Blades of Flame, Shadows of Blood

The Siegfried castle grounds were quiet before dawn.

Cool mists rolled over the training fields, softening the stone walls and gardens with a ghostly sheen. Torchlight flickered lazily across the sandstone yard where Cain stood alone, katana drawn, its curved edge humming with restrained heat. He moved slowly, each breath in rhythm with the blade's arc, as though dancing to a silent drumbeat.

"Your mind is too tight," Laurifer whispered. "Let your instincts move. Fire is not a chain. It's a rhythm."

Cain exhaled, relaxing his grip.

The Ashen Fang moved again—this time smoother, cleaner. His footwork followed naturally, spiraling with his Essence. The blade shimmered faintly, leaving behind afterimages of embers in its wake.

It had been four days since the incident with Beatrix Oriana. Four days of silence from her, four days of discreet monitoring, and four days of brutal, unrelenting training under Aildris Siegfried.

Aildris claimed he was being merciful.

Cain disagreed.

"You're still thinking too much," came Aildris's voice from behind.

Cain didn't stop.

"I'm meant to think," he replied, sheathing the blade with a soft click.

Aildris tilted his head, arms crossed. "You're meant to kill faster than the thought finishes forming. You're not a scholar, Cain. You're a weapon. Don't dull yourself second-guessing your edge."

Cain turned to face him. "A weapon still needs a hand to wield it wisely."

The playful glint in Aildris's eyes dimmed slightly. He stepped forward, drawing his own blade—a heavy greatsword pulsing with volcanic runes. Unlike Cain's elegant katana, Aildris's weapon looked like it could cleave mountains in half.

"Then let's see if you've sharpened your wisdom."

Their sparring began without warning. Aildris lunged forward, blade descending like a burning comet. Cain sidestepped, Ashen Fang slicing upward to redirect the force, the impact sending a tremor through the ground.

Hellfang watched silently from the shadows beneath a nearby tree, his crimson eyes flicking between the two.

Cain moved fluidly—ducking, weaving, his katana flashing in quick, precise slashes. He didn't overpower Aildris. He couldn't. But he didn't need to.

He adapted.

When Aildris switched to one-handed attacks, Cain matched with bursts of fire from his palm, countering power with agility. When the elder Siegfried unleashed a ring of molten Essence, Cain responded with a burst of lightning, the crackling arc slicing through the barrier like silk.

BOOM!

The clash sent a shockwave rippling through the mist. The castle guards turned from afar, watching with thinly veiled awe.

Then, suddenly, Cain stopped moving.

His blade hovered inches from Aildris's throat.

A beat passed. Two.

Then Aildris laughed—booming and free. He stepped back, clapping Cain on the shoulder. "There it is. The Tyrant blooms."

Cain allowed himself a breath. Sweat clung to his brow, but his expression remained unreadable.

"You're still holding back," Aildris added, tone more serious now. "But I can feel it. That pressure in your strikes. The intent to kill." He lowered his sword. "When it's time, Cain… will you be ready?"

Cain glanced at his katana.

"No," he said.

Aildris blinked. "No?"

Cain lifted his eyes. "I'll never be ready. I'll only become. I don't need readiness. I need resolve."

A moment of silence stretched between them—then Aildris grinned. "You really do talk like a Tyrant."

As the sun finally pierced the mist, golden light stretched across the field.

Just then, a presence approached.

Beatrix Oriana.

She walked with her head bowed, metal gauntlets unfastened at her waist. Her armor had dulled, and the defiance in her once-proud posture was now replaced by cold calculation.

"I came to report," she said quietly, her voice steady but without venom.

Cain turned slightly. "Speak."

"I intercepted a communication—disguised in spellscript. My father sent it to someone posing as a professor at Mystic Falls. The directive was simple: 'Observe the boy who walks with shadows. If confirmed, bind him. If failed… burn the school.'"

Aildris's face turned cold.

Cain didn't flinch.

"He suspects you," Beatrix continued. "And he's not the only one. The message was laced with a code used by the Valentine house. The Blood Sovereign may already be watching."

Cain nodded once.

"I see."

Beatrix looked up, her eyes narrowing. "What do you want me to do?"

Cain sheathed his katana. "Remain bound. Continue acting like you hate me. Keep feeding me information. The moment your father acts again… I want to know."

She hesitated. Then gave a crisp nod. "Understood."

She turned to leave—but paused, just once.

"I didn't choose this… But I'll follow your orders. Even if you burn the world."

She vanished into the mist.

Cain stood silent.

Aildris gave a low whistle. "She's dangerous."

Cain didn't reply.

Instead, his thoughts drifted—north, across mountains, to Falmouth. To Valentine.

To the blood-hungry hand that had helped slay his family.

He turned to Aildris.

"Tomorrow," he said, "I want to train with real fire."