The clack of wooden blades echoed across the Duskmere training grounds. Late afternoon light bled across the pale blue clouds above, casting long shadows as Carter stood opposite Ethan with his arms folded, a sharp glint in his eye.
"Again," Carter instructed.
Ethan exhaled and reset his stance. His blade rose diagonally across his body, just as Carter had taught him. Every move was precise his footwork angled, his grip firm, his posture textbook perfect.
He stepped forward and executed the three-strike combo. Parry. Twist. Overhead slash.
Carter nodded slightly. "Better. You're learning."
But Ethan didn't feel better.
The sword felt heavy not in weight, but in movement. Like he was dragging something unnatural through the air. His body hit every mark, sure, but the motions felt distant, as if someone else was moving through him. Every swing required too much thought, too much deliberation. Nothing flowed.
He tried to shake it off.
"You're thinking again," Carter said, catching it instantly. "Swordplay is instinct. You've got the form down. Trust it."
Ethan nodded, forcing a grin. "Right. Just getting used to it."
Carter gave a small shrug and stepped back. "You'll get there. The Duskmere style isn't just technique, it's discipline. Control. Grace in the blade. That takes time."
Control, Ethan repeated in his head.
He glanced down at the training sword in his hands. It was smooth, balanced, elegant. Every movement Carter made with it looked like a flowing dance. Ethan's own attempts felt more like a school recital memorized steps, no rhythm. He could replicate the style. But it didn't feel like his.
Still, he kept going. Keep swinging. Kept nodding when Carter corrected him. Kept pretending it didn't bother him.
Because maybe it was just him. Maybe he just needed more time.
So he swallowed the doubt.
And kept fighting like someone he wasn't.
The session wound down as the sun dipped lower across the horizon. Carter called an end to the training with a sharp clap of his hands.
"That's enough for today. Rest up," he said, his tone steady. "You'll need it."
Ethan wiped sweat from his brow. "Need it for what?"
Carter smirked faintly. "Tomorrow morning, you'll be participating in a joint training exercise. A sparring match. You and Ceris will face off against Sylviane and Sayo."
Ethan blinked. "Wait what?"
"Consider it a test of coordination between Candidate and Kingmaker," Carter added, already turning to leave. "And a chance to see how far you've come."
Ethan looked down at his hands, still gripping the practice blade. A test, huh? He wasn't sure if he was ready.
Especially if he had to keep pretending.
But Ethan didn't stop. Even after Carter left and the training grounds began to empty, he stayed behind. He switched to basic conditioning drills, push-ups, shadow steps, balanced footwork. Sweat ran down his brow as dusk settled in.
He wasn't trying to impress anyone. He just didn't want to stop moving. Stopping meant thinking.
By the time he returned to his room, the sky outside had turned indigo. Ethan dropped his practice blade near the doorway and slumped down on the edge of his bed.
Omen's faint glow pulsed from where the weapon lay coiled in its sealed form across the wall.
"You're quiet tonight," Ethan muttered, running a hand through his damp hair.
A beat passed. Then came Omen's familiar, dry voice from the shadows:
"And you're troubled. Again."
Ethan let out a breath, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. "It's this whole sword style thing. The Duskmere method it's clean, sharp, efficient. I get why it works. But it just doesn't… resonate."
"Because it isn't you," Omen replied.
"Yeah," Ethan muttered. "Feels like I'm trying to wear someone else's skin. Carter says it's all about control and grace but every time I swing, I feel like I'm holding back instead of breaking through."
Omen chuckled faintly. "Then perhaps you weren't meant to follow. You were meant to find. Though frankly, with your lack of natural talent, I'm surprised you've made it this far without slicing your own foot off."
Ethan snorted. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. Find what?"
Omen didn't answer immediately.
"Whatever shape your fire takes, Ethan Peirce. But it won't be borrowed. Not for long."
The room fell quiet again. Outside, the cicadas began their nightly hum.
Ethan closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he'd have to fight like someone else again.
But maybe… just maybe… that could change.
The next morning broke with clear skies and a cool breeze rustling through the trees surrounding the Duskmere estate. The main courtyard had been cleared for the joint sparring match, and a small gathering of retainers and a few curious onlookers stood at a distance.
Ethan stood beside Ceris, adjusting the leather gauntlet on his arm. She was quiet but focused, her silver eyes scanning the area. Her sword hung at her hip, and Omen rested coiled in his sealed form beside her.
Across from them, Sylviane and Sayo stood with poised elegance. Sylviane wore a light dueling outfit trimmed with the Duskmere crest, her silver hair pinned neatly. Her gaze was unreadable, like a porcelain mask. Beside her, Sayo stood serene and composed, a faint breeze playing with the violet strands in her half-bun. Her blindfold remained in place, but she turned slightly in Ethan's direction as if sensing him.
Ceris gave Ethan a nudge, her expression unreadable. "Try not to hold me back out there."
"No promises," Ethan muttered.
Carter stepped between the two pairs, his voice cutting through the quiet. "This is a joint training exercise. A sparring match between Candidates and their Kingmakers. The rules are simple."
