The morning light spilled across the courtyard of Wolfsbane Keep, bathing stone walls and banners in warm gold. Despite the sun, there was a chill in the air—an undercurrent of tension, thick and silent.

  Gabriel flipped a dagger in each hand, flashing silver in the light. Her golden hair was pulled into a tight braid, sharp eyes trained on Byronard. “You’re saying Wyatt’s a Vessel now? And you are too?” she asked, tone light but skeptical.

  Raphael leaned on his silver-topped cane beside her, a subtle rune pulsing faintly on the shaft. “We’ve heard the term tossed around like prophecy, but I want to see what makes you different.”

  “Then stop asking questions,” Byronard said, voice like gravel. He stepped into the training circle in nothing but his black tunic and light gauntlets, the direwolf emblem of House Ilyn stitched across his shoulder. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “You want us to fight you?”

  “Together,” he said. “Come at me. Magic included. See what makes a Vessel more than a title.”

  Flint, leaning by the wall with Cassian and Uriel, gave a low whistle. “He’s serious.”

  Cassian smirked. “He always is.”

  Wyatt said nothing, arms crossed. But in his stillness, there was a quiet respect.

  Gabriel didn’t wait for further instruction. With a blink, she vanished—teleporting behind Byronard in a shimmer of light, daggers aiming for the base of his neck.

  Byronard didn’t flinch. He shifted his weight, twisted his torso, and caught her wrist mid-strike. His grip like iron, he flung her aside before Raphael struck the ground with his cane, summoning a radiant burst of energy that surged like vines toward Byronard’s legs—an attempt to bind him.

  The tendrils coiled—and then, snapped apart. Byronard moved too fast. In a blur, he closed the gap, sweeping Raphael’s cane aside with a single motion and tapping him squarely on the chest with two fingers.

  Raphael staggered back, breath caught in his throat, the hit not hard but precise—nerve-deadening. He collapsed to one knee, clutching his chest.

  Gabriel blinked back into view, sliding across the floor to regain her balance. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she muttered. "So, back when you fought Lilith, you intentionally let yourself get stabbed?"

  Byronard didn’t respond. He didn’t gloat. He just stood calmly, breathing evenly.

  “This is what you wanted to see,” he said. “A Vessel is not a warrior. Not a mage. Not a weapon. We are all three—and something more.”

  Raphael groaned, rising to his feet slowly. “And that was… what? Half your strength?”

  “Less,” Wyatt answered for him. “I’ve felt it. During my awakening… and during the battle with the Nameless One. You don’t measure it like skill or mana. It’s willpower. Depth. And it’s bottomless.”

  Gabriel sheathed her daggers. “Well,” she said with a tired, but envious grin. “Now I want to be one.”

  “You don’t,” Byronard said sharply, and all levity vanished. “This isn’t a gift. It’s a burden. Every Vessel pays for their power in ways the world will never see.”

  Cassian’s smile faded. “Then why train us?”

  “Because,” Byronard said, turning to all of them now, “you must be ready. Against the First Circle, you were outmatched. Even Lilith would’ve slaughtered hundreds if not for Gabriel. The next Circle won’t give us another chance.”

  He paced slowly across the courtyard. “Starting today, the Seven will train harder than ever before. We’ll teach tactics, close-combat, magic under duress. You will learn what it takes to stand beside Vessels—not just to survive, but to win.”

  Uriel stepped forward, arms folded. “Then what do we start with?”

  Byronard looked to Wyatt. “We start by testing your resolve. Wyatt will lead the drills.”

  Wyatt blinked. “Me?”

  “You’ve seen both sides now,” Byronard said. “You know what happens when the world falls short—and what it takes to carry it.”

  Wyatt’s jaw tightened, but after a beat, he nodded.

  Gabriel stretched. “Great. I get to be bossed around by the new guy.”

  Raphael smirked. “Better than being tossed like a sack of potatoes by the captain again.”

  Cassian leaned to Flint. “This might be good for all of us.”

  Flint didn’t reply. His gaze lingered on Wyatt a moment longer, thoughts unreadable.

  The clang of steel echoed through the courtyard, where the training ground had been cleared for a friendly duel. A faint wind blew dust across the circle as Wyatt and Cassian squared off, blades drawn, eyes locked.

  “I won’t tap into anything divine,” Wyatt said, twirling a steel blade once with practiced ease. “Just these weapons and a bit of magic. Nothing more.”

  Cassian adjusted his grip on his sword and shield, his stance defensive, grounded. “That’s all I need.”

