The world didn't end after the duel.
But it sure as hell felt like it had.
The training yard was quiet now. No clashing wood. No shouting. Just the wind brushing past broken dirt and splintered footprints. My ribs still ached. My arms felt like lead. My legs like they'd betrayed me.
I sat on the edge of the training bench, still trying to breathe like the fight hadn't knocked something loose inside me.
Calden and Nareva were gone, she was probably scolding him right now. The wall of earth she'd raised still stood between us and what almost happened.
And me?
I hadn't moved since.
My wooden sword lay in the dirt, half-buried. Like it had given up on me too.
I kept replaying it—every second of it. Over and over like punishment. The way Calden moved. The way I lost rhythm. The way Beast Style clawed its way out of me like it was tired of pretending to sleep.
The way he nearly struck my neck.
The way he didn't stop.
The way I didn't stop.
The only thing louder than my thoughts was the silence he left behind.
I could've died.
That wasn't a dramatization. That wasn't the voice of an overthinking child. That was reality.
A wooden blade or not—he'd meant it. That strike. That test.
And if Nareva hadn't stepped in?
…I don't know.
My fingers curled into fists.
I didn't feel strong.
I didn't feel brave.
I felt like I was crawling in my own skin, each breath tighter than the last.
Was this what being a swordsman meant?
Was this what Calden wanted to teach me?
How to face death and keep swinging?
Because all I felt was shame.
Not just for losing.
But for what I became while fighting.
Beast Style didn't feel like Dragon. It didn't have structure. It didn't ask for permission.
It devoured.
And it didn't care about control. It didn't care that I was scared. It didn't care that Calden was my instructor. It didn't care that I'm five years old and still trying to figure out who the hell I am in this world.
It just wanted to win.
I pulled my knees up to my chest. Rested my chin on them. The cold seeped through my uniform like punishment. My body was shaking again, and I didn't know if it was from the adrenaline or the guilt.
Maybe both.
I didn't know how long I sat like that.
Eventually, the wind changed.
Soft footsteps on gravel.
I didn't look up.
"I knew I'd find you still here," Nareva said quietly.
I didn't answer.
She didn't expect me to.
She sat down beside me, just far enough that it didn't feel forced. Just close enough that it didn't feel cold.
Silence stretched again. But this time, it didn't feel like a threat.
It felt like an invitation.
"I'm not mad," she said after a while.
I blinked.
My voice came out hoarse. "Why not?"
"I saw what happened," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "All of it."
"That doesn't mean I didn't mess everything up."
"No," she said. "It means you survived something that wasn't meant to be survived."
I looked at her. Finally.
Her eyes—those pale, storm-colored eyes—weren't angry. Or afraid. Or pitying.
They were just… there.
Like she saw all of it. The shaking. The breaking. The Beast Style I didn't mean to use. The way I lost myself in the heat of it. The way I didn't even feel like Kaelen anymore.
And still, she didn't look away.
"You're not broken, Kaelen," she said softly.
My throat tightened.
"Then why does it feel like something's rotting inside me?"
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she reached into her cloak and pulled something out. A thin book. Worn leather. No title. Her handwriting on the corner.
"You're not ready to talk about it yet," she said. "Not all of it. That's okay."
She set the book down on the bench beside me.
"But when you are? We're going to train that part of you too. The part you think is too wild. The part you're afraid of."
I stared at the book like it might bite me.
"Not here," she added. "And not as a noble. Not even as a swordsman."
I looked up at her.
She smiled.
"As a mage."
Suddenly she stood up, straightening her dress.
"Come with me," she said.
I didn't ask where. Didn't need to.
I followed her in silence through the sleeping halls of the estate. Past the west stairs. Past the laundry corridor. Out the side exit, where the wind carried the scent of moss and old stone.
And toward the greenhouse.
The same one we'd claimed in secret.
The same place where this all began.
She held the door for me without a word, and I stepped into the dim, earthy dark. The moonlight filtered through broken glass, casting soft silver across the dirt floor and scattered leaves.
It smelled like rain—even though it hadn't rained in days.
We stood there in silence for a long while.
"I thought I ruined everything," I said.
My voice didn't sound like mine. It cracked. Thin. Fragile.
"You didn't," she answered, walking past me and lighting the small lantern in the corner. The glow barely reached beyond the nearest row of vines.
"But I almost—Calden could've—he was going to—" My chest clenched. The words hit a wall.
She turned to me then.
"He didn't."
I swallowed. Hard.
"You saved me."
"That's not the part that matters," she said. "The part that matters is that you didn't give up."
I laughed. Bitter. Quiet.
"I was going to. I wanted to."
"But you didn't."
Silence.
She crouched near the broken bench. Brushed aside some old petals. Then looked back up at me.
"Sit."
I obeyed.
Because part of me still thought I might collapse if I stood much longer.
She reached into her shawl and pulled out something wrapped in cloth.
A new notebook.
Thicker. Heavier. Bound in soft grey leather, stitched with a thread that shimmered faintly in the lanternlight.
My breath caught.
"I…" I started. Then stopped.
She placed it in my lap. "This one has spells I copied myself," she said. "Not from the old book. From memory. From study. Safer, simpler. Built for training."
I stared at it like it might disappear if I blinked.
"I'm not supposed to—" I began.
"You're not supposed to have mana," she said, gently. "And yet, here you are."
