The Sky Within - 01

The Argent Sanctum's training yard was a crucible of frost and steel, its stones slick with ice that glittered like shattered glass under the pale morning light. Two months of predawn drills had etched grooves into the ground, marking the paths of countless blades and boots.

Aden stood at the center, his breath curling into ghostly plumes, facing three Black Knights. Their armor, blackened and pitted from years of combat, absorbed the weak sunlight, making them look like voids against the dawn. Ser Varek loomed at the edge of the yard, his scarred arms crossed, his lone eye a sliver of flint in the gloom. 

"Begin," Varek growled, the word sharp as a whipcrack. 

The first knight surged forward, sword slicing a silver arc through the frigid air. Aden parried, the impact reverberating up his arms like a tolling bell. Before he could recover, the second knight swung a spiked mace low, its chain rattling like a serpent's warning.

Aden pivoted, but the third knight's gauntleted fist hammered into his ribs. A sickening crack echoed—bone or armor, he couldn't tell. He staggered, iron-rich blood flooding his mouth. 

"Weak!" Varek's voice cut through the haze.

"The Vasco don't stagger—they devour!" 

Aden spat a glob of crimson into the dirt, the metallic tang sharp on his tongue. His hands, wrapped in linen long stained rust-brown, trembled as he tightened his grip on the practice sword.

The Black Knights circled, their movements synchronized, a predator's dance honed over decades. Their auras pressed against him—cold, suffocating, the weight of their experience a living thing. 

He lunged again, shadows flickering at the edges of his vision. The Way of Fire whispered in his veins, a ghostly pull guiding his blade. Wood cracked against obsidian plate.

A knight's visor splintered, revealing a bloodied snarl beneath. The man stumbled back, but Aden didn't relent. He drove forward, strikes precise, brutal, until the knight collapsed with a guttural curse. 

"Again," Varek ordered, his voice colder than the frost clinging to the stones. 

The sun hung merciless in the sky, bleaching the training yard to a cracked wasteland. Heat rippled off the stones, warping the air like a mirage. Aden's tunic clung to his skin, soaked through with sweat and the coppery stench of old blood.

Ser Varek paced around him, a live steel blade glinting in his gnarled hand. The Black Knights watched from the shade, visors raised, their faces unreadable masks of scars and disdain. 

"Tempest," Varek commanded, blade raised. 

Aden moved. The whirlwind technique was a storm given form—footwork precise as a falcon's dive, strikes flowing like wildfire.

Steel met steel in a shower of sparks, the clangor echoing off the Sanctum's walls. Varek's blade was a viper, probing for weakness, but Aden's defenses held. 

"Too slow!" The old warrior's sword grazed Aden's collarbone, parting skin with surgical precision. Blood welled, hot and insistent. "The Vasco don't hesitate!" 

Aden adjusted, channeling the sting into focus. His strikes sharpened, each movement a calculated risk. When Varek feinted left, Aden anticipated, twisting into a counterstrike that forced the warrior back half a step.

For a heartbeat, the yard fell silent. Even the Black Knights stiffened, their gloved hands tightening on their weapons. 

Varek's eye narrowed, but he said nothing. Aden pressed the advantage, driving the older man toward the edge of the yard. Sweat stung his eyes, his muscles screaming, but he didn't relent—until Varek's blade hooked under his guard, disarming him with a flick of the wrist. The sword clattered to the stones. 

"Again," Varek grunted, though the word lacked its usual venom. 

Aden retrieved his blade. He trained until the sun dipped below the battlements, until his hands were raw meat, blisters split and weeping. 

The Black Knights retreated first, their disdain tempered by unease. 

Ser Varke lingered longest, his gaze lingering on the faint crimson flicker in Aden's eyes.