Chapter 11 – The Weight of Virtue

Eidalein – Morning

Elian woke to silence.

Not the cold, hollow kind that echoed after nightmares — but a silence that was soft. 

Whole.

The bed beneath him was impossibly comfortable, draped in silver linens that shimmered faintly with every breath. Warm light filtered through a crystalline arch above, where no sun could be seen — only a sky painted in eternal gold.

For a moment, he almost forgot where he was.

Then he saw the sigil on the back of his left hand, glowing faintly like a memory that refused to fade.

"Right," he whispered to himself. "Still real."

He sat up, dressed in the soft robes left for him at the side of the bed — and opened the door to the quiet corridor beyond. Waiting there, arms crossed and already armored in muted silver robes with a thick leather vest, was a mountain of a man.

Marcus Thorne.

Apostle of Endurance.

And possibly the most intimidating presence Elian had ever seen.

"You're late," Marcus grunted.

"I didn't know I had a call time," Elian muttered.

The man raised a brow, then smirked faintly.

"Good. Mouth still works. That'll be the last thing that's easy today."

They crossed one of Eidalein's long sky-bridges, the clouds parting beneath them. In the training grounds — a vast courtyard of marble set between stone pillars — another man stood waiting, arms folded, boots glowing faintly with golden thread.

Enoch Ruiz, the Apostle of Faith, was tall and lean — less physically imposing than Marcus, but with eyes that burned with something steadier. Like belief turned into iron.

"Morning, newcomer," Enoch said. "Eat anything yet?"

"No."

"Then you'll be hungry and full of pain" Marcus grinned. "Let's begin."

The first hour was about footwork.

No relics. No powers. Just motion.

Marcus had Elian run laps around the courtyard — barefoot — while Enoch watched, calling out directions as the ground beneath them changed.

One moment it was smooth.

The next, it buckled and shifted — illusions forcing Elian to react without overthinking.

"We don't fight with strength," Marcus said. "We fight with endurance. Anyone can throw a punch. Not everyone can still throw one after being dragged through hell."

By the fifth lap, Elian collapsed.

"This is impossible," he gasped.

Enoch crouched beside him and tapped the golden-threaded boots on his own feet.

"You're an Apostle now. Possibility bent the knee the moment your sigil burned through your hand."

Elian looked up, sweat dripping from his jaw.

"What does that even mean?"

"It means you don't get to stop because it hurts," Marcus replied, arms crossed. "You stop when the world is safe. And right now, the world is bleeding."

Then came the sparring.

Enoch stood before him with a wooden staff.

"No Seraphblade. Not yet. You're not ready for it to answer you."

"Great," Elian muttered, raising the dull practice sword Marcus handed him.

He barely saw the strike coming.

With a quick sweep, Enoch knocked the sword from his grip and tapped Elian's forehead.

"Dead."

"What the hell—?!"

"Again."

They repeated this five times. Then ten.

On the eleventh, Elian managed to block. He even countered — briefly — before Enoch slid past his guard and brought him down with a clean twist.

"Better," Enoch said, nodding. "You think fast. You just don't believe in yourself yet."

Elian gritted his teeth and rose again.

The final hour was silence.

They sat at the edge of the Mirror Chapel, breathing slowly.

"Do you know why Faith and Endurance train you?" Marcus asked suddenly.

Elian shook his head.

"Because we don't teach you how to win," Enoch answered. "We teach you how not to fall."

Elian opened his eyes.

The world was still strange.

Still impossible.

But something inside him — raw and trembling — had begun to settle.

Not peace.

Not confidence.

But readiness.

Later, as they parted ways, Enoch offered a hand.

"The Seraphblade will come when you stop running from yourself."

Marcus gave him a nod.

"Tomorrow, we start with real combat. If you survive breakfast."

They left him at the terrace near the Mirror Chapel, alone once again — his hand still burning faintly with light.

Elian looked down at it.

"Come on," he whispered. "I know you're in there."

But the Seraphblade did not answer.

Not yet.