Fires of Ancestry

Without warning, Kaden lunged forward, the wooden sword slicing through the air as he aimed straight for Caelith.

Kaden moved like a storm. Without warning, his wooden sword carved a crescent through the frost-laden air, aimed not just at Caelith's body but his resolve.

 The strike landed with a crack that travelled up Caelith's spine, jolting his teeth. He staggered, the taste of iron blooming on his tongue, but instinct yanked his blade upward just as Kaden's second swing descended.

Clack.

The impact numbed Caelith's fingers. Pain lanced through his wrist—a white-hot reminder of his fragility.

"Good," Kaden snarled, though his grin was wolfish. "You've got the reflexes of a cornered rat."

Another strike. Another parry. 

Caelith's arms burned as he backpedaled, boots skidding over gravel. Kaden's onslaught was a blur of shadow and force; each blow a hammer to anvil, relentless.

 The cold air seared Caelith's lungs, but worse was the heat of humiliation—the memory of the guards' laughter, their voices sharp as knives. 

'Worthless. Nothing.'

Caelith twisted, ribs screaming as the wooden edge grazed his side. 

He bit back a cry, sweat stinging his eyes. Not again. Not this time. Lunging, his blade arced wildly, but Kaden sidestepped like smoke. A kick to his knee sent him sprawling.

"Pathetic," Kaden spat, looming over him. "You're still flailing like a child."

Caelith's grip tightened on the sword. Bruises throbbed in time with his pulse—his mother's face flickered in his mind, her wrists mottled violet from that fucker Alaric's grip. Generation. Refinement. Manifestation. 

The mantra coiled in his chest, a spark against the dark.

He surged upward, sword slicing a raw, untamed arc. Kaden blocked, but the force paused his advance. Surprise flickered in his eyes.

"Better," he growled, though his tone sharpened. "But rage without control is just noise."

Their blades clashed again, a staccato rhythm echoing into the night. Caelith's muscles screamed, but he leaned into the pain, letting it hone him. Kaden's footwork—fluid, precise—burned into his vision. Shift. Pivot. Slide. The Ivalian forms blurred with instinct until his body moved without thought.

A feint. A twist. Caelith's sword lashed upward, grazing Kaden's shoulder.

For a heartbeat, the world stilled.

Kaden's lips peeled into a feral grin. "Now you're learning."

He exploded forward, no longer a mentor but a tempest. Wood met wood in a cacophony that drowned even Caelith's ragged breaths.

 A strike slipped past his guard—crack—splitting his lip. Another slammed his thigh. Yet with every blow, the mana around him writhed, a caged beast clawing toward the light.

"Focus!" Kaden's voice cut through the haze. "You're not a servant. Not a tool. Fight like you mean it!"

Caelith roared, raw and guttural. His next strike wasn't skill—it was fury given form. Kaden blocked, but the force shuddered through both their blades.

Clash. Retreat. Advance.

The courtyard became a crucible. 

Caelith's vision narrowed to the dance of steel and shadow, every parry a rebellion, every step a vow. When Kaden's final strike came—a brutal overhead slash—Caelith dropped low, gravel biting his palms, and swung upward.

The swords collided.

Silence.

Kaden stood frozen, Caelith's blade trembling against his own. Slowly, he stepped back, chest heaving. A trickle of blood marked where the wooden edge had kissed his jaw.

"...You'll survive," he muttered, grudging respect threading his voice. "Maybe."

Caelith collapsed to his knees, trembling. His hands were raw, his body a mosaic of pain. But beneath the exhaustion simmered something new—a spark, small but unyielding.

Kaden tossed the waterskin at Caelith's chest, his breathing steady, not a hair out of place. While Caelith slumped onto the moss-crusted bench, trembling and streaked with dirt and blood, Kaden stood tall—his leathers pristine, his skin unmarred. The spar might as well have been a stroll.

"Drink," Kaden ordered, his voice cool. "You look like a corpse."

Caelith fumbled with the waterskin, his fingers shaking too violently to grip it properly. The water spilled down his chin, mixing with sweat and grime. Kaden watched, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

"Pathetic," he muttered, though without malice—a simple fact.

Caelith's knuckles whitened around the skin. He'd swung with everything he had, every strike deflected or dodged. Not once had his blade touched Kaden.

"Principles of mana circulation," Kaden said, pacing slowly around the bench. "Recite them."

