The silence of the main courtyard was so profound that every stray breeze felt like a heavy sigh against the weathered stone.
Len slowed his pace, emerging from the long shadows of the monolithic pillars to approach the motionless figure.
Astria's Uncle remained with his back turned, his charcoal-grey cloak grazing the stone floor.
His fingers interlaced behind him in a posture of absolute stillness.
Len came to a halt directly before him, his breathing still a rhythmic rasp.
The sapphire brooch on his chest drinking in the fading afternoon light.
The moment Len's shadow touched the hem of his cloak, the Uncle turned with a slow, deliberate grace.
His eyes were like twin glacial pools—still, deep, and unnervingly piercing.
Without even glancing at the ancient watch fastened to his wrist, he shattered the stillness with a voice that resonated like distant thunder.
"How is it that you arrive with such a heavy delay, Len?"
The words carried a physical weight, as if a mountain were leaning against the air.
He tilted his head slightly, his analytical gaze measuring the boy from crown to heel.
"Punctuality is the first lesson of the blood. I have stood here like an unmoving monument awaiting your arrival."
"Do you even grasp the value of the time that has slipped through the cracks?"
Len met those ice-cold eyes, but there was no spark of rebellion in his own.
Instead, he slowly arched his spine and lowered his head, bowing deeply before the elder.
It was a gesture that combined the vulnerability of a child with the ingrained respect of an apprentice.
"Forgive me," Len whispered, his voice low yet remarkably steady as his eyes remained anchored to the cracks in the flagstones.
"Thank you deeply for your patience in waiting for me. I sincerely apologize for the disruption my lateness has caused your peace."
Len's words and the utter sincerity of his bow seemed to draw the tension right out of the atmosphere.
The rigid lines on the Uncle's face, etched like crevices in an ancient cliffside, suddenly softened.
A ghost of a smile—faint and almost imperceptible—tugged at the corners of his mouth.
It was the smile of a predator who finds its prey unexpectedly clever.
He extended a hand toward Len's shoulder but stopped just short of making contact.
"Rise, Len," he said, his tone modulating into something less severe, now laced with a trace of curiosity.
"Such humility from one so young? Tell me, what transpired within those palace walls to tether you for so long?"
"Did my niece... my sovereign, perhaps grant you a lecture of unusual length?"
"Or did a stern scolding cause you to lose your way in the corridors of your mind?"
A mischievous glint now flickered in the Uncle's ancient eyes.
Suggesting he had caught the scent of the playful friction within the bedchamber from miles away.
He watched Len closely, waiting to see if the boy would betray the lingering traces of Astria's silken reprimand.
The vast training ground, stretched out under the open sky, resembled a battlefield.
Where the white sand on the ground shimmered under the afternoon sun.
Stone pillars and training dummies stood like silent sentinels across the expanse.
The Uncle's question still drifted through the thin air.
Len slowly tilted his head up, though his gaze remained anchored to the dust-covered boots of the elder.
He gave a small, rhythmic shake of his head, much like a child trying to veil a tiny mischief.
"No... I didn't get a scolding," Len whispered, twisting the hem of his coat with his small fingers.
"It just... it took a little extra time to get ready. That's why I'm late."
Hearing this innocent defense, the last of the Uncle's sternness seemed to melt away.
A smile touched his lips—one of genuine affection, reminiscent of a doting master.
He raised his hand slowly through the air. Len expected a signal to begin the drills.
But the Uncle's fingers reached further, gently brushing against Len's soft cheek in a tender caress.
"Truly... you are quite endearing, Len," he murmured in a low, affectionate tone.
But the moment the tips of his fingers grazed Len's skin, the atmosphere of the training grounds shifted violently.
The innocent child within Len vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by the instinct of a startled predator.
A strange, electric jolt surged through him. Without a second thought, he snapped his palm upward.
And struck the Uncle's hand away from his face with a sharp, decisive force.
The sound of his reaction echoed off the surrounding stone walls.
Len stood a step back now, his chest heaving with rapid breaths.
That 'cold brilliance' returning to his eyes—the very spark that had been absent just moments ago.
The Uncle's hand remained suspended in mid-air. He looked down at his fingers, still tingling from the strike.
And then slowly straightened his back. His smile was gone, replaced by a deep, contemplative gravity.
He drew himself up to his full, imposing height and looked down into Len's eyes.
Speaking in a voice that was calm yet anchored with authority.
"You are to spend a vast amount of time with me on these grounds from now on, Len."
"This path of training is long, and it requires trust alongside discipline."
"You must begin to accustom yourself to such things... whether you favor the touch or not."
Len said nothing. He simply stood there, his small face now as rigid as the stones of the training yard.
As if he had drawn a wall around himself that even the Uncle would find difficult to scale.
Across the scorching sand of the training grounds, the Uncle's voice resonated like the strike of a deep war drum.
With a brief, calculated flick of his palm, he summoned a uniformed soldier standing at a distance.
The soldier, coated in a fine layer of sweat and dust, hurried forward and snapped to attention.
"Go, and bring a small wooden sword for practice."
The Uncle's command held a resonance that brokered no debate.
The soldier bowed his head in respect and moved toward the weapon racks.
Where various arms of iron, silver, and wood were meticulously arranged.
Among the heavy, lethal blades, his eyes settled on the corner where teakwood swords—carved specifically for young initiates—were kept.
He carefully selected one that was light yet resilient.
He returned and stood beside the Uncle, the wooden blade catching the afternoon light and casting a golden sheen.
"Sir, I have brought the sword," the soldier said, his voice gravelly and his hand steady in the air.
The Uncle scrutinized the wooden blade with his cold, analytical gaze.
His eyes then drifted back to Len, who stood like a stone statue, watching the proceedings.
"Give it to the small child," the Uncle ordered in a quiet tone.
There was a hidden suspense in his voice, as if he were waiting to see how the boy would handle this weight.
The same boy who had just moments ago struck away his affection.
The soldier turned toward Len, dropping to one knee, and extended the wooden sword toward the boy's small hands.
The only sound in the air was the dry rustle of shifting sand.
Len looked at the hilt of the wooden weapon, then raised his eyes to meet the Uncle's gaze, which was now devoid of any smile.