He raised a hand. "Real weapons are allowed, including the use of ego weapons. Minor injuries are acceptable Lady Maelin is on standby. But lethal intent or life-threatening strikes are forbidden. Understood?"
Everyone nodded.
"This is a test of coordination and adaptation. Treat it seriously."
Carter stepped back. "Introduce yourselves."
Sylviane gave a graceful bow. "Sylviane Duskmere. Candidate of House Duskmere."
Sayo followed with a calm nod. "Sayo. Kingmaker."
Ceris bowed briefly. "Ceris Valen Duskmere. Candidate."
Ethan glanced around awkwardly, then gave a small wave. "Uh… Ethan Peirce. Kingmaker."
Carter's gaze sharpened. "Begin!"
Omen's chains sprang to life, coiling tightly around Ethan's arm as he drew a short sword in his other hand. The weapon felt more natural, quicker, lighter, something closer to his pace.
Sylviane's eyes narrowed the moment she noticed. With a fluid motion, she summoned her elegant silver bow, fingers brushing the string as if in warning. At her side, Sayo remained still, her blindfolded face tilted slightly.
Ceris stepped forward with her long sword already drawn. Seeing Sylviane prepare her bow, Ceris immediately broke into a sprint.
"She's going to try to close the gap," Ethan muttered.
Sylviane raised her voice sharply, but without panic. "Sayo. Cover me. Shura will handle the Kingmaker."
The moment she gave the order, a faint glow burst to life across both Sylviane's and Sayo's marks, the shared sigils pulsing with energy as their synchronization activated.
Sayo stepped forward in a single graceful motion. Her blade, Shura, extended from its sealed form with an audible hum, gleaming with a dark edge.
Ethan's grip tightened on his short sword.
In a blink, Sayo moved not fast, but fluid, like ink spilled across the battlefield. Shura shimmered faintly in her grip. Then she slashed it once across her own palm. Blood hissed onto the dirt.
Ceris and Ethan both reacted.
Ceris's eyes widened. "Did she just create a–?"
From the blood, a copy of Sayo emerged, an identical body double formed from crimson mist and steel. It took shape with haunting precision, stepping forward in eerie silence, mirroring Sayo's poised stance.
Ethan muttered, "What the hell..."
Sayo's voice was soft, almost a whisper. "Shura reveals the truths hidden in blood. You'll need more than borrowed form to fight me, Ethan Peirce."
The clone moved.
So did the real Sayo.
What followed was chaos graceful, deadly chaos.
Sayo descended upon Ceris like a dancing blade elegant, fluid, yet utterly lethal. Each strike flowed into the next with a rhythm that felt less like combat and more like a performance. Ceris struggled to keep up, blocking one strike only to be forced to spin away from the next. Every time she tried to counter, the clone struck from the flank. Every time she regained her footing, Sylviane's presence reminded her a shot could come at any second.
Ceris gritted her teeth. She had wanted to win this fight on her own strength. But between the coordinated rhythm of Sylviane and Sayo and the sheer pressure Sayo was applying, that was quickly becoming harder to do.
Meanwhile, Ethan was barely holding on.
Shura danced around him with gleeful violence, her attacks swift and precise. The blade didn't go for kill shots, but every slash was close too close. One grazed his ribs. Another nicked his shoulder. Then his thigh.
He twisted, ducked, and parried, but Shura didn't stop.
"You're not even worth a proper swing," she sneered.
Scratch.
"Is this all the Kingmaker of Ceris Duskmere can offer?"
Scratch.
Ethan's breath quickened. His arm burned from the effort of blocking and dodging.
"You think you're dodging," she said, "but all I see is hesitation."
Scratch.
Minor cuts bloomed along his arms and side.
He wasn't fighting.
He was surviving.
Ceris's breath was ragged. Every strike she threw was met, redirected, countered. Her arms ached, her footwork grew sloppy, and her pride screamed louder than the sound of clashing steel.
They're still toying with us.
She hated it.
Hated the precision of Sayo's movements. Hated the way Sylviane barely moved, and yet controlled the battlefield like a composer waving her baton.
But what she hated most was how powerless she felt.
This is my world.
This is supposed to be where I shine.
The frustration peaked no, boiled over and then suddenly, something burned at the back of her hand.
A sharp, electric pulse flared through her arm.
She gasped.
The Kingmaker mark once dormant blazed to life, glowing bright gold on her skin. It shimmered like flame, pulsing with her heartbeat.
A rush of power surged through her veins.
Her stance, corrected. Her limbs felt lighter. Her vision sharpened, and when she moved
she moved.
With a flash, she closed the gap to Sayo again, this time faster. Her blade struck harder, the air cracking with each blow. Sayo's defense shifted subtly, still, calm, but more engaged. The strikes were now sharper, cleaner.
She was fighting like she meant it.
But even so…
"Is this your peak?" Sylviane's voice rang out, calm and cold. Her mark glowed next silver with a faint violet hue. It pulsed in sync with Sayo's.