  Flint leaned forward against a wooden post near the edge of the circle. “This I gotta see.”

  “Begin!” Uriel called out.

  Cassian charged first, shield raised, sword low—classic formation. Wyatt met the advance, their blades clashing with a thunderous spark. Cassian spun, catching Wyatt’s swing with his shield, going along with the momentum and pushing him back.

  The hit sent Wyatt skidding back, boots scraping against the packed earth.

  “Nice,” Gabriel murmured, watching from the benches. “Cassian’s gotten faster.”

  “He’s always had technique,” Raphael added, leaning on his cane. “But now it’s… tighter. Polished.”

  Wyatt exhaled through his nose, rolling his neck as he raised his blade again. “Not bad.”

  Then he surged forward.

  His form shifted—barely noticeable at first. But Byronard noticed. His eyes narrowed as Wyatt’s swings suddenly became sharper, the movements honed not through brute strength, but sheer muscle instinct. The rhythm of a warrior entering his berserker state—disciplined rage, refined through suffering.

  Cassian recognized it too. “That look in your eyes… it’s the same as back at Khaz Gareth. You've learned to do it without the hammer.”

  He raised his shield and braced for impact.

  Wyatt’s blows rained down like a storm—measured, feral, fast. Cassian barely kept up, parrying, deflecting with his shield. The air around them crackled with tension, the force of each strike digging Cassian’s boots into the dirt.

  Byronard crossed his arms. “Controlled anger. Now that’s progress.”

  Gabriel nodded. “He’s learned when to strike. When to hold back. He could’ve broken that shield twice already.”

  Raphael hummed thoughtfully. “And Cassian? He’s not panicking. His footwork’s smarter. Shield work’s textbook perfect.”

  Cassian grunted as he twisted out of the way of a downward slash, countered with a sweeping bash, but Wyatt caught the edge of the blow with his blade and flipped himself over Cassian’s shoulder, landing behind him with barely a sound.

  Before Cassian could recover, Wyatt’s blade was at his neck.

  Silence.

  Cassian let out a breath, raised his hands in surrender. “Alright. I yield.”

  Wyatt stepped back, lowering his sword. “Didn’t use any Vessel power. Just my weapon’s markings.”

  Cassian sheathed his blade, panting. “Felt like you did.”

  Flint let out a low whistle. “And that’s without going full divine?”

  Uriel crossed his arms, impressed. “I remember when you couldn’t swing without nearly toppling yourself. This is different.”

  Wyatt looked toward Byronard.

  The older man stepped into the circle. “He’s telling the truth. The berserker state is now part of him—his discipline, not his divinity. And his weapon, the war hammer, forged by his father and marked by the Smith’s will, now sharpens his every instinct.”

  “But that doesn’t mean non-Vessels can’t match it,” Byronard added, his voice carrying. “Gabriel defeated Lilith without divine blood. What she had was precision, instinct, and mastery of her mark.”

  Gabby, arms folded, gave a smug smirk. “Not to brag, but… yeah. He’s right.”

  Cassian chuckled. “I’ll settle for second place then.”

  “No,” Wyatt said, offering his hand. “We’re just getting started.”

  Cassian took it, grinning.

  Byronard turned to the group. “This is the path forward. We won’t rely on fate, or prophecy, or divine heritage. We rely on grit. On mastering what’s been given. If we want to stand against the next Circle, all of you need to push past your limits.”

  Gabriel looked to Raphael. “You up next, or me?”

  Raphael raised a brow. “Ladies first.”

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  Gabby drew her daggers and walked toward the circle. “Then watch closely. I’m about to show you why Lilith lost.”

  The dust hadn’t even settled before Gabriel stepped forward, golden hair glinting in the light, twin daggers in her hands.

  “My turn,” she said with a grin. “You up for it, big guy?”

  Wyatt took a breath, nodding. “Yeah. But I’m switching weapons for this one.”

  He stepped off to the side and returned with his war hammer—a brutal weapon etched with the markings of the Smith. He gripped it tightly, its weight familiar, grounding.

  Gabriel rolled her shoulders. “Going with the big stick, huh?”

  “I’m fighting one of the Seven. I’d be stupid not to.” He gave her a faint smirk. “Still not using Vessel powers... at least, not yet.”

  Gabriel’s expression shifted, eyes narrowing in excitement. “That’s fair. But don’t expect me to hold back.”

  Then she exhaled—and her Aura ignited.

