Echoes of the Forgotten Blade

The moon hung low over Ironveil Fortress, casting jagged silver shadows across the ancient training yard. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of worn leather, sweat, and steel. Kaelen Valtheris stood at the center of the yard, surrounded by hardened warriors—men who had bled, struggled, and trained since childhood to master the art of battle.

He had not.

Yet, the whispers of his bloodline urged him forward. The Blood Oath of Varathen should have awakened something in him, something buried in his lineage—the ability to mirror any battle style with just a single glance. It was the birthright of his fallen house.

Ser Dain Morlath stepped forward, his weathered armor creaking softly with each movement. His expression remained unreadable, but his sharp gaze studied Kaelen like a man measuring a blade for its worth.

"Your ancestors were not taught the way you were," Dain said, his voice low enough that only Kaelen could hear. "They were not trained. They learned by watching. If you are truly Valtheris, then prove it."

Kaelen swallowed the doubt in his throat, feeling it stick like a burr. Around him, the circle of warriors shifted, their faces half-hidden in shadow, half-illuminated by torchlight. Some watched with skepticism, others with open disdain.

He watched as Garron Claymore, a towering brute of a warrior, stepped forward with a practice broadsword in hand. The veteran fighter smirked, shifting into an aggressive stance. Garron's scarred face twisted into a cruel smile, his beard failing to hide the contempt in his expression.

"Let's see if you're more than just a ghost story, boy."

Without warning, Garron moved. With blinding speed, his broadsword became a blur as he swung in a downward arc. The air whistled with the force of his strike.

Kaelen watched. He saw it. The footwork, the weight shift, the muscle tension before the strike. His mind captured the movement, breaking it apart and reconstructing it in an instant. It was as if time slowed, allowing him to observe every nuance of Garron's technique.

This is it

He moved to copy it.

But the moment he did—pain exploded through his body.

His muscles seized, his legs buckled, and his spine twisted at a terrible angle. A sickening crack tore through his shoulder as his body, untrained and unprepared, rebelled against the demand he had placed upon it. He collapsed, gasping, barely able to move.

The practice sword clattered uselessly beside him as he curled into himself, teeth gritted against the wave of agony that coursed through every fiber of his being.

The training yard erupted in cruel laughter.

"Hah! The 'gifted' heir can't even stand!" someone jeered from the back.

"The Valtheris line ends with a whimper, not a roar," another called out.

Kaelen pressed his forehead against the cool dirt, trying to find stability in a world that suddenly felt like it was spinning out of control. The pain made it impossible to think, to breathe.

Ser Dain did not laugh. He watched in silence, his expression grim. He expected this.

"Get up," Dain ordered, not unkindly but with a firmness that brooked no argument.

Kaelen clenched his fists against the dirt. He could not breathe. His ancestors could copy techniques perfectly—so why couldn't he? The Blood Oath was supposed to awaken his dormant abilities. Instead, it seemed to have broken something within him.

With trembling arms, he pushed himself to his knees. Blood trickled from his nose, metallic and warm on his lips. His shoulder hung at an unnatural angle, clearly dislocated.

"Perhaps the rumors are true," Garron sneered, twirling his practice sword with practiced ease. "Perhaps House Valtheris's blood has thinned to water after all these generations in hiding."

Kaelen raised his eyes, meeting Garron's gaze. There was no fear there, despite his pain—only a stubborn defiance that caused the older warrior to pause.

A shadow moved along the far wall. A figure—unseen, silent, watching.

Kaelen did not notice them. He was too lost in his own failure, in the crushing realization that perhaps the legends of his house were nothing more than beautiful lies told to comfort a child orphaned by war.

But the figure in the darkness tilted their head... and their lips curled into an amused smile.

They had seen this before.

The figure melted further into the shadows as Ser Dain approached Kaelen and knelt beside him. With practiced hands, he examined the dislocated shoulder.

"Your mind saw," Dain murmured, for Kaelen's ears alone. "But your body wasn't ready." He gripped Kaelen's arm and shoulder. "This will hurt."

With a swift, brutal motion, he snapped the joint back into place. Kaelen bit down on a scream, tasting blood.

"The Valtheris gift is useless without a vessel strong enough to channel it," Dain continued, helping Kaelen to his feet. "Your mind captured his technique perfectly. But your muscles, your bones—" he tapped Kaelen's chest with a gauntleted finger, "—they need to be forged like steel before they can serve your bloodline's purpose."

The circle of warriors was already dispersing, their entertainment concluded. Only Garron lingered, his expression now curious rather than mocking.

"Tomorrow," Dain said, his voice taking on a harder edge, "we begin truly training your body. The mind will follow."

As Kaelen limped from the training yard, the pain radiating through his body with each step, he felt eyes on his back. He turned, scanning the shadows.

For just a moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of a figure slipping through a distant doorway—slender, quick, purposeful.

Then they were gone, leaving Kaelen with nothing but questions and the bitter taste of his first, humiliating failure.