The mornings in the academy were never quiet.
Not truly.
There was always wind curling between the arches, spell engines humming beneath cobblestone paths, or the echo of early drills in the lower dueling fields. But to Ryel, it was almost peaceful — a rhythm he could match his breathing to.
He stood just inside the northern practice quadrant, dew still clinging to the grass underfoot, the stone pillars above catching the early light in veins of blue aetherglass. Around him, trainees from House Pyraxis stretched and formed loose sparring circles.
Ryel’s breath misted faintly in the cool air as he moved through his warmups.
Four breaths. Open the lungs.
Six steps. Weight forward.
One exhale. Lower the shoulder.
Draw. Extend. Cut.
The blade moved with him now — not easily, but more naturally. There were days when it felt like his arm, and others where it felt like a stranger he had to earn back.
He looked nothing like his father in color — light hair like wheat ash, violet eyes that caught the sun like polished glass — but in stance and structure, Ryel was Kael’s mirror twenty years younger.
Quiet jaw. Broad shoulders. Callused fingers.
Some students called him “The savage from the north.” Others “Drakenvyre’s Dog.”
Ryel never corrected them.
He was under Darian Voss’s banner, after all — assigned to assist, support, and represent him in drills, strategy sessions, and (most often) sparring demonstrations. It wasn’t servitude. But it wasn’t freedom either.
Still, he hadn’t been crushed by the pressure.
He was learning.
Combat Instructor Roran stepped into the clearing. A tall man with burn scars across his jaw and hands, Roran wore the sleeveless Pyraxis training uniform — his arms covered in faded runes from a dozen Aether circuits.
He tapped the butt of his spear against the earth.
“All right, you cinders. Today we talk about what separates Aether-dabblers from real warriors.”
A few chuckles—a few groans.
Roran ignored them.
The Way of Aether – Warrior Lecture, Day 6
“Aether,” he said, “is not magic. It’s not spellwork. You don’t sing it into flame. You don’t gesture it into flight. You own it. Through your blood, your breath, your bones.”
He turned, drawing a rune in the air that burned faint white.
“There are three stages in every warrior's rise:
Flow, Control, and Command.”
Flow, he explained, was basic. Learned through breath training, rhythmic motion, and unlocking Aether circuits — the invisible channels through a warrior’s limbs and organs. Weak circuits meant slow growth. Damaged ones meant stagnation. The opening of the Heart Circuit was the first major barrier to forging intent.
Control came with the Forged Heart stage — where a warrior’s Aether didn’t just strengthen the body, but began to leave it, surrounding blade and skin in visible aura.
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Then came Command — Pathwalkers and above. Aether at this stage answered instinct. Warriors moved before their enemy did. Space warped. Blades howled with Intent.
Roran moved through the ranks in rapid succession:
Initiate: Breath and posture. No aura.
Tempered Flesh: Bone and muscle enhancement.
Aetherbound: Techniques begin forming. Some control of flow.
Forged Heart: Core resonance. Battle aura becomes weaponized.
Aurabearer: Named warriors. Their strikes carry their own identity
Pathwalker: Battlefield awareness. Can read and shape the rhythm of combat.
Ascendant: Myth. Aether flows like blood.
“Each rank,” Roran said, “isn’t just strength. It’s understanding. Your body, your blade, your fear. That’s what separates dead soldiers from living legends.”
Ryel watched, attentive.
He wasn’t at Forged Heart yet.
But the forms Kael taught him — and the Broken Moon forms he studied in secret — had given him something rare: control.
Timing. Efficiency. Presence.
The lesson ended with sparring. Ryel faced a twin-blade user from House Elrane. The boy moved fast, flashing Skyfall Sword Sect forms — wide sweeps, aerial pivots, vacuum slashes.
Ryel kept it tight.
One breath. One step. One shoulder shift.
He took a cut to the arm — shallow. Let it slide. Countered with a deflection, then dropped his weight and folded inside the boy’s form.
Breath of Falling Steel.
The blade caught clean.
The instructor nodded once.
Later that evening, Ryel sat in the silver arch commons, sipping from a clay cup of bitterleaf tea.
Arden Ferric dropped into the seat beside him — a dark-skinned boy with a sharp chin, fond of jokes and dual-daggers. Former street-fighter from the Free Cities.
“Tell me again how you disarmed Elrane’s heir apparent without breaking a sweat?”
“I didn’t,” Ryel said.
“You did. It’s making rounds already. They’re calling you ‘Pretty Fang.’”
“Gods.”
Arden grinned.
Across from them, Naera Silen rolled her eyes — a flame-haired noble exile with a quiet demeanor and glass-rimmed spectacles enchanted with Aether-ink sight runes.
“You’ll lose the moment you believe your titles,” she said.
Ryel nodded. “Agreed.”
She smiled faintly.
But peace didn’t last long.
That night, in the upper spire dorms, Adrian Valeheart punched a wall.
Literally.
Ryel heard it from three rooms down.
The next day, the Academy halls buzzed with whispers:
“Did you hear about the scholarship student? The one from Duskwatch?”
“Aiden Crestfall? The Radiant kid?”
“He survived a rift. In the old wing. Alone. Burned through a demon’s skin with his bare aura.”
That night, Ryel trained late.
Alone.
Running the Broken moon form, meeting the rhythm forms again and again, feeling the pulse of his Aether through his arms, legs, and spine.
He could sense the edge of Forged Heart now.
Not quite resonance.
But close.
He thought of his father — standing alone in snow and ash.
He thought of Darian — graceful, confident, distant.
He thought of Aiden — somewhere beneath the towers, his legend starting in fire.
And Ryel smiled.
Because he wasn’t trying to match them.
He was trying to become someone worthy of standing beside them.
