The sky was slate gray. Clouds heavy with unshed rain. No wind. No birdsong. Just the creak of worn leather and the faint rasp of wooden blades drawn from racks.
Instructor Calden stood across from me, silent as ever. His cloak hung on the fence post. His sleeves rolled up. A single splintered line ran down the length of his practice sword—an old scar, like so many of his.
He hadn't said why he called me out.
He didn't need to.
This wasn't training.
It was a test.
"Dragon Style only," he said, voice cold and low. "Begin when ready."
I took position. High guard. Shoulders aligned. Breath steady. The stance felt… right. Safe. Like armor I could still wear.
But my stomach knotted. My fingers twitched. I couldn't tell if it was anticipation, or fear.
Calden didn't wait.
He came at me like thunder cracking through fog.
I parried high, twisted, riposted. Step back. Pivot. Breathe.
Strike. Block. Turn. Thrust.
He met every move like he knew it before I made it. Not showing off. Just… showing me how much I still didn't know.
His blade snapped toward my ribs. I swept it aside and went for a counterthrust—but he'd already sidestepped.
Don't think. Move. Flow.
I pressed in. Three strikes in quick succession. Shoulder. Hip. Neck.
He blocked all of them, barely shifting his feet. His body a fortress. Unmoving. Immovable.
"Good," he said, dryly. "Now stop treating me like a child with a stick."
Heat flushed through me.
I gritted my teeth and surged forward.
Dragon Style demanded grace. Precision. But I put weight behind my strikes now. Let the edge carry the intention—I won't break first.
He responded in kind.
Our blades clashed in a hiss of splinters.
He dropped low, sweeping for my legs. I leapt back, reversed grip, swung from above. He caught it on his crossguard, shoved me off-balance, and jabbed my shoulder with the blunt tip.
I stumbled, breath knocked out of me.
"Dead," he said.
I didn't answer.
I just raised my sword again.
He waited.
And then he charged.
The second exchange was faster.
We moved like fire drawn through a flue. Strike. Parry. Twist. Reposture.
I matched him step for step. Not winning. Not yet. But enduring.
Until he broke the rhythm.
A feint high—then a low stab toward my thigh. I read it too late.
The wood slammed against muscle and I yelped, going down hard on one knee.
"Dead again," he said.
Sweat dripped from my brow. My breath came in shallow pants.
Still—he waited.
I stood.
Raised my blade.
He didn't mock me. Didn't smile.
But I could feel it in the air between us.
He's not holding back anymore.
Good.
Because neither was I.
The next flurry was chaos wrapped in form. I forgot the cold. Forgot the pain.
Dragon Style wasn't about power—it was about control. Distance. Timed aggression. A dance between breath and blood.
I could still do this.
I had to do this.
Strike. Block. Turn. Thrust.
"Better," he said, even as our swords locked. "But not enough."
He shoved me back and lunged forward, a clean, perfect thrust toward my throat.
I barely dodged.
The tip grazed my collar.
Dead.
Again.
My arms sagged.
Dragon Style wasn't breaking.
I was.
I stared at the ground.
Tried to breathe.
But the rhythm was gone.
My hands shook.
My eyes burned.
The fight wasn't over.
But something in me already felt like it had lost.
My blade trembled in my grip.
I wanted to scream. To curse. To cry. But there was no room in my chest for sound—only pressure. A balloon of fury and fear swelling beneath my ribs.
I wasn't enough.
Not for Calden. Not for anyone.
I could feel his eyes on me. Judging. Measuring.
Disappointed.
"You said Dragon Style," he said quietly. "If you're finished, say so."
Finished?
No.
My knees bent.
I shifted my weight lower. Forward. The stance was wrong. No longer Dragon.
It didn't matter.
I bared my teeth.
And charged.
The scream tore itself out of my throat without permission. It wasn't a battle cry—it was the sound a cornered animal made, the last defiance before the cage closed.
Beast Style didn't ask for permission.
It took.
I slammed forward, swinging high, then low, then high again—erratic, brutal, ugly. There was no grace in it. No discipline.
Just violence.
Calden's eyes narrowed.
He moved to intercept—but my next strike came faster, sloppier. The wooden blade cracked against his guard, jarring both our arms.
