---
The training ground no longer looked like a place meant for learning.
Dust hung in the air, kicked up by boots that had moved too many times in too little rest. The earth was torn unevenly, scarred by repeated impacts—wooden swords cracking against shields, magic scorching the surface, bodies falling and rising again with stubborn refusal.
Breathing was loud here.
Not shouting. Not laughter.
Breathing.
Sofia Astrid Lexamus moved through the scattered group with quiet urgency, her hands glowing faintly as she sealed shallow cuts and dulled deeper bruises. Sweat streaked down her temple, but her focus never slipped. Every time someone staggered, she was already there, steadying them before they fell.
No one thanked her.
Not because they were ungrateful—but because they were too tired to speak.
Emilia Magnus dropped heavily onto a low stone near the edge of the ground, loosening her gloves with sharp tugs. Her chest rose and fell violently.
"I hate this place," she snapped between breaths.
Eva Windbloom lowered herself beside her more carefully, wiping dirt from her palms. "Why?" she asked, voice calm as always.
Emilia scoffed. "You really need to ask?"
Eva tilted her head. "Yes."
Emilia hesitated, then said it bluntly. "I was sent here because of that Astreas kid."
Eva blinked once. "Noah?"
Emilia nodded sharply. "House Magnus didn't want to fall behind. They didn't ask me. They decided."
Eva exhaled slowly. "Same," she admitted. "My family said it was 'strategic.'"
Sofia paused mid-step.
Both of them turned toward her.
Sofia hesitated—then nodded. "Me too."
Emilia stared. "You?"
"Yes."
"For Noah?"
"For what his presence represents," Sofia said quietly.
Eva's brows lifted. "So we're all here because of him."
Emilia clicked her tongue. "Great. A party formed around one person."
Sofia folded her hands in her lap. "What do you think of the party?"
Emilia's restraint snapped.
"What party?" she barked. "We're eight people thrown together, half of us dragged here by our families, and that black-haired guy—" she jerked her head toward the center of the field "—never even trains with us."
Eva followed her gaze. "Voryn."
"Yeah. Him," Emilia said. "I've never seen him swing once. He just stands there and watches like we're entertainment."
Eva frowned slightly. "That's true."
She glanced toward Sofia. "You're a contractor of the God of Creation, right?"
Sofia nodded. "Yes."
"Then doesn't that make you the strongest among us?" Emilia asked bluntly.
Sofia shook her head immediately. "No. I'm a healer. A supporter."
"But—"
"Creation sustains," Sofia said gently. "It does not dominate."
Emilia muttered something under her breath.
Eva looked thoughtful. "You know… about Noah."
Sofia glanced at her. "What about him?"
Eva hesitated. "Not much. Just… rumors. That his mother was a dragon."
Sofia stiffened.
"A dragon?" she repeated.
Eva nodded once. "That's what I heard."
Sofia said nothing.
Before Emilia could respond, Rexor's voice cut across the training ground.
"Positions! Again!"
No frustration. No encouragement.
Just command.
They rose.
Sir Thomas Aurelius stepped forward then, hands clasped behind his back.
"That concludes internal sparring," he announced. "You'll be facing border guards next."
Murmurs broke out instantly.
"Border guards?"
"They're veterans."
"That's not training—"
Thomas raised a hand.
"They will not go easy on you," he said. "They will not explain mistakes. If you fall, it's because you deserved to."
His gaze swept across them.
"If they break you," he added, "it's because the world will too."
The guards entered without ceremony.
Older. Scarred. Movements economical and unshowy.
They didn't smile.
The match began badly.
Robert tried to hold formation and was driven back within seconds. Emilia's fire burst too wide, leaving her flank open. Eva compensated, redirecting pressure with wind, but it wasn't enough. Sofia burned through her stamina faster than she should have.
Only Noah adapted—altering positioning, creating space where there was none.
Rexor fought at the center, holding, adjusting, absorbing pressure.
And then—
Voryn stepped forward.
