The clang of steel rang out in the practice yard long before I arrived.

  I stood on the second-floor balcony overlooking the central square of the keep, hands resting on the stone railing, watching as Darian Voss and my son crossed blades in the frost-streaked light of late morning.

  It wasn’t a duel.

  Not officially.

  Just drills. Sparring.

  But anyone with eyes could see the truth.

  It was a test.

  Ryel moved first, feet light, blade slicing through a series of Broken Moon forms with precision. He wasn’t the same boy who once fumbled stances and overshot strikes. His steps had purpose now. His breathing was steady. His sword no longer sang—

  It spoke.

  Darian parried each strike without flinching.

  No overextension. No wasted motion.

  He didn’t fight Ryel.

  He read him.

  Like a scholar with a text he’d already memorized.

  And yet—

  There was no condescension in his expression.

  No smugness.

  Only... interest.

  I could see the pattern shift after ten exchanges.

  Darian stopped holding back.

  He struck with more pressure — nothing cruel, just sharper angles, quicker ripostes, a flick of the wrist here, a trap of footing there. Ryel adjusted. Slower, but learning with each pass.

  He got clipped on the shoulder. Then the thigh. Then his blade was wrenched from his hand and sent spinning across the yard.

  Ryel stumbled. Gritted his teeth. Breathed in.

  And instead of giving up, he picked it back up and went again.

  I smiled.

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  Merren stepped up beside me, watching the fight.

  "You think the boy can win?"

  "No," I said. "But that’s not the point."

  He grunted. "You know of the rumours surrounding this boy ?"

  "He’s more valuable than some useless rumours. At least for now."

  Of course I know of the rumours, Darian was the main antagonist of the second arc of the novel, and his genius rivals the mc.

  I found Emissary Halreth in the south chamber.

  He looked like most Drakenvyre men: hard-eyed, dark-haired, built more like a blade than a diplomat. But his armor was ceremonial, and the pin on his cloak was pure gold — shaped like a winged sword.

  "Baron Vorran," he said as I entered, rising slightly in his chair. "A pleasure, as always."

  I didn’t return the smile.

  "Let’s speak plainly."

  His smile didn’t fade. "You wound me."

  "Good. Then maybe you’ll bleed honesty."

  He sighed and gestured for me to sit.

  "Very well. You’ve guessed what you were meant to guess. Lord Harvan didn’t send his heir north just to test his blade against monsters. He sent him to establish a political anchor."

  "A stake in the North."

  "A flag in the frost," Halreth said, amused. "Your territory is...surprisingly resilient. Organized. Loyal. And when others begin noticing that something is truly wrong up here—"

  "They'll wish they had a foothold."

  "And House Drakenvyre will already be seated at the table."

  I leaned forward slightly.

  "And you expect what, exactly? That I hand Darian a keep and a title?"

  Halreth's expression sharpened.

  "We expect goodwill. Shared resources. Discretion. And—" he smiled again, like a dagger in silk, "—your son’s future."

  I said nothing.

  Let the silence stretch.

  Because that was the real price.

  Back in the yard, the sparring had ended. Darian had sheathed his sword. Ryel was seated on the steps near the barracks, breathing hard, face red with effort — and not from embarrassment.

  Darian stood before him.

  "You did better than I expected."

  Ryel looked up, blinking.

  "You’re disciplined. Stubborn. And you adapt."

  "...thank you."

  Darian extended a hand.

  "I’ll be returning to the Academy next year. My father will sponsor a martial cohort. I want you in it."

  Ryel froze.

  "I... you want me to follow you?"

  Darian smirked. "Don’t make it sound so dramatic. I want you to train with me. Learn. I’ll see you’re placed with the Pathwalker aspirants."

  Ryel hesitated.

  Then stood.

  "I’ll earn it."

  "Good. Because I don’t give second chances."

  I watched the exchange from the shadows of the archway, arms crossed.

  It wasn’t a bad offer.

  Not at all.

  The Academy of High Doctrine was the best manufacturer of the powerful— where steel became legend. A sponsorship from a ducal heir guaranteed access to better tutors, deeper resources, and entrance into paths reserved for highborn students.

  Ryel would rise faster there than anywhere else.

  But he would always be seen as Darian Voss’s follower. His shadow.

  And I wasn’t sure yet if that would build him —

  Or break him.

  That night, Ryel found me by the forge.

  He didn’t speak at first.

  Just stood beside me, watching the coals.

  "You fought well today," I said.

  He nodded.

  "I wasn’t the best."

  "You weren’t supposed to be."

  Silence.

  Then:

  "He offered me a place. At the Academy."

  "I know."

  More silence.

  "I want to go," Ryel said. "I want to prove myself. Even if it’s under him. Even if I’m not the best."

  I didn’t answer.

  I just handed him the whetstone.

  "Then sharpen your blade."

  He took it.