Chapter Eight: A Month of Steel
The next morning, Kael woke to pain.
Not the kind from battle—he was used to bruises now. This pain was worse. It came from the marrow of him, from muscles screaming against limits they hadn't known existed.
Andrew didn't believe in introductions. Or kindness. Or even rest.
"Up."
That was the first thing he said.
Kael staggered to his feet, clutching his ribs. "You said you'd train me, not kill me."
Andrew handed him a wooden sword. "Same thing."
And so the days began.
Week One: The Break
Andrew started by unteaching everything Kael thought he knew.
"Your stance is wrong. Your balance is worse. Veilrend may like you, but it doesn't respect you yet."
They trained in silence most days. The only sounds were the hiss of wooden blades, the thud of impact, the occasional grunt of pain. Andrew never complimented. Never explained. When Kael made a mistake, Andrew punished it—with speed and precision and a brutal lack of sympathy.
By the end of the week, Kael's hands were raw. His fingers bled. He barely slept, haunted by the phantom feel of parries and counterstrikes.
But Veilrend whispered in dreams. And every day, it felt a little lighter.
Week Two: The Dance
Andrew introduced real blades. Not enchanted, but steel. Sharp. Heavy.
"You're not training to fight. You're training to survive."
He taught Kael rhythm. How to listen with his feet. How to breathe with his blade. How to predict movement by watching the eyes, the hips, the shoulders—never the hands.
Kael improved faster now.
Still nowhere near Andrew's level, but the gaps were closing. He could hold his ground for five strokes. Then ten.
One night, exhausted, Kael asked, "Why are you helping me?"
Andrew stared at the fire for a long time. Then said, "Because I knew your father."
Kael froze. "What?"
But Andrew said no more. Not that night. Not for the rest of that week.
Week Three: The Hollowed
Kael faced his first real test.
They came in the night—Hollowed Ones—twisted corpses with faces carved into masks of grief. Sent by the Pale Eye.
Andrew didn't lift a blade.
"This fight's yours."
Kael stood alone.
Three of them. Fast. Unnatural. Their blades hissed with void-magic.
Kael nearly died.
But he didn't.
He remembered the Vale. The calm. The rhythm. And when he called on Veilrend, it answered.
He killed two. The third fled, shrieking into the mist.
Andrew watched silently. When it was over, he simply said:
"Now you've started."
Week Four: The Swordmaster's Truth
On the final day, Andrew led Kael to a stone circle high above the Vale.
There were six pillars. Only one was whole.
"This was where the Swordmasters made their stand," Andrew said, his voice distant. "And where they fell."
Kael turned to him. "You said you knew my father."
Andrew nodded.
"He wasn't a king. He wasn't even a soldier. He was a wanderer. But once—just once—he crossed blades with the Swordmasters."
A pause.
"And he won."
Kael's heart stopped. "What was his name?"
Andrew looked at him.
Kael gripped Veilrend tighter.
Everything was changing. And whatever waited ahead, it was no longer just about survival.
It was about legacy.