Chapter 4: Whispers of the Flame

Part One: The Return

Three years had passed since Sylvara returned to the Dragon Empire. Time had not dulled her resolve—it had only sharpened it.

Now thirteen, Sylvara trained relentlessly. Her mornings began with sword drills. Her afternoons were consumed by arcane studies and meditation to connect with the Silver Dragon's soul within her. Evenings, if she had any energy left, were spent reading her mother's old scrolls or sitting silently by her chamber window, watching the stars.

Kaelen Blackfyre, now fourteen, was her constant sparring partner and closest friend. They had become a formidable duo—him with unmatched discipline, her with sheer instinct and raw power.

That morning, the sun filtered through the high arches of the palace courtyard, casting golden light on the smooth stone. Sylvara and Kaelen stood opposite each other, wooden swords raised.

Their blades clashed in a quick flurry—strike, parry, twist, counter.

Kaelen stepped back and smirked. "You've become more skilled," he said, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead. "With both the sword... and the Silver Dragon. Your aura feels steadier than it did even a month ago."

Sylvara lowered her sword, breathing evenly. "Getting more skilled is not enough for me," she said quietly, eyes intense. "Not when my father is still... where he is."

Kaelen's expression softened. He knew better than to offer comfort she wouldn't accept.

Just then, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the courtyard. The head maid bowed. "Your Highness, Queen Virella has arrived. She's waiting in the guest hall."

Sylvara's eyes lit up. "Prepare clothes," she instructed the maids, then turned to Kaelen. "Let's continue later."

---

An hour later, Sylvara entered the guest hall, now dressed in a flowing gown of moon-silver and deep blue, her hair braided with threads of starlight.

Queen Virella stood waiting, radiant as always. Her presence seemed to hush the very air in the room.

"My dearest girl," she said, arms open.

Sylvara rushed into the embrace. "Aunt Virella."

The Queen gently cupped her face, inspecting her like a mother seeing her child after a long absence. "You've grown taller... and sharper. There's fire in your eyes."

"I missed you," Sylvara said softly.

"And I, you. Your cousins send their love, and your uncle too. Vaelen still brags that you're the only one who ever beat him in archery."

Sylvara laughed. "That was once."

They talked for hours, reminiscing and catching up. Virella listened to every detail of Sylvara's training, her struggles, her progress. When Sylvara mentioned her deepening connection with the Silver Dragon, the Queen's expression turned more serious.

"Control is good," she said, "but do not lose yourself in it. The dragon is a part of you—but not all of you."

Sylvara nodded, absorbing every word.

When their meeting ended, Sylvara changed back into her training clothes and returned to the courtyard, hoping to get a few more rounds in with Kaelen before dusk.

But something unexpected caught her eye.

At the far end of the training field, near a grove of flame-trees, stood a man she didn't recognize.

He was old—his silver-white hair fell past his shoulders, tied loosely with a simple leather band. He wore a dark traveler's robe, weathered by time and storm. His eyes, though… his eyes were like polished steel—ancient and sharp.

He watched her with quiet intensity.

Sylvara approached slowly.

"You've got good form," he said, not taking his eyes off her.

She blinked. "Who are you?"

He tilted his head slightly. "You're better than most I've seen. But you're holding back. You fight with purpose, but not with truth."

Before she could reply, he turned and began to walk away.

"Wait!" she called, stepping forward—but the man was already gone, vanishing into the shadows beyond the stone arch.

---

Part Two: The Master Returns

Still caught in a haze of confusion, Sylvara made her way quickly to the Commander's war room. The heavy wooden door was half-open. Commander Blackfyre stood by the window, deep in thought.

"Commander," she said, stepping inside.

He turned. "What is it, Sylvara?"

"There was a man," she said. "An old man, near the edge of the training field. He said I was holding back. Then he walked away before I could ask who he was."

Commander Blackfyre stared at her for a long moment, then let out a low chuckle. "He's still the same."

"You know him?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

"I do," he said. "That man... is my master. And your father's as well."

Sylvara's mouth fell slightly open. "He's the one who trained my father?"

The Commander nodded. "Yes. He is one of the greatest swordmasters to ever live. He taught Emperor Valtheron everything he knows. Helped him rise from a young prince into a legend."

She sat down slowly, absorbing the weight of the revelation.

"He left after your father became emperor," Commander Blackfyre continued. "Said he had learned enough to teach for a lifetime, but he needed to wander, to search for what was missing in his own sword."

Sylvara looked toward the window. "And now... he's back."

Blackfyre gave her a knowing look. "Dragons always return when they're meant to."

Sylvara stood. "Can he be my master? Will he train me?"

The Commander crossed his arms. "You'll have to ask him yourself. But be warned—it won't be easy. He only teaches those he deems worthy."

Her voice was quiet but determined. "I'll prove that I am."

The Commander smiled. "Then you'd better be ready. If you truly want to become a swordmaster, this will be the beginning... of a very different kind of training."