Caelith stared at the ground. "Three core principles. Generation: Awakening dormant mana veins through the body. Unlike the Blessed, who are born with attuned veins. Refinement: Purifying raw mana to prevent clogging or rupture. Manifestation: Focusing intent to—"

"Enough." Kaden stopped behind him, a shadow at his back. "You memorized a book. Congratulations. Now tell me—" his voice dropped, "—why cling to rules written for sheep?"

Caelith stiffened. "The Manual's guidelines exist for safety."

Kaden barked a laugh. "Safety? You think the wolves out there care about your safety?" He leaned down, lips near Caelith's ear. "I've seen men burn their veins to cinders for a single breath of power. They died screaming—but not before they tore their enemies apart. That's reality."

Caelith's throat bobbed. "They were fools."

"And you're a corpse who hasn't stopped breathing yet." Kaden straightened. "carve your veins. Now."

Caelith's hands trembled. Generation. He closed his eyes, reaching inward—but the spark he sought dissolved like smoke.

"Faster," Kaden snapped.

Sweat dripped down Caelith's neck. Refinement. He reached out to the phantom energy, trying to guide it into alignment, gritting his teeth against the searing pressure in his mind.

"Weak," Kaden hissed.

Manifestation. Caelith's lungs burned. He envisioned fire, ice, force—anything—but his body buckled. A guttural cry tore from him as he collapsed forward, retching vomit onto the gravel.

Kaden stepped back, pristine boots avoiding the mess. "Again."

"I can't—"

"Again."

Caelith tried. The backlash hit harder this time—muscles spasming, vision blurring. Blood trickled from his nose.

Kaden watched, impassive. "You're thinking like a scholar. Fight like a rat. Bite."

"I'm… trying…"

"Try harder."

By the fifth attempt, Caelith's body gave out. He lay on his side, trembling, blood smeared across his lips. Kaden crouched beside him, tilting his chin up with the toe of his boot.

"Tomorrow," he said, voice devoid of pity. "You'll fail again. And again. Until you don't."

Caelith lay sprawled in the dirt, chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven breaths. His ribs ached with every inhale, his limbs trembling from exhaustion. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose, mixing with the dust beneath him. His wooden training sword lay useless at his side, its surface battered from his failed defense.

Across from him, Kaden stood unmoving, watching. He didn't offer a hand. Didn't move to help. He just stood there, his dark eyes unreadable.

"You have to remember, Caelith," he said finally, his voice flat. "Your siblings. Your father. The nobles in this kingdom. They've been blessed."

His tone carried no sympathy, no cruelty—just fact.

He exhaled sharply and shook his head. "And you? You weren't."

Caelith wiped the blood from his lips, pulse hammering in his ears. "Yeah, I got that part." He forced himself upright, his arms shaking under his weight. "But what does that actually mean?"

Kaden's brows lifted slightly. "You don't know?"

Caelith's jaw tightened. "I thought I'd figure it out after I was blessed." A bitter laugh scraped its way up his throat. "But I never got that far."

For a moment, Kaden just stared. Then he let out a sharp breath. "Tch... Of course, they didn't bother to tell you. Why waste an explanation on a bastard?"

He stepped back, crossing his arms as his gaze turned distant.

 "Listen up, rat. Blessings aren't just some fancy light show at a ceremony. They're a contract. A god's mark, carved into your very veins."

Caelith frowned. "A contract?"

Kaden nodded. "Exactly. A noble's 'divine right' isn't just politics—it's literal. When they're blessed, their bodies change. Their mana flows differently. Strength, speed, perception—everything gets amplified based on the god's influence."

He tilted his head toward the sky. "The royal family? The God of War marks their bloodline.

 That's why no one challenges them." His eyes flicked back to Caelith. "The Stormonts?" His lip curled. "Fire-worshiping bastards, every last one. Their blessings let them control fire instinctively—it doesn't just give them magic; it rewrites their bodies to wield it better.

Ever wonder why your brother moves like he's untouchable?"

Caelith's stomach knotted. He had never thought about it that way before, but it made sense. He had seen the way Vaerin fought once—fluid, effortless, like his body had been built for battle because it had.

He clenched his fists. "But blessings are rare," he muttered. "Right?"

Kaden scoffed. "For commoners? Sure. But the "great" 5 noble families?" He smirked, but there was no humor in it. "Blessings are passed down like an inheritance in the five great families. It's not just luck—it's blood. That's why they act like gods themselves. Because in their eyes?" He leaned forward slightly. "They are."

The five noble families. The backbone of the Ignirian Empire. Each one wields a unique, refined fire—flames not just born of mana but of lineage, shaped by generations of divine favor.

And those five families are…