion had shown him only hours ago slipped into his counter — clumsy, imperfect, but honest.
It made the king step back by half a pace.
Pride flickered in Alistair's eyes — warm, quiet, fierce.
The exchanges continued, Radiant Dominion pressing Arcanis to the edge of collapse. His lungs burned. His legs trembled. Yet he refused to yield even a single step without intent behind it.
When the king finally lowered his sword, the hall seemed to exhale as one.
"You've done well," Alistair said, voice steady with approval. "Better than I expected."
The captains exchanged the kind of look warriors rarely share — the acknowledgment of a ruler's unrealized potential.
Had he walked the world…
But they said nothing.
Arcanis bowed, chest rising and falling sharply.
Inside, happiness flickered with startling strength.
---
King Alistair sheathed his blade.
"Your indoor training stops here," he declared.
"You will leave the palace under watch. I will choose your first mission. You will not go alone."
Arcanis's breath caught.
A door he had only dared imagine… had opened.
"Thank you, Father," he said quietly. "I will not disappoint you."
Queen Elara stepped forward. She took his hand gently, thumb brushing over his knuckles with a mother's quiet reassurance. "Rest tonight. Come to dinner. Let your body recover. The world will wait a bit longer while we prepare your path."
He nodded, grateful in a way words couldn't express.
When the king and queen departed, Serion added in a tone that felt like blessing:
"One step at a time, Your Highness. Be stubborn when needed… and humble enough to be taught."
Arcanis bowed deeply.
He walked out of the training hall with legs heavy from exertion and heart light with anticipation — the world calling him beyond palace walls.
---
Outside, the captains split into their duties:
Vareth returned to coordinate northern defenses.
Seraphine hurried to the rune archives, eager for new analysis.
Rheon vanished into shadow routes, returning to his silent patrol.
Lyris slipped back to her water wards, thoughtful and warm.
The palace continued its calm hum.
But for Arcanis, something fundamental had shifted.
A path had opened.
Not toward glory.
Toward becoming.