The first time Soma Locke picked up a sword, he nearly knocked himself unconscious.
It was a wooden sword.
A small wooden sword.
One specifically carved for children.
Unfortunately, that didn't prevent it from introducing itself to Soma's forehead with extraordinary enthusiasm.
THWACK!
"Ow!"
The sword tumbled into the dirt.
For several seconds, the training yard fell completely silent.
Then someone started laughing.
Not the polite, restrained laughter Soma had grown accustomed to hearing from visiting nobles. This was something far more offensive—a deep, thunderous bellow that seemed to shake the nearby barracks.
"BY THE GODS! THE BOY'S ATTACKED HIMSELF!"
Soma pressed a hand against his forehead.
Wonderful. My first opponent is a piece of wood, and I've lost.
The source of the laughter was an enormous, broad-shouldered man standing beside the equipment shed. His gray hair was cropped short, his face resembled a badly maintained battlefield, and a black patch covered his left eye. A thick scar disappeared beneath the collar of his sleeveless training tunic.
Igor.
The veteran responsible for overseeing the royal training grounds.
He was also, Soma had quickly concluded, one of the rudest men in Arcaelis.
"That was an equipment malfunction," Soma muttered.
Igor laughed harder.
"Equipment malfunction? Boy, the damned sword doesn't have moving parts!"
Samantha, standing beneath a nearby awning, pressed her lips together.
Soma turned toward her.
"Don't."
Her shoulders trembled.
"I'm not laughing, young master."
"Your face disagrees."
That finished her.
She doubled over, laughing into the towel she'd brought for him.
Soma sighed.
Wonderful. Betrayed by everyone I know.
Convincing his father to allow the training had required considerably more effort than Soma anticipated.
At four years old, he had already exhausted several household tutors with his questions and developed the unfortunate habit of reading until someone physically removed the books from his hands.
Preston had tolerated these peculiarities with tremendous pride.
The request for combat training was another matter.
"Absolutely not."
Soma stood before his father's enormous desk, hands folded behind his back.
"May I ask why?"
"Because you're four."
"That's an observation, not an explanation."
Preston slowly lowered the document he'd been reading.
"Soma."
"Father."
"You're four."
"We've established that."
From the nearby sofa, Aria raised her teacup to conceal a smile.
Preston rubbed his temples.
"Why can't you collect toy soldiers like a normal child?"
"I do."
"Then play with them!"
"I'd prefer to understand why the real soldiers move the way they do."
His father stared at him.
Soma continued before the argument could end.
"I've been studying military formations. I understand the purpose of shields, the advantages of reach, and why different weapons are suited to different circumstances. But I can't understand their limitations without experiencing them