The crisp morning air carried the scent of polished steel as Kael wandered the sprawling grounds of Duke Venator's estate. His idle steps led him to the soldiers' training fields—wide stone squares flanked by marble statues of long-dead warlords. Gleaming practice swords stood arranged in perfect rows, the tiled floors swept clean enough to eat from.
"Hey! What's a kid doing here?"
A barrel-chested soldier blocked his path, sweat already trickling down his brow despite the early hour. "This area's off-limits to civilians."
When the man reached to grab him, Kael's body reacted before thought could catch up. In one fluid motion, he twisted beneath the grasp and flipped the soldier flat onto his back with a thunderous crash.
Shouts rang out.
Within seconds, a circle of guards encircled him, hands on hilts, eyes wide with surprise—and rising aggression. The tension snapped like a bowstring when a voice cracked through the air like a whip:
"Explain this disgrace! Why are my men gathered like gossiping maids instead of training!?"
Captain Ludger strode into view, his presence scattering tension and posture alike. His sharp gaze landed on Kael, then the groaning man on the ground. Though his tone remained cool, fire burned behind his single eye.
"Kael. These grounds are for my men alone."
Kael dipped his head respectfully. "My apologies, Captain. I meant no disrespect. I was exploring and… ended up here."
To everyone's surprise, Ludger threw back his head and laughed. "No harm done, boy." His grin sharpened. "Since you're here…"
He gestured to the weapon racks, mischief dancing behind the steel in his gaze.
"…why not join our morning drills?"
Kael's eyes flicked toward the assembled soldiers—many now grinning with open malice. His instincts screamed trap, but walking away would show weakness.
"Alright," he said carefully, stepping forward.
He selected a practice spear—blunt, heavy, but familiar in his hands.
"Excellent choice," Ludger purred, rolling his shoulders.
Then Kael realized—his opponent would not be some greenhorn recruit.
The captain himself stepped into the sparring ring.
The world narrowed to the circle between them.
No more words. They moved.
Ludger surged forward like a landslide, greatsword carving arcs through the air with explosive speed. Kael dodged by instinct alone—his body dancing at the ragged edge of each strike, hair whipping as the blade passed inches from his face.
"Is that all you've got!?" Ludger roared, laughter booming between each swing.
Kael countered with a sudden thrust, channeling all his power into the strike. But time seemed to slow. Ludger's single eye tracked the incoming blow with eerie calm, head tilting just enough to let the spear whistle harmlessly past his cheek. Not an inch more than necessary.
Then came the counter.
The captain's blade slammed into the ground like a thunderbolt, stone shattering beneath the force. Kael leapt back, but not fast enough—the flat of Ludger's sword caught him under the chin and launched him into the air.
He crashed to the dirt, breath ripped from his lungs.
Above him stood Ludger, outlined by the rising sun like a warrior god. His eyes gleamed—bright, unnatural.
Kael coughed blood and whispered, "You're… a Sword Master."
Ludger's armor creaked as he stepped back. "Fifth Knight of Crenos," he declared with pride. "Sword Master in service to Venator."
For a moment, Kael saw him—not as a gruff captain, but a legend made flesh.
Then Ludger extended a gauntleted hand. "Stand."
Kael clasped it. The grip was terrifying—strength enough to crush bones—but Ludger lifted him with deliberate control.
"You held your ground longer than most veterans," he said. "With proper training… in five years, you might earn that title yourself."
Around them, the other soldiers stood silent—caught between awe and disbelief.
Kael watched the rest of the drills with sharpened eyes. Ludger's teachings were brutal but precise, drawn from blood-earned wisdom. Each motion was a study in control. The difference between a soldier and a Sword Master had never been more obvious.
That afternoon, a soft knock echoed on the carved oak door to the lady's chambers.
"Pardon our intrusion," came the timid voice of Janine, a young maid-in-training, as she ushered Duke Venator, Kael, and Lena inside.
The room smelled faintly of lavender and bitter herbs. Elizabeth lay propped among silk pillows, her skin pale as old parchment. Her daughters perched on either side, excitedly recounting their trip, unaware of the tension growing around them.
Venator's expression softened. "Jani, Kylie," he said, placing a hand on their shoulders. "Give us a moment with your mother."
The girls hesitated but obeyed, casting curious glances at Lena's satchel as they left.
Elizabeth turned her fragile face toward them, effort painting every breath. "Is it time?" she asked, her voice like brittle leaves in autumn wind.
Lena stepped forward, clutching her bag tightly. "Yes, my lady. We'll begin your first treatment now."
She turned to Janine. "Did you bring the items I asked for?"
The maid nodded and presented a basket: a silver chalice, bundles of dried herbs, a vial of spring water.
Lena mixed them with steady hands, the concoction releasing a pungent steam.
"This will be… unpleasant," she warned. "But you must drink it all."
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose but drank without hesitation. She gagged, then slurred something unintelligible before slumping against her pillows.
Venator stepped forward, alarmed. "What have you—"
"Peace, my lord," Lena said firmly. "This is expected. The medicine must work in dreams."
Kael caught the faint tremor in her fingers. He moved to her side and whispered, "You've got this. I've seen you do more with less."
Her eyes flicked to him, silver-threaded with fear—and trust.
Lena knelt beside the duchess and placed her palms just above Elizabeth's chest. Her voice dropped into a murmur—ancient, foreign, resonant.
The air shifted.
A faint golden light shimmered between her hands. Then brighter. Then blinding. Her eyes flared silver—pupils swallowed by radiant power. The very walls seemed to tremble.
Kael stumbled back, shielding his eyes. The light wasn't just bright—it had weight. It pressed into the room like a stormfront, humming with raw, living energy.
Lena began to shake.
Blood streamed from her nose and ears.
Still she chanted—each word ripping through her like barbed wire. Her body was a conduit, and it was burning from the inside out.
"Lena, stop! You're—"
The warning vanished as the light exploded one final time—then plunged downward like a golden comet, vanishing into Elizabeth's chest.
The silence afterward was deafening.
Lena collapsed, blood bursting from her lips. Kael caught her before she hit the floor. Her body was cold, trembling. Her skin had gone ghost-pale.
She wasn't breathing right.
"Lena?" he whispered, voice cracking. "Lena!"
But the duke had already turned—to the bed.
Elizabeth stirred.
And for the first time in years, she smiled with full, rosy cheeks and wide, clear eyes.
"Wilhelm?" she whispered.
Venator collapsed to his knees beside her, shaking. "Elizabeth… is it truly…?"
"It's me," she said, reaching for him. "I feel… whole."
The duke pulled her into a trembling embrace, his armored frame shaking like a child's. Their tears fell together—hope restored in a world that had nearly forgotten it.
Then Elizabeth gasped.
"Lena!"
She turned toward the pale form in Kael's arms. "Gods above—what has she done to herself?"
"Fetch the physician!" she cried, voice no longer frail but commanding.
"Take her to your chambers," she told Kael, tears now flowing for someone else. "Gently now—we'll send help."
Kael lifted Lena, her weight feather-light in his arms. As he stepped from the room, Elizabeth's whisper followed him like a prayer:
"Don't take this miracle-worker from us. Not now. Not when she just gave me back my life."