He grunted.
Then pivoted to punish me with a counterblow to the side.
I didn't dodge.
I took it.
And kept swinging.
I was all instinct now. All blood and motion. Rage wrapped in a child's body.
He swept my leg—I twisted mid-fall, rolled, came up slashing. Caught his wrist. Glanced off his ribs. Almost landed a strike to his jaw.
Almost.
The flat of his blade slammed against my gut, knocking me back.
I hit the dirt, coughing, blinking spots from my eyes.
But my legs moved before thought returned.
I couldn't stop.
The noise in my head was louder now. Screams that didn't have words. Memories I didn't want to remember. The old world. The hours of pain while I was laying in the nursery. The silence that came after I got pushed under the truck.
Something snapped behind my ribs.
I lunged again.
Faster than before.
My blade crashed toward Calden's neck—
—and for the first time, he hesitated.
Not out of fear.
But calculation.
He shifted his stance.
His own blade raised, reverse grip.
He was going to end it.
My feet slipped in the mud. My form collapsed.
His sword came down—
And the earth exploded between us.
A wall of jagged stone burst up from the ground like a summoned god, thick enough to stop a wagon, tall enough to hide the sky.
I fell backward from the force of it, skidding through wet soil.
Silence.
Then—
"Enough!" Nareva's voice cut through the fog like lightning.
I couldn't see her. But I could hear the tremble in her voice. Not fear.
Rage.
"What were you thinking?! He's five! Calden, he's—"
The stone wall cracked, then crumbled to dust between us.
Calden stood on the other side, sword lowered, eyes burning—but his face unreadable.
I pushed myself to my elbows, chest heaving.
Nareva was already at my side, crouched low, hands trembling as they hovered near my face, my arms, my ribs.
"I'm fine," I whispered.
It was a lie.
Nothing inside me felt fine.
But I was still breathing.
Still here.
Still holding the sword.
Even if my fingers were too numb to feel it.
"I'm fine," I whispered.
It didn't matter how many times I said it.
My voice was wreckage. A hoarse, broken thing—like the rest of me.
Nareva didn't answer.
She just stared at me. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Her hands hovered above my arms as if touching me might finish the breaking.
Her mouth moved, but no sound came out at first.
Then:
"What did he do to you?"
It wasn't a question.
It was a verdict.
I tried to sit up again, but my limbs were jelly. Cold sweat stuck my shirt to my back. My knuckles were bleeding from where I'd gripped the sword too tightly. My teeth ached from how hard I'd clenched them.
I couldn't look at her.
If I did, I'd shatter.
Instead, I looked past her.
To Calden.
He stood still, sword lowered, face unreadable—but something flickered in his expression when our eyes met.
Regret?
No. It was worse than that.
Understanding.
"I warned you," Nareva said softly, rising to her feet. "I told you what this would do to him."
Calden didn't reply. He just turned, slowly, and walked away.
Not like a victor.
Like a man who'd seen something he didn't know how to fix.
Nareva knelt beside me again. Her hands were warmer now. Calmer. She wiped the dirt from my face with her sleeve, tucked a strand of sweaty hair behind my ear.
"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I shouldn't have let it go this far."
I stared at the ground.
"...He didn't do anything," I said hollowly. "It was me."
Nareva's hands froze.
I kept going. The words spilled out, small and raw and shaking.
"I couldn't stop. I wanted to, but—I kept hearing things. Seeing things. I wasn't even fighting him anymore. I was just trying to kill something that wasn't there."
The silence after that was heavy.
"I don't want to be like this," I whispered.
Nareva pulled me into her arms before I could finish the sentence. Her grip was tight. Fierce. Like she was trying to hold all the pieces of me together through sheer force of will.
"You're not," she whispered into my hair. "You're not like that, Kaelen. You're just scared. And tired. And you've been carrying too much, for too long."
I didn't answer.
Because if I opened my mouth again, I'd cry.
And if I cried now, I wouldn't stop.
Her hand rubbed small circles into my back.
"You don't have to earn love by bleeding," she said. "You already have it."
Something cracked quietly inside me.
Something that had been holding on for too long.
I let myself lean into her warmth.
Let the sword fall from my hand.
And for once, I let myself be small.