  Lightning exploded from her body in erratic pulses, sharp streaks of electricity racing across the air like threads of molten gold. Her form shimmered, distorting slightly, until she was barely more than a blur. The training ground lights flickered, reacting to the sheer pressure of her unleashed energy.

  Cassian took a cautious step back. “Gods…”

  “She’s faster than before,” Raphael observed, calm but alert. “Refined control.”

  “She’s always had control,” Byronard muttered, eyes narrowing as he watched Wyatt's posture shift. “Let’s see how he handles it.”

  Wyatt exhaled slowly, gripping his war hammer tighter. Then he shifted—his muscles tensed, and the red markings across his arms ignited as he tapped into his berserker form. The air rippled with a more primal force, less elegant than Gabriel’s but just as formidable—like the quiet before an avalanche.

  They stood still for a heartbeat.

  Then Gabriel vanished.

  Wyatt barely reacted in time. Sparks flew as Gabriel’s dagger scraped across the haft of his hammer, missing his neck by inches. She was already gone before he could swing, reappearing behind him. Another strike—parried. Another—dodged. Another—landed, cutting a shallow line across his shoulder.

  He growled and spun, swinging his hammer in a wide arc, but Gabriel slipped under the blow and rebounded back, feet barely touching the ground.

  “I can’t match her speed…” Wyatt muttered under his breath. “So…”

  He closed his eyes.

  The berserker energy steadied.

  Byronard’s eyes widened. “He’s focusing. That’s—!”

  A pulse of white mana radiated from Wyatt’s chest. It wasn’t full Vessel energy—but a fragment. A whisper. Controlled, restrained. The mana laced into his limbs, subtly enhancing his reflexes, reinforcing his hammer with divine weight.

  Gabriel darted forward again.

  This time, Wyatt met her halfway.

  The hammer struck down, just as her daggers clashed against it mid-air. Sparks and lightning danced together, shockwaves rippling out and forcing the others to brace themselves.

  They exchanged dozens of blows—Gabriel darting and teleporting across the field, Wyatt responding with unpredictable shifts, empowered swings, and perfect counters. One attack narrowly missed her head, while a dagger grazed Wyatt’s ribs.

  Both combatants broke apart, panting slightly.

  Then—at the same time—they lunged.

  Her daggers at his throat.

  His war hammer poised to shatter her ribs.

  Both stopped a breath before contact.

  Silence.

  Gabriel slowly lowered her blades, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “That was fun.”

  Wyatt let out a breath and rested his hammer on the ground. “Now I see how you beat the Circle of Lust.”

  Gabby smirked. “Damn right.”

  Flint let out a low whistle. “Remind me never to spar either of you.”

  Uriel chuckled. “I’m just glad they’re on our side.”

  Byronard nodded, solemn. “Good. Very good. But this is only the beginning.”

  Gabriel leaned her daggers against her shoulder. “So... who’s next?”

  The embers still lingered in the air from Gabriel and Wyatt’s clash when Flint stepped forward, arms crossed and a wry smirk on his face.

  “Well,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “After seeing that, it’d feel wrong to just sit on the sidelines.”

  Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “You volunteering?”

  Flint turned toward Byronard. “Yeah. I am.”

  Byronard looked up from where he was observing, eyes narrowing curiously. “Oh?”

  Flint’s voice turned more serious. “Uncle... I want a match.”

  There was a pause. The tension shifted. Uriel glanced between them, sensing the weight behind the challenge.

  Byronard’s expression remained unreadable, but a faint flicker of amusement sparked behind his eyes. “Are you sure about this?”

  “I figured now’s a good time.” Flint stepped forward and unsheathed Dawnbringer, the sword Byronard had once gifted him. Its polished blade shimmered faintly, almost humming with untapped power. “You gave me this. Let’s see if I’ve lived up to it.”

  Byronard rose slowly and began walking to the center of the training field. “Very well.” He extended his hand outward.

  And with a sudden roar of heat and energy, a massive zweihander of ancient steel materialized in his grasp.

  Cassian's eyes widened. “That’s—”

  “Wolfsbane,” Uriel whispered. “House Ilyn’s ancestral blade…”

  Forged from ancient steel and imbued with divine enchantments, Wolfsbane was a symbol of legend. But this wasn’t any normal weapon—it was conjured from flame, yet it carried unmistakable weight and presence. The air warped around it.

  Byronard rested the blade against his shoulder. “This was never just a myth. It is bound to our bloodline. Perhaps, if you prove yourself worthy…” He smirked faintly. “You may wield it in full one day.”