"Sayo," she commanded softly, "isolate her."
And everything changed.
Sayo's presence expanded like a shadow stretching in the sun. Her swordplay transformed from precision to pressure. In an instant, Ceris felt the space around her collapse.
Every step she tried to take was cut off. Every breath she tried to catch was stolen.
Sayo became relentless.
Not aggressive, not brutal, just…. inevitable.
Like drowning in shallow water.
Sylviane repositioned with frightening ease, cutting off sightlines, launching arrows not to hit Ceris, but to manipulate her movement, herd her into Sayo's strikes.
Ceris realized it too late.
She was being pinned.
Trapped in a corner, away from Ethan.
"Ethan—!" she shouted.
But he was already struggling.
Ethan's chest rose and fell in heavy bursts. Omen's chains pulsed along his arm, but they felt heavier now, like he was dragging them through water.
His reactions dulled. His steps were half a second behind.
The sync…
It was fading.
Omen's voice echoed faintly in his mind strained, like trying to stay awake through static.
"Your body's not used to this yet. Don't push too—"
Too late.
Shura's blade came for him again, shrieking through the air.
He blocked but the edge still raked across his shoulder. The cut wasn't shallow this time. Blood spilled freely.
Shura's laughter echoed, unrestrained.
"You're so slow now."
She twirled as she stepped back, the edge of her guardless blade dripping crimson.
"Your sword doesn't suit you," she purred mockingly. "Too stiff. Too noble. It's boring."
She lunged again. Ethan parried and was slashed across the thigh.
Another deep cut.
He winced, but stayed upright. His vision blurred, strength draining.
Shura cocked her head.
Then slowly, deliberately she dragged her tongue across the bloodied blade.
"Mmm…" Her voice dropped into a husky, guttural whisper. "I want more."
Ethan's stomach turned.
But she wasn't done.
With a hiss of irritation, Shura reached up and tugged at her blindfold.
"This thing's ruining everything," she spat. "The world's all… colory. Your blood's too bright. I hate it."
She barely lifted the blindfold just enough for one eye to peek through.
And for a moment, Ethan saw it.
A single eye, framed by long, elegant lashes. The pupil was a deep violet almost black with rings of amethyst spiraling outward. It was striking. Beautiful. Almost inhuman.
The second he looked into it
His knees buckled.
A wave of dizziness washed over him. His muscles weakened. His breath left him like he'd been punched in the gut.
He dropped to one knee.
"What… the hell—"
Before he could fall further
CRACK.
A sharp impact slammed into Shura's side.
Carter stepped forward with grace, his movements sharp yet refined. In one smooth motion, he spun and delivered a precise roundhouse kick to Shura's side—elegant, but forceful.
She flew across the field like a ragdoll, crashing into the dirt with a heavy thud.
"Enough," he said firmly, his voice never rising. "Master Sylviane. Master Sayo. Kindly keep your ego weapon in check."
Sayo immediately froze.
Her blade flicked back into its sheath in one clean motion.
The moment it clicked into place
Shura's form flickered, then dissolved into motes of crimson light.
The clone vanished.
Sayo bowed her head slightly. "Understood."
Sylviane lowered her bow.
And Ceris, still catching her breath, backed away cautiously.
The sparring match… was over.
But something was wrong.
Ethan swayed.
Then collapsed.
Ceris's heart skipped.
"Ethan!" she cried, dashing across the field.
His breathing was shallow, skin pale. Cuts lined his arms and legs, some still bleeding. He looked… drained.
Not just from blood loss, but something deeper. Something spiritual.
The image of Shura's blade, his sluggish movements, the look in his eyes
It hit her all at once.
He wasn't a warrior. Not a trained knight.
He was just… a boy. A civilian. A stranger she had pulled into her war.
And now he was lying in the dirt, because she couldn't keep up.
Because she couldn't protect him.
Her fingers hovered just above his chest, trembling.
This is what it means to be a Candidate.
People bleed for you. Hurt for you. Suffer because of you.
She stayed beside him, shielding his body with her own.
And for the first time since the summoning
Ceris Duskmere looked at Ethan not as a burden, or a mystery
but as one of her people. Someone she had summoned, and therefore, someone she was responsible for. Someone She's accountable for.
A rustle of robes followed by hurried footsteps snapped her head up.
"Step aside, child," came the calm, yet firm voice of Maelin Duskmere.
Ceris did without protest.
Maelin knelt beside Ethan, her hands already glowing with the soft, green light of her life-transference magic. Tendrils of that light reached from the surrounding grass into her palms, and then into Ethan's wounds. His breathing began to steady.
The older woman's gaze turned toward Sylviane and Sayo disapproval clear in her eyes.
"You went too far," she said plainly. "This was a sparring match, not a battlefield."
Even Sylviane faltered under the weight of her words.
Sayo bowed her head in silence. Sylviane gave a curt nod, tight-lipped.
Ceris lowered her gaze, guilt sitting heavy in her chest. stayed beside him, shielding his body with her own.