In the years that followed, the gentle lull of Arion's early childhood gave way to a life of ceaseless rigor.
The calm days were gone, replaced by the iron rhythm of discipline. His mornings began before the sun rose, and his nights ended in silence—muscles aching, pride often bruised, and sleep more of a surrender than a choice.
Commander Marius, ever the stern sentinel, and Lord Sued, father and mentor, saw to his training with the rigor of smiths forging a sword from raw ore.
Their methods were ruthless, their standards inhuman. Marius barked like a wolf and struck like a hammer. Sued, quiet and severe, expected nothing short of perfection.
Swords, spears, grappling techniques—every form of martial instruction was driven into him with merciless regularity.
There were no shortcuts, no kindnesses given to his station.
In fact, his noble blood earned him twice the suffering. "You must not match the knights," Lord Sued had once told him. "You must surpass them."
And yet, amid the agony, one sanctuary remained: his mother's study.
There, beneath hanging lanterns and walls lined with books, Lady Ariana guided him through the mysteries of magic.
Her voice was soft, her gestures elegant. Her teachings were laced with philosophy and restraint. Unlike the physical torment of the yard, here he was allowed to wonder, to feel, to breathe.
She taught him the cost of power—not just its danger, but its burden. And perhaps because of her, he never sought it recklessly.
Those hours were sacred. They kept him from breaking entirely.
Still, it was not enough. There were many days he tried to run.
He would sneak through kitchen doors, dash past the stables, and vanish into the nearby woods. Each time, he was caught—inevitably.
Whether it was a bloodhound's nose, a vigilant knight, or simply Commander Marius's uncanny instincts, his efforts failed.
When he returned, punishment awaited. Not with whips, but with weight.
They made him carry logs across the estate until his back gave out. Made him climb cliffs where even mountain goats hesitated. Forced him to swim across half-frozen rivers that clawed at his skin like knives. Every escape made the mountain taller.
He stopped trying. Not because he gave in—but because he learned to endure.
It was on one such day, under a sky bleached to dull grey, that the sixteen-year-old Arion stood again in the training courtyard, twin swords in hand
He stood tall, lean, a young man tempered like steel. His face was composed, but his eyes betrayed years of strain.
Before him stood a knight clad in worn steel, a veteran of countless battles. This was no idle spar. Lord Sued stood nearby, arms folded, his gaze unreadable.
The clash of weapons rang like music in the morning air. Arion fought with two blades, moving in tight, precise arcs.
He dodged, deflected, and countered with the grace of a dancer, his limbs recalling every punishment that had shaped them. His opponent did not yield ground easily, retaliating with sweeping strikes and bursts of elemental energy. Lightning cracked; fire roared.
A lesser youth might have faltered, but Arion matched each blow with a calculated response.
Sweat clung to his brow, and blood welled from a nick along his shoulder, but he did not stop. He could not. Pride, yes—but also something deeper. A need to prove that the suffering had meaning.
Lord Sued observed in silence. He had seen enough duels to know this was no ordinary spar. His son was learning not just to fight, but to think in the chaos of battle—to command his emotions, to choose his timing, and to understand when to strike and when to yield.
As the spar reached its crescendo, the knight stepped back, inhaled sharply, and roared
His body lit with a violet aura—mana swelling like a storm. His spear now glowed with raw force. With a cry, he hurled it straight at Arion.
Arion's eyes widened. The projectile sang through the air, and there was no time to dodge.
He dropped both swords, slammed them into the ground, and raised his hands high.
A gleaming white barrier bloomed before him, thin and radiant like the skin of a pearl. The spear struck with immense force. The shield held—briefly. Then cracks splintered outward like lightning across ice, and the magic shattered.
The explosion threw Arion backward. Dust rose. He hit the ground hard and slid several feet.
Groaning, he sat up and muttered under his breath, "That's going to leave a mark…"
"You said you would hold back," he muttered, brushing debris from his tunic.
"There is no holding back when your life's at stake, young master," the knight replied with a knowing grin. There was no mockery in his voice, only the quiet pride of one who had tested and tempered another's mettle.
It stung, but Arion understood. It was another lesson—painful, perhaps, but necessary.
Many of the knights present watched with narrowed eyes. Arion's progress was a thing both admired and resented.
He had climbed swiftly—too swiftly, some whispered—becoming near-equal to men thrice his age. Yet none could deny the effort he had put in. They had seen him fall, and rise again, each time stronger than before. He bore the bruises of discipline and the scars of defiance.
He was his father's son, through and through.
Lord Sued stepped forward. "You did well."
A small smile flickered on Arion's face. "Not well enough," he replied, glancing toward his opponent—not bitter, just thoughtful.
"Go clean yourself," Sued said. "Then return."
Arion blinked. "Why?"
His father only gave him a cryptic look. "You'll see."