  Flint’s expression turned more serious. “I won’t hold back.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  The two clashed.

  At first it was blade against blade—steel versus steel, teacher against student. Flint moved with refined skill, a fusion of street-born grit and years of mercenary training. He was unpredictable, fast, adapting mid-swing with clever footwork and perfect counters.

  But Byronard? Byronard was refined destruction. His form was flawless, sword movements precise and powerful, yet fluid like flowing water. Every time their swords met, shockwaves rippled through the stone.

  The others could barely keep up with the exchange.

  “Gods,” Raphael muttered. “He’s—”

  Gabriel smirked. “Now that’s a Vessel.”

  The blades sparked and clashed again. Flint slid backward, Dawnbringer steaming from the friction. With a grunt, he raised the sword above his head—and suddenly red flames erupted from the blade, coiling up like serpents.

  “Nice trick,” Byronard said calmly. Then Wolfsbane ignited—this time in cold blue fire.

  Gasps echoed around the arena.

  “Blue?” Cassian blinked. “Since when does fire freeze the air?”

  “They’re divine flames,” Uriel murmured, awed. “He’s using the Flame of the Mother.”

  The duel intensified. Sparks flew, heat warped the air, and the entire training ground became a canvas of crimson and azure fire. Flint moved like a dancer, striking with speed and flair—Byronard responded with elegant brutality, never wasting a single motion.

  After a furious exchange, Byronard grinned. “Is that all you’ve got, Alexander?”

  Flint froze.

  The name.

  The truth.

  For a split second, his left eye flickered—violet light gleaming from within.

  The others stiffened.

  “His eye—” Wyatt’s voice was hushed.

  “He’s doing it again,” Uriel whispered.

  Byronard staggered backward—not from pain, but from the sudden surge of power pouring off Flint. The air trembled, the flames on Dawnbringer grew brighter.

  Byronard’s smirk faded. “I see...”

  He raised Wolfsbane and stepped back. “Then let me show you the true difference between us.”

  He closed his eyes.

  The air turned still. Quiet. Heavy.

  Then—light exploded.

  Byronard’s Aura form emerged, radiant and awe-inspiring.

  His armor gleamed with blinding golden light. Behind him, tendrils of living radiance unfurled, writhing and shifting with a will of their own. They resembled wings and vines, luminous extensions of his being, as though light itself had decided to become sentient.

  He hovered just above the ground, the glow illuminating every corner of the training hall.

  Wyatt and Cassian stood still—staring.

  “That’s it…” Cassian whispered. “That’s what he looked like at the Great Council.”

  “When he forced the lords and ladies to silence…” Wyatt muttered. “I thought I dreamed that part.”

  “Divine light…” Raphael breathed. “He really is the protector of life.”

  Byronard, suspended in the air, raised his sword. “Come, Alexander. Let’s see how close you are to catching up.”

  Flint tightened his grip on Dawnbringer—eyes focused.

  And charged.

  Flint collapsed to one knee, panting hard, sweat streaking down his face. Dawnbringer hissed in his grip, its flames dying down to faint embers. Byronard hovered a few paces away, still glowing faintly, the tendrils of light receding slowly behind his back as he dismissed his Aura form.

  “Not bad,” Byronard said with a hint of a grin, lowering Wolfsbane. “You’ve improved.”

  Flint coughed, groaning. “That wasn’t fair… You went full god-mode. Pulled out that rare Aura thing and Divine powers. I didn’t stand a chance.”

  Byronard’s laugh echoed warmly through the hall. “That?” He let out another chuckle, tapping Wolfsbane against the stone floor. “That wasn’t even half of what a true Vessel is capable of.”

  The room fell silent.

  Gabriel, leaning against a pillar, blinked. “Wait… what?”

  Wyatt stepped forward, brows furrowed. “Then what does a Vessel look like when they go all out?”

  Byronard turned to him, expression suddenly more serious. “Power incarnate. When fully unleashed, a Vessel becomes something no longer tethered by mortal limits. They become a storm—an unrelenting force capable of shifting the tides of battle.”

  He looked around at the stunned faces of the Seven and the Royal Guard.

  “But that power,” he continued, “comes at a cost. A Vessel’s fury doesn’t discriminate. In that state, even allies are at risk.”

  Wyatt’s shoulders tensed. “So it’s a last resort.”

  Byronard nodded. “Exactly. It’s not just power—it’s responsibility.”

  Uriel crossed his arms. “Then how do you control it?”

  “You don’t,” Byronard said simply. “You master it. Over time. And even then, it never gets easier.”