No announcement.
No signal.
He took a position opposite one of the senior guards and stopped.
He didn't raise his weapon.
Didn't shift his stance.
Didn't blink.
The guard circled him once. Twice.
"Planning something?" the guard asked.
Voryn didn't answer.
Minutes passed.
Sweat rolled down Voryn's neck. His breathing grew heavier—but his posture never changed.
The guard's movements became sharper. Faster.
"Stubborn," he muttered, lunging.
Wood cracked.
Voryn moved once.
Just once.
The fight dragged on—not loud, not dramatic. Just two exhausted figures pushing endurance against endurance.
The guard hit the ground hard.
Dust lifted, then settled.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
The wooden sword lay near the guard's hand. His leg refused to answer him. He tried once—failed—and laughed weakly through clenched teeth.
"Looks like I found a tough guy but—"
His voice cut off as his body sagged fully into the dirt.
Only then did everyone see it.
The mark.
A shallow indentation along the guard's leg—placed early, precise, almost careless in appearance. Not the kind of strike meant to impress.
The kind meant to end something later.
Voryn bent forward slightly, hands resting on his knees, chest rising and falling hard. Sweat dripped from his hair, soaking into the ground beneath him.
"You're dead," he said quietly, still catching his breath.
No threat.
No pride.
Just fact.
The training ground did not erupt.
It froze.
Rexor stared first at the fallen guard…
Then at Voryn.
He replayed the fight in his head—every moment where nothing seemed to happen. Every second where Voryn hadn't moved.
He struck him before the fight even looked like a fight.
Rexor felt something tighten in his chest.
That wasn't strength.
That was certainty.
Robert Alphonse stood rigid, knuckles white around his wooden sword.
His thoughts raced — not with anger, not with jealousy, but something worse.
I didn't see it.
A knight was trained to see openings. To read opponents.
Robert hadn't seen anything.
The idea unsettled him more than defeat ever could.
Emilia Magnus forgot to breathe.
Her fire had burned bright earlier—loud, powerful, obvious.
Voryn's strike hadn't burned at all.
And yet the guard was the one on the ground.
Her jaw clenched.
So that's the kind of strength that doesn't announce itself.
Eva Windbloom felt the wind shift around her instinctively, reacting to a danger her mind had only just registered.
She hadn't sensed mana.
Hadn't sensed force.
He didn't overpower him…
He waited him out.
Her grip loosened slowly.
Wind wins by persistence, she had said earlier.
Watching Voryn, she realized how incomplete that truth had been.
Sofia Astrid Lexamus felt a chill run through her spine.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Creation sustained life.
But what Voryn had done wasn't destruction.
It was judgment.
He decided when the fight was already over.
Her hands trembled slightly before she stilled them.
Noah von Astreas said nothing.
He had been watching from the start.
Not the clash — the pauses.
Not the movement — the restraint.
His mind pieced it together rapidly.
Energy conservation.
Psychological pressure.
Delayed outcome manipulation.
Noah's eyes narrowed, not in hostility—but interest.
A flexible weapon, Voryn had said once.
For the first time, Noah wondered if that description applied more to Voryn than to himself.
August Engelbert observed from the edge of the field, expression unreadable.
But his fingers had stopped tapping against his arm.
Sir Thomas Aurelius, however—
Smiled.
Just barely.
Not because Voryn had won.
But because every single member of the party now understood something they hadn't before.
This wasn't a group of equals.
It was a formation.
And some positions were more dangerous than the front line.
The guards withdrew without argument.
No lectures followed.
No praise.
Sir Thomas's voice cut through the stillness.
"Recover," he said. "You'll train again tomorrow but with real weapons."
As they dispersed, no one approached Voryn.
Not Emilia.
Not Robert.
Not even Rexor.
They watched him instead.
Voryn wiped sweat from his face, straightened, and returned to his place without a word.
He did not look at them.
He did not need to.
Because now—
They were looking at him.
---