Dawn's Sparring

The clash of wooden staves echoed through the morning mist, pulling Elysia from her exhausted slumber. For a moment, panic gripped her—the sound too reminiscent of battle, of weapons striking armor and flesh. Her calloused fingers reached instinctively for the sword that was her constant companion during campaigns.

Then reality washed over her. These were silken sheets beneath her, not the rough canvas of a field tent. The sounds weren't combat but training—fierce and determined, yet purposeful.

Every muscle protested as Elysia rose. Three months of campaign had left her body a map of aches and half-healed wounds. She crossed to the window overlooking the eastern courtyard, drawn to the source of the sounds that had stolen her desperately needed rest.

In the pale golden light of dawn, Eren and Naia circled each other below. Morning mist swirled around them, lending an otherworldly quality to their dance with wooden staves.

"Three weeks without fail," came Lyra's voice from the doorway. Her scarred daughter leaned against the frame, her good eye watching the siblings with unmistakable pride. "They start before sunrise every day. Even the palace guards have started betting on their matches."

"And who's favored?" Elysia asked, a hint of amusement warming her voice.

Lyra's lips curved into a small smile. "It changes daily. They're evenly matched, in their own ways."

Below, Naia launched into a storm of strikes, her stave blurring as she targeted her sibling's shoulders, knees, ribs—each vulnerable point targeted with precision born of years of training. Eren met each blow with fluid parries, wrists bending like willow branches to redirect the force.

"Naia has the discipline," Sorrel observed, joining them at the window, favoring her bad leg as she always did in the mornings. "But Eren has... something I can't name."

That unnamed quality revealed itself as Eren suddenly transformed defense into attack. Where Naia fought with the structured precision of military training, Eren's movements followed no single tradition. Water-dancing flowed into staff techniques, punctuated by movements that seemed born in the moment.

"It's as if Eren can feel Naia's intentions before she moves," Lyra murmured.

Elysia watched, transfixed. Something fundamental had changed in her prophesied child during her absence. Eren's movements now held a certainty, a connection to something beyond physical combat.

The siblings separated, circling again, breath visible in the cool morning air. Without warning, they lunged simultaneously, meeting with a crack that sent splinters flying from their weapons.

"I need to see this properly," Elysia decided, reaching for her robe.

The three women made their way down to the courtyard, emerging as the sparring intensified. A small gathering of guards and servants watched from a respectful distance, their admiration evident in their stillness.

Eren and Naia had abandoned formal techniques now. Their weapons spun and struck with increasing speed, creating a rhythm that seemed to speak its own language against the stone walls. They communicated without words—through glances, through the subtle tension in shoulders, through an awareness that went beyond sight.

Naia feinted low then redirected her strike toward Eren's temple—a blow that should have connected. Somehow, without looking, Eren bent backward at an impossible angle, the stave passing overhead. In the same heartbeat, Eren dropped, swept Naia's legs, and rose again before Naia even hit the ground.

Appreciative murmurs rippled through the onlookers.

"If our warriors could move like that—" Sorrel began, voice hushed with wonder.

"They can't," Lyra said simply. Not dismissive, just honest. "What we're seeing goes beyond training."

Naia recovered with a fluid roll, snatched up her weapon, and renewed her attack with fresh determination. Her frustration showed in more aggressive tactics—strikes aimed at vulnerable points, feints designed to expose openings, combinations taught only to Moonlight's elite.

Yet Eren anticipated rather than reacted. When Naia executed a disarming technique requiring three precise strikes—one Elysia herself had mastered only after years of practice—Eren seemed to flow around it like water around stone.

"Enough," Elysia called, stepping forward. Both siblings froze instantly, chests heaving. "Impressive work, both of you."

Naia lowered her weapon first, offering the traditional salute of Moonlight's warriors. "Mother. We didn't mean to wake you."

"I'm glad you did," Elysia replied, approaching them. Up close, the changes in both her children were stark. Naia had always been a warrior, but now carried herself with the weary confidence of a veteran. And Eren...

Their eyes met, and Elysia felt recognition ripple through her. Those eyes held knowledge that shouldn't exist in one so young, prophecy or no.

"Your technique has improved," she said to Eren, keeping her tone conversational despite the questions racing through her mind.

Eren smiled, twirling the stave casually. "Naia's an excellent teacher."

"And you're impossible to teach," Naia countered, affection softening her words. "Half of what you do contradicts everything I've been trained to do."

"Perhaps what you've been trained needs reconsideration," Lyra suggested, studying Eren carefully. "Those movements would be devastating in real combat."

"They already have been," Eren said quietly.

The courtyard fell silent. The remaining onlookers, sensing something private unfolding, quietly withdrew.

"What do you mean?" Elysia asked, though part of her already knew.

Eren twirled the stave again, this time replicating with perfect precision a pattern Elysia had seen used by Thornvale's elite guards during their third assault.

"I see them in my dreams," Eren explained, voice soft but steady. "Elena's warriors—how they move, how they think. Sometimes I'm inside their minds, feeling what they feel. I've been showing Naia their methods, and how to counter them."

Sorrel and Lyra exchanged alarmed glances, but Elysia felt a dangerous hope kindling within her chest.

"How long?" she asked.

"Since you left for the campaign," Eren said. "At first, just fragments—scattered images and feelings. But they've grown clearer, more detailed."

Naia moved closer to her sibling, protective despite being younger. "I've been helping Eren make sense of them, use them in our training."

"Show me," Elysia demanded suddenly, gesturing to the staves. "Show me what else you've learned."

Lyra's hand came to rest on her mother's arm. "Later, perhaps," she suggested firmly. "They've been at this since before dawn. Even the most gifted warriors need rest."

Elysia released a breath, recognizing the wisdom in her daughter's words. This revelation—this unexpected connection to their enemy—deserved careful thought.

"You're right," she conceded. She turned to Eren, whose silver hair clung to sweat-dampened skin. "Go and bathe. We'll talk more afterward."

Eren nodded. "Yes, Mother."

As her children departed, Elysia remained in the courtyard, her mind alive with possibilities. The prophecy had never specified how Eren would change their world—perhaps this strange connection was only the beginning.

"What are you thinking?" Sorrel asked, recognizing the calculating look in her mother's eyes.

Elysia watched Eren's retreating form, noting how naturally grace and power flowed together in her child's movements.

"I'm thinking," she replied slowly, "that perhaps our defeat wasn't an ending, but a beginning."