It had been quite a while since Kaelen and the others had brought back the Shadowspawn. Things were going back to the way it had been before that.
The clang of steel rang out in the Order's training yard, sharp and steady as a heartbeat. Kaelen's blade met his opponent's again and again, sparks flaring in the dim winter light. Around the ring, recruits gathered, their shouts echoing against the stone walls.
Kaelen pivoted, ducked beneath a sweeping strike, and drove his shoulder into the instructor's chest. The man staggered back, surprise flickering across his scarred face. Kaelen pressed the advantage, sword cutting high, then low. At last, with a twist of his wrist, he sent the instructor's weapon clattering to the ground.
The crowd erupted in cheers and gasps.
Kaelen stood over his opponent, chest heaving, steam rising from his breath in the cold air. He didn't raise his blade in triumph — only lowered it, steady and certain.
The instructor retrieved his weapon with a grunt, eyes narrowing. "You've sharpened, boy. Too quickly."
Kaelen only nodded.
From the edge of the yard, Seralyn leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Maeve sat beside her, legs curled under her, sketching idle runes in the dirt with a stick. Deren was perched on a barrel, whistling low.
"Two days," Seralyn said. "Then we leave for the tournament."
Maeve frowned. "You sound almost eager."
"I am," Seralyn replied. "We've fought together, bled together. Now we get to see what we're really worth."
Deren grinned. "I'm worth at least five other Orders. Ten, if they let me drink before the matches."
Maeve snorted. "You'd trip over your own sword before round one."
Their laughter carried across the yard, but Kaelen barely heard it. He cleaned his blade, eyes lingering on the scars gouged into its surface. In the firelight of his memory, the shadowspawn's claws scraped across steel, the monster's eyes burning with hunger. Even now, he felt the weight of that fight, the promise that worse lay ahead.
That evening, the four sat together in the mess hall. Long tables stretched from wall to wall, crowded with recruits. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and bread, the clatter of plates and laughter filling the hall.
But at their corner table, the talk was quieter, more focused.
Maeve twirled a strand of hair around her finger. "Do you think the tournament will actually matter? They'll crown a victor, sure, but what then?"
Deren tore into a loaf of bread, speaking around a mouthful. "Glory, bragging rights, a chance to prove we're the best branch. What more could you want?"
"I want the truth," Maeve said flatly. "About why the Order exists, about why the shadowspawn are back. Do you think they'll tell us any of that at a tournament?"
Seralyn's eyes were cool. "The Order's not built on truths. It's built on discipline and silence. Don't expect answers."
Kaelen stared into his cup, the firelight rippling across the liquid surface. He remembered the elders' lecture weeks ago, the way they had spoken of the gods as if every word were a prayer and a warning. He remembered Maeve's quiet defiance, her refusal to bow her head.
And he remembered Lyra — her laughter echoing in the hidden library, her kiss beneath the earth before the world fell apart.
He set the cup down. "Answers or not, we'll make our own."
For a moment, the others fell silent. Then Deren raised his bread in mock salute. "To Ash-boy, philosopher of the Order."
Kaelen almost smiled. Almost.
Two days left. The instructors pushed them harder than ever, as though preparing them not just for the tournament but for something greater. Drills at dawn, sparring until their arms ached, lessons in tactics and endurance that left them staggering back to their beds.
On the final night, Kaelen found himself in the yard again, sword in hand, facing yet another instructor. This one was older, slower, but his blade carried decades of experience. Their duel was long, drawn-out, each strike measured.
At last, Kaelen forced him back, blade pressing to the man's chest. The instructor's eyes flickered — surprise, then respect.
"You'll do," the man said. "More than do."
Kaelen lowered his weapon. The yard was empty now, save for the torchlight flickering across stone. He stood there for a long moment, listening to the silence.
Footsteps approached. Seralyn stepped out of the shadows, bow slung over her shoulder.
"You've changed," she said simply.
Kaelen turned to her. "So have you."
She gave a small, almost wistful smile. "We all have. The forest, the spawn… it burned something out of us."
"Or lit something," Kaelen said.
She studied him, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're not the same boy who first stumbled into the Order. Whatever drives you now… hold onto it. It makes you dangerous."
Kaelen looked down at his hands, calloused and scarred, wrapped around the hilt of his blade. Dangerous. The word lingered.
Seralyn turned to leave, then paused. "Two days, Kaelen. Don't let your ghosts follow you into the ring."
And then she was gone, leaving him alone beneath the torches.
The morning before departure, the Masters gathered the recruits in the central hall. Their voices carried across the stone chamber, solemn and commanding.
"You will represent this branch of the Order," one declared. "Not only your own strength, but the honor of all who trained you. Fight with discipline. Fight with unity. And remember — the eyes of the world are upon you."
Whispers rippled through the recruits. Some trembled with excitement, others with fear. Kaelen only listened, steady, his jaw set.
When the gathering ended, Deren stretched with a groan. "Eyes of the world, eh? Better hope the world's nearsighted."
Maeve swatted him lightly. "Don't embarrass us."
"Me? Embarrass? I'll be the star of the show."
Seralyn's expression was unreadable. "Just don't get yourself killed."
That night, as the others drifted to sleep, Kaelen lay awake in the barracks. The air was cold, the wind howling outside. He stared at the ceiling beams, memories flickering like shadows — his father's stories, Lyra's smile, the hiss of the shadowspawn's breath.
Tomorrow, they would leave for the tournament. Tomorrow, he would step into an arena not just to fight, but to be measured, judged, tested before all.
He closed his eyes, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Not for glory. Not for the Order.
For survival. For truth. For the fire still smoldering within.
Sleep came slowly, restless and thin, but it came. And when dawn broke, Kaelen was ready.