I clutched the book like it was the only thing anchoring me to the world.
Nareva sat beside me, careful not to crowd, but close enough I could feel the warmth of her sleeve against mine.
"I shouldn't be doing this," she said. "But I saw what happened with Calden. And I know what it means to hide something you don't understand."
Her voice lowered.
"I won't let you do this alone."
My throat tightened.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," I whispered. "I just… want to know why this is happening. What I'm supposed to be."
She reached out and gently took my hand—just for a second.
"You're Kaelen," she said. "You're five years old. And you're afraid. But that doesn't make you a monster. It makes you human."
The greenhouse was quiet for a long time.
The wind pushed softly through the broken panes. The old vines rustled.
Finally, she let go of my hand and stood.
"Let's start with something simple," she said. "Nothing flashy. Nothing that'll tear you in half."
I almost smiled.
"Can we try Feather Drift again?" I asked.
She nodded.
"I'll guide your flow. But you'll speak the words."
I stood.
Steadier this time.
Feet planted in the dirt. Notebook in one hand. Candlelight flickering behind me.
And as I whispered the words, her voice joined mine.
Soft. Certain. Safe.
Feather Drift.
I'd cast it before—alone, in panic. It had worked then, even if it felt like cheating. But now, with her beside me? With someone actually guiding me?
It was different.
It wasn't like dragging the spell out of some buried place inside me. It was like Nareva was showing me the trail I'd already carved—like she saw where the cracks in me were, and gently helped light the edges.
"Tolarin vesrul nai," I whispered.
The words came smoother this time. Not shaky. Not stolen.
The mana responded.
Softly.
Dust rose around my feet. The ground felt lighter beneath me, like I'd taken half a step into air. Like the world forgot how heavy I was for a moment. The same hum stirred beneath my ribs, but it didn't twist this time. It didn't burn. It just… flowed.
My eyes widened.
"I felt it," I breathed.
She smiled again—small, quiet. The kind of smile people gave when they saw something rare bloom.
"Good," she said. "Now again."
We practiced for a while. No time. No pressure. No Calden's voice barking in my ear. No eyes judging from shadows.
Just us.
The greenhouse held its breath for us, too. Even the wind stilled as the magic circled between word and will.
I cast it again. And again.
Each time, a little stronger. A little brighter.
Until, finally, my voice cracked and the mana flickered and dropped.
I collapsed backward onto the dirt, arms splayed, chest heaving.
"I think I'm dying," I groaned.
"You're not," she said dryly. "You're just magically exhausted. It's like running laps in two worlds at once."
"...Then I'm dying twice."
She laughed—an actual laugh. Not the polite one she used with the staff. A real one. I blinked up at her, stunned for a second.
"You laugh?" I asked.
"Rarely," she said. "But you're very dramatic."
I didn't argue.
Because it was true.
She let me rest a while before helping me sit up again. My whole body ached, but not in the way it had after sword training. This wasn't muscle pain. It was deeper. Like something inside me had stretched for the first time in years and wasn't sure if it wanted to go back.
"You're going to have to learn to hide this," she said gently, brushing dirt from my sleeve. "Until we understand it. Until you're stronger."
"I know."
"And you'll have to lie. To your parents. To Calden. To the entire estate."
"I've been lying since I could walk," I muttered.
She didn't laugh at that one.
She just nodded.
And that was worse.
We sat there for a while. Not student and teacher. Not noble and servant. Just… two people keeping a secret from the world.
Eventually, she stood and offered her hand. I took it.
"We'll go slow," she said. "And I'll protect you. As much as I can."
I wanted to ask her why. Why she was helping me. Why she hadn't told anyone. Why she looked at me like I was more than a mistake waiting to be discovered.
But I didn't.
Not yet.
Because for now?
It was enough to believe it was real.
That someone saw me.
Not the noble.
Not the monster.
Not the lie.
Just me.
Kaelen.
And somehow… that made the night feel a little warmer.
We slipped back into the estate through the side corridor. The halls were still asleep. No servants stirring. No footsteps echoing. Just the hush of pre-dawn silence, like the mansion itself didn't want to disturb what had just happened.
When we reached my room, Nareva paused at the door.
"Hide the notebook well," she whispered. "And rest. We'll continue in a few days."
I nodded.
Then, without thinking, I whispered, "Thank you."
She hesitated.
Then said, just as quietly, "You're welcome… Kaelen."
Not Master. Not Young Lord.
Just my name.
It hit harder than any compliment ever had.
She vanished down the corridor, her footsteps barely audible. I slipped inside my room and shut the door softly behind me.
The room felt colder somehow. Bigger. Like I'd brought the greenhouse's wild mana back with me, and now it didn't quite fit here among silk sheets and carved furniture.
I crawled into bed without changing, fingers still tingling from the last spell. My chest still warm with everything I couldn't explain.
And as I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, one thought pulsed through my mind:
This isn't the life I was promised.
Not by the voice in the void.
Not by the Ghostborn bloodline.
Not by anyone.
But maybe…
Maybe that's the point.
Maybe I wasn't given a life to live.
Maybe I was given one to steal back—piece by piece.
And if it starts here?
In secret training sessions and forbidden magic?
Then so be it.
Let them call me broken.
Let them call me cursed.
I'll learn.
I'll grow.
And one day, when the world comes knocking—
I'll be ready to open the door.