The days bled together.

  Morning after morning, Kael woke with his body heavy as stone, his arms stiff, his legs sore. And still Daren dragged him back to the field. The mist clung low across the grass, and the candle always sat waiting, its flame flickering in defiance.

  The drill never changed.

  Hold the eye.

  Copy the strikes.

  Keep the flame.

  Over and over.

  His body screamed. His shoulders burned until they were numb, his legs shook with every step, his chest felt crushed beneath each breath. But the rhythm pressed on.

  Step, strike, breathe.

  Watch, mirror, hold.

  Kael stumbled, collapsed, rose, and stumbled again. Dirt caked his palms, sweat stung his eyes, but he pushed through. The flame bent more often now, yielding to his focus. His blade matched Daren’s longer each day, though not with the same grace. His eye no longer failed him in minutes—it burned for hours.

  Daren said little, but Kael caught the rare glint of approval in his silence.

  Two weeks passed like that. Nothing but sweat, dirt, and the silver glow.

  On the fifteenth morning, the pattern broke.

  Kael was in the middle of a set, his blade swinging through the air in clumsy rhythm, his eye fixed on both flame and master. His chest heaved, his legs felt like lead, but he refused to collapse. Then, before Daren could command another round, a rider appeared at the edge of the field.

  The man dismounted quickly, mud on his boots, and bowed low. “A message for Ridgehall.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Daren took the sealed letter, examined the wax, then handed it to Kael.

  Kael wiped sweat from his brow, tore the seal, and scanned the neat script. His brow furrowed as he read aloud:

  “By decree of the Three Houses of Wicelind, a gathering shall be held in the Hall of Concord at fortnight’s end. Lords and heirs of all ridges are summoned to attend. Matters of alliance and standing shall be discussed. Attendance is required.”

  He lowered the parchment, scowling. “A gala? They expect me to come while I can barely stand at all.”

  Daren sheathed his sword. “This is no simple gathering. If the three houses stand together, others will follow. Your absence would speak louder than your presence.”

  Kael crumpled the parchment slightly in his fist. “I never agreed to this.”

  Daren’s gaze was steady, unyielding. “I agreed for you, while you were training.”

  Kael snapped his head up. “You what?”

  “You think the world will wait until you are ready?” Daren said coldly. “It will not. You’ve spent two weeks in the dirt, sweating and bleeding, and that is good. But it is not enough. Power is not only earned on the field—it is seen in halls, at tables, in the eyes of lords. If you want the ridges to treat you as more than a boy, you must show yourself. The gala is the chance.”

  Kael’s jaw tightened. “So I dance and smile while they weigh me like cattle?”

  “You speak, you listen, you are seen,” Daren replied. “That is how houses rise. It will be good for you. It will help build the standing you lack.”

  Kael looked at Daren with a light frown, u temporarily passed your boundaries don't do it again. If u want to agree to anything on my behalf seek me first.

  Daren bowed lightly,I understand my Lord I overstepped. It won't happen again

  Kael wanted to argue a little bit , but the words stuck. The idea of walking into a hall filled with lords and heirs set his stomach on edge. Training he could endure. This—this was a different kind of battle.

  The following days were split between training and preparation.

  Kael still rose each morning to face the candle, still mirrored Daren’s strikes until his arms failed. But in the afternoons, he was dragged into halls filled with servants, their hands busy measuring, tailoring, adjusting. Fine coats and boots were pressed on him, cloth cut to fit his shoulders, collars pinned high.

  He hated it. Every seam felt wrong against skin still bruised from drills. But Daren reminded him, again and again: “They must see more than a fighter. They must see the heir.”

  Kael endured. He had learned how.

  Two days before the journey, as Kael was leaving the training field with the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him, a horn sounded at the ridge gates.

  He lifted his head. Riders were approaching—four silhouettes against the afternoon light. The closer they came, the more familiar their shapes became.

  Orin at the front, his posture straight and proud as ever. Rhea close behind, her cloak trailing, her eyes scanning the ridge with a mix of caution and relief. Tarin’s easy frame swayed in the saddle, while Joran rode stiffly, his cloak heavy with dust.

  Kael’s heart stirred at the sight. It had been weeks since he’d last seen them, weeks of silence while the world pressed heavier on his shoulders. Now, suddenly, they were here, alive, unbroken.

  He strode forward as they dismounted. Orin removed his gloves, Rhea brushed dirt from her boots, Tarin gave a lazy grin, and Joran adjusted his belt with a grunt.

  Kael let out a breath that felt like it had been caged in his chest for too long. “Good to see you back.”

  They looked at him, taking in the sweat, the bruises, the faint silver still glowing at the corner of his eye. Orin gave a curt nod. Rhea’s lips curved into the hint of a smile.

  Kael thought of something there smiled and held up the folded letter, his grin cutting through his exhaustion. “You came at the right time. Want to have some fun?”