The next morning came as it always did—brisk, gray, and unrelenting. Ryan woke before the sun crested the eastern hills, his arms aching from the night before. He pushed himself upright without hesitation. Pain was expected. Pain meant the work was settling in.
He washed quickly, dressed, and made it to the shop before Graham unlocked the doors. By the time the others arrived, he'd already swept the front counter and prepped the basin. The scent of raw iron and blood greeted him like an old companion.
But Ryan's attention, like the past few days, kept drifting to the rear courtyard. It was there that Ser Caldus began the sword sessions.
Caldus was a retired instructor—stern-faced and broad-shouldered, with a limp that gave away old wars he never spoke of. He came twice a week to train Graham's two sons, Devin and Jory, and was paid by the hour. For most, it was a novelty—wealthy children sparring under a knight's eye. But Ryan saw more.
Graham could afford the luxury. Despite his quiet, practical demeanor, he was one of the wealthier men in the district. The shop Ryan worked in was only one of several scattered across town, each run with the same cold efficiency. Graham also owned a medium-sized plot of farmland just outside Aurelia's edge, leased to a tenant family who worked the land and paid in grain and coin. He didn't flaunt it, but the money was there. It showed in the quality of his sons' clothes, the instructors he hired, the polished steel blade that sometimes hung above his desk—not for use, but legacy.
Each session began the same. Caldus handed the boys plain wooden swords—sturdy but cheaply made, the kind available in bulk from any town craftsman. The lesson opened with stances. Three of them, to start.
Forward Line was the first—feet shoulder-width apart, front foot angled slightly, back foot anchored like a stake. High Arc followed, a raised stance with the blade above the head and weight on the rear leg. Low Guard came last, sword lowered and center balanced, ready to deflect or spring forward.
The knight's voice carried over the courtyard wall. "Your stance is your spine. Break it, and you break everything."
From his place inside, Ryan mimicked the positions when he could. Subtle shifts while carrying meat trays. A turn of the foot as he hoisted carcasses. A lowered shoulder while brushing scraps into the bin.
But there were limits.
The counters were tall, and the window only showed upper movement. His view of their feet was blocked entirely, and his hours in the shop were long. From what little he heard, footwork was the true core of the lesson—complex, layered, and constantly corrected. Ryan could only imagine what patterns they traced into the dirt.
He tried to reconstruct them at home from guesswork. But without a clear view or proper instruction, he couldn't be sure what he was doing wrong. He knew he was missing something vital. Still, he pressed on.
That night, like the one before, he ate his stew in silence and began his regimen again. Afterward, he took a thin, curved branch he'd collected days earlier—a piece of hardwood from a study tree behind the stream—and set to carving.
The shape he worked toward wasn't perfect. He'd never held a real sword. But the rough outline of what he'd seen Caldus hand to the boys was etched into his mind. He shaped the handle with care, balancing the weight by shaving the opposite end. He tested it again and again, making minute cuts, smoothing splinters with the worn leather of his boots.
By the time it was done, the replica looked crude. Uneven, a little light in the grip—but it was functional. It would do.
He couldn't afford to buy one. Even a simple wooden training sword from the cheaper vendors would cost too much, and Ryan had no room for luxury. Every coin he earned, every copper saved, was one step closer to the Academy of Awakening—the entrance fee was expensive. There could be no misstep.
He trained until the moon hung high.
He mimicked every stance he'd seen behind the shop — shoulders squared, knees bent just so, foot turned in the right line. He practised stepping forward and striking without losing his balance, counting the beats under his breath.
Sweat soaked through his shirt by the end of the first hour. The weights tied to his limbs made each motion slow, deliberate. His mock sword clacked against the post he used for practice, splinters flaking off with every strike. He didn't stop. Not until his arms burned and his breath came in short bursts.
Then came the usual: four laps around the edge of his property, the same strength routines he'd done for months. By now, the ache in his muscles was familiar — like an old bruise that never healed. When it became too much to bear, he brewed his root tea and sat in the pond, letting the chill wrap around his body.
The pain dulled. But the fire in his chest remained.
Later, as he dried himself and sat before the fire, he laid the wooden sword across his knees. It was crooked. Worn already. Splintered near the tip.
The next evening, as Ryan made his way home, something unusual broke the routine.
He was less than halfway through the district when he noticed the crowd—a thick, restless mass clogging the road ahead. Shouts rose like smoke into the air. At first, he thought it might be another merchant scuffle or an overzealous bard drawing a street duel. But then came the guards, pushing through with weapons drawn and voices sharp. The crowd parted with reluctant murmurs.
Ryan stopped at the edge, blending in with the common folk who lingered nearby, curious but careful.
It didn't take long to piece together what had happened.
A low-tier noble—young, armoured in half-plate and still dusted with dungeon ash—had just returned from a successful delve. His wagon was loaded with crates, gleaming trinkets, and sacks heavy with spoils. But the moment he arrived, a thief had made a move.
A pickpocket. Just a boy by the look of it. And now very much dead.
The noble stood over the body, red-faced and snarling. Around him, his soldiers had seized the thief's apprentices—two thin, rag-wrapped street rats no older than Ryan—and were beating them bloody in the mud.
"You little rats—where is it!?" the noble bellowed, eyes wild. "Where's the fucking grimoire?!"
His curses echoed over the hushed street.
The crowd winced. No one answered. No one stepped forward.
Ryan watched for a moment longer, face unreadable, then turned away. He didn't have time for this. Like most in Aurelia's lower quarters, he understood the silent law of the street: keep moving, don't get involved, don't look back.
But fate had its plans.
Two corners down, in a narrow turn near the alley wall, Ryan's boot struck something.
He looked down.
A book. Dust-covered. Dark-bound, nearly black, with strange symbols too faded to read. Its presence felt… wrong, somehow. Like it shouldn't have been there. Like it didn't want to be seen.
He bent to pick it up—and the moment his fingers brushed the surface, the book vanished.
No flash. No sound. Just a sudden, eerie absence.
A chill coursed through his entire body—sharp and deep, like plunging into winter water. His breath caught. The air around him felt thinner. Tighter.
He stood still for a long moment, staring at the empty ground.
Then, without a word, he stepped back into the street and kept walking.