  Wyatt looked down at his hands, flexing them briefly. “Back in the North… I thought I did go all out. When I fought the First Circle—I had no choice. My hammer tore the air apart just to land a killing blow.”

  Cassian added, “Yeah. That wasn’t magic, that was… reality shattering. Like watching something divine punch through the world.”

  Uriel nodded. “We all felt it. It was terrifying.”

  Byronard gave a small smile. “Then let me reassure you, Wyatt. That was only a taste. You haven’t even fully attuned to the divine mana inside you.”

  Wyatt’s eyes widened. “You mean… I’m still not at full strength?”

  “Not even close,” Byronard confirmed. “A Vessel’s power matures with time—through experience, trials, emotion. The more battles you survive, the deeper your connection with the Divine becomes. Your potential is vast… but you’ve only just begun to tap into it.”

  Gabriel gave a low whistle. “So you’re telling me that warhammer moment was just the beginning?”

  “Exactly.” Byronard paced slowly, his voice calm but weighted. “That’s why I’m training all of you now. The Nine Circles are not foes you can afford to face half-prepared. Each Circle grows stronger the deeper we go. And for those without a Vessel’s power, your only chance is to close that gap through sheer mastery—like Gabriel did against Lust.”

  Gabriel gave a small grin, but her eyes lingered on Byronard. “You said ‘Vessels.’ Plural. Do you know who or where they are?”

  Byronard shook his head. “No. I only know what the Mother told me long ago. She said I wasn’t the only one… just the first. The others were chosen by their respective Divines—each with their own burdens and destinies.”

  He glanced at the far wall, lost in thought for a moment. “If memory serves, the Stranger’s Vessel resides in Azane.”

  Michael. Godric. Xhiamas. Ziyad.

  “That’s where we sent Godric’s team,” Wyatt muttered, eyes narrowing.

  Byronard nodded. “The Thief’s Vessel is… elusive. Secretive by nature. Even the Mother didn’t know where they were, which worries me.”

  “What about the Warrior’s Vessel?” asked Raphael.

  “That one,” Byronard said slowly, “only awakens in times of great strife. If they are in Primera… they haven’t revealed themselves yet.”

  Cassian looked thoughtful. “So there could be more Vessels in play—watching. Waiting.”

  “Exactly,” Byronard replied. “And they may be the key to turning the tide.”

  He turned back to Wyatt, his expression suddenly heavier. “And that’s why your growth matters more than ever. You’ve been chosen, yes. But what you do with that power… that’s entirely up to you.”

  Wyatt nodded slowly. The weight of those words sank deep.

  “Then I’ll keep moving forward,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “Even if it scares me.”

  Byronard smiled. “Good. That’s what being a Vessel is all about.”

  His gaze swept over the gathered warriors—Wyatt still catching his breath, Flint quietly nursing a burn, Cassian sheathing his blade, Gabriel standing tall and unreadable, Raphael adjusting the gold-trimmed cane at his side, and Uriel watching with arms crossed and his ever-present storm behind his eyes.

  “Alright,” Byronard finally said, breaking the silence. “That’s enough for today. But don’t get comfortable.”

  The room straightened instinctively under his tone.

  “From here on out, we begin daily sparring drills at dawn. Individual matchups. Magic regulation. Weapon specialization. And yes—Vessel observation,” he added, shooting Wyatt a glance. “We’ve seen what the Circles are capable of. And we’ve only just begun to scratch the surface of our own strength.”

  He turned to Raphael and Gabriel. “You two will relay this to the rest of the Seven. Tell them to prepare the Royal Guards for the same regimen. We train together. We fight together. We survive together.”

  Raphael nodded respectfully. “Understood.”

  Gabriel gave a sideways smile. “About time we got serious.”

  Just then, heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor beyond the chamber. A Royal Guard in white armor burst into the training hall, helm under his arm, sweat on his brow.

  “Commander Byronard! My Lords!” he called out, voice tense. “You’re needed immediately.”

  Byronard’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

  The guard’s next words hit the room like a thunderclap.

  “Lord Rykard… he’s extracted more information from Lilith.”

  The entire group stiffened.

  Cassian blinked. “That was fast…”

  Flint furrowed his brow. “She talked?”

  Gabriel stepped forward, voice tight with suspicion. “What kind of information?”

  The guard shook his head. “I was told to fetch you first. The rest… he said he would explain to all of you—together.”

  Byronard looked at each of them in turn, the fire in his eyes returning.

  “Then let’s not keep him waiting.”