Aldric fell into a rhythm. Not a life, not yet. But a pattern.

  Mornings began with chores. Carrying buckets of water from the well. Sorting grain. Sweeping the tavern's perpetually dusty floor.

  Mirla never asked him to help.

  She just said:

  “If your hands are busy, your mind doesn’t wander too far.”

  He wasn’t sure if she was right, but it worked.

  Afternoons, he sat on the back porch. The boy who tried to teach him whittling—Tomas, he’d finally introduced himself—kept coming back with new scraps of wood.

  “This one’s gonna be a hawk,” he’d say proudly. “Not a dove. Doves are boring.”

  Aldric still couldn’t shape anything but splinters, but Tomas didn’t care.

  He met others.

  Lysa, a young herbalist’s apprentice with soot-stained sleeves and sharp eyes. She noticed his scars one day and said nothing—just handed him a jar of balm and walked away.

  Wenrik, the blacksmith’s younger brother. Taught Aldric how to maintain his boots. “No shame in walking,” he said. “Shame’s in limping ‘cause you didn’t try.”

  Old Maar, the town’s unofficial historian. He offered Aldric stories in exchange for scraps of food. Some were lies. Most were half-lies. A few made Aldric’s stomach twist with recognition.

  One evening, Maar pulled out a tattered map.

  “Eryndor’s not marked anymore,” he said.

  “No one’s sayin’ why. Just that it’s... gone.”

  Aldric stared at the blank space.

  “It was real,” he said quietly.

  “It is real.”

  Maar gave him a look.

  Not pity.

  Understanding.

  “Then don’t let ‘em write it outta the world, boy.”

  After two weeks, Mirla offered them a cottage.

  “Old place. Belonged to a widow who passed years back. No one’s lived in it since, well, unless you count the crickets. They might argue the tenancy.”

  Aldric hesitated.

  Veylor answered for him.

  “We’ll take it.”

  The cottage was crooked and creaky. The roof sagged. The shutters stuck. There was a small garden, half of it was overrun with weeds. A rusted weather vane spun lazily on the roof.

  Aldric cleaned the floor with a cracked broom and patched the leaks with old cloth.

  The crickets were loud, but after a few days, they felt less like pests and more like company.

  He found a book left behind on a shelf. Children’s myths. “The Soviran Light”. He almost threw it away. Instead, he read it cover to cover, twice.

  Aldric had finally recovered. He could move with little pain, no longer plagued by the torturous nightly fevers.

  The forest clearing just outside Floralines had no name. It didn’t need one.

  That night, Veylor simply pointed and said, “There.”

  That’s where they began the training.

  The morning mist clung to the trees. The clearing was quiet except for the distant rumble of a stream. Aldric stood there, arms crossed, unsure if he was supposed to bow, stretch, or run.

  Veylor was already waiting.

  He stood fully armored, as always. That silent, looming figure with dull iron-blue plate, a crimson scarf tucked beneath the gorget, and a sword half his height slung over his back.

  “You’re late,” Veylor muttered.

  “I wasn’t sure where ‘there’ was.”

  “Then first lesson learned.”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Aldric sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, and walked forward through dew-wet grass.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “You’re going to.”

  “Why are we training? What am I supposed to become?”

  Veylor tilted his head, not quite looking at him.

  “You’re asking the wrong question.”

  “Then tell me the right one.”

  “The right question is: ‘Why did I survive?’”

  That silenced Aldric. A gust of wind made the leaves rustle. In the distance, bells rang faintly from Floralines’ chapel tower.

  “I don’t know,” Aldric admitted, voice quiet.

  “Then train until you figure it out.”

  They stood in silence for a while.

  Aldric watched Veylor as the man stretched his gauntleted arms. He still couldn’t tell his age. His voice was old. His face was still a mystery. Always the helmet. Always the armor. Like a walking statue.

  “Why do you always wear that?” Aldric asked suddenly. “Even here. Even around me.”

  Veylor paused.

  “Habit.”

  “Is it magical?”

  “No.”

  “Then what is it? Some sacred order thing?”

  “No.”

  “…Can I see?”

  The knight’s shoulders rose, as if he were sighing beneath the plate. Then, without a word, he lifted his arms and began unbuckling the armor.

  Straps snapped loose. First the pauldrons, then the chestplate. The cuirass thudded to the ground with a soft grunt of effort. He set his helmet down carefully in the grass.

  Aldric blinked.

  He didn't know what he expected.

  Veylor looked... human.

  Broad-shouldered and muscular. His skin was deeply scarred, burns across his left side, a slash that ran from collarbone to hip, and old puncture wounds near his ribs. His right shoulder bore a faded tattoo of an unfamiliar crest, half-melted by scar tissue.

  His face was gaunt, sharp. Ash-brown hair cut short, streaked with silver. His eyes were gray and weary.

  “Satisfied?” he asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

  Aldric stared for a long moment.

  “You’re just... a man.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “No. Just surprised. You always looked like something out of a legend.”

  Veylor let out a dry chuckle.

  “Legends are usually just men wearing too much metal and making poor decisions.”

  Aldric winced as he tried to lift the older man’s gauntlet.

  The thing felt like it was made of dying stars.

  “What is this made of?”

  Veylor crouched beside him, checking the straps.

  “Some alloys. Mostly tungsten and rhenium.”

  Aldric blinked.

  “I’ve never heard of those. Are they, like, some rare Radiance metals?”

  “Not even close,” Veylor said with a chuckle. “Just very, very good metal.”

  “Oh... I thought it would be something more... special?”

  “Base material is special. You lot just forget that because Luminance makes you lazy.”

  “That’s not fair. Luminance is versatile.”

  “Versatile doesn’t mean invincible.” He tapped his breastplate. “You think this keeps me alive because it glows?”

  Aldric looked away, slightly embarrassed.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make you something lighter once you’re strong enough.” Veylor grinned.

  Training began without warning.

  One moment Veylor was stretching his shoulder; the next, he hurled a wooden training sword at Aldric’s feet.

  “Pick it up.”

  “No incantations?”

  “Not yet. We start with this.”

  “But I’m—”

  “Soft. I know.”

  It was brutal.

  Not violent, but exhausting in a way Aldric hadn’t expected. Footwork drills. Breathing control. Holding the blade steady for minutes on end. Building rhythm. Rebuilding posture.

  Footwork. Breathing. Blade steady. Repeat.

  They practiced until Aldric’s fingers cramped and sweat drowned his borrowed tunic.

  “Isn’t this pointless?” Aldric grumbled between lunges. “I’m a scholar, not a swordsman.”

  “Exactly,” Veylor said. “That’s the problem.”

  “But I have Luminance—”

  “And so do most people trying to kill you. The ones who live, Aldric, stack the deck.”

  The knight tapped his temple:

  “Intelligence.”

  Then his chest:

  “Resilience.”

  The sword's pommel:

  “Precision.

  You don’t need to be stronger. You need to be first.”

  After what felt like an eternity, they paused for breath beneath the trees. Aldric found himself asking again.

  “What about that sword? Is it just another regular old sword?”

  “It's kind of unconventional. Made from depleted Uranium.”

  “Never heard of. Is it infused?”

  “No, just unforgiving. Cuts clean. Can even self-sharpen.”

  “Then my point stands. Long-range casting is still superior.”

  Veylor reached down, unsheathing the blade again. Its surface glimmered with no runes, no glyphs. Just raw metal.

  “Next task.”

  He swung.

  Aldric’s instincts screamed. He quickly threw up an Aegis shield, golden and bright—

  —and watched, in horror, as the blade sliced through like it was paper.

  The tip stopped just before his throat.

  “Wha—what—how?!”

  “Nice reflexes.” Veylor pulled the blade back with a satisfied nod. “Lesson of the day: the human body can’t take more than one hit. Doesn’t matter how much firepower you have. If it can’t land before the other guy approaches and lands his, you're gone.”

  Aldric still looked pale.

  “So… care to explain what was that?”

  “An armor-piercer. No frills.”

  Veylor stepped back, resting the sword on his shoulder.

  “Assignment: develop an armor-piercing Luminance. I don’t care if it’s a beam, a needle, a coin you flick at someone’s eye. Just make it work.“

  “But how...?”

  “The world’s built to punish the obvious. Think like a cornered animal.”

  Aldric sat down in the grass, mind whirring. His muscles ached. His breathing shook. But something inside him buzzed with life.

  This wasn’t just about strength.

  This was survival.

  This was becoming something new.

  And Veylor—scarred, quiet, iron-hearted—was no longer just a mystery. He was a man with reasons.

  A man who'd seen too much—and still chose to teach.

  Somewhere deep inside Aldric, behind the ache and confusion…

  …he was thrilled.

  Three weeks after arrival, a letter arrived.

  Sealed with a false crest. The Magisterium’s imitation.

  Inside, one phrase stood out:

  "The child of flame has not been accounted for."

  Veylor burned it in the hearth without a word.

  Aldric saw the tremble in his hand.

  They didn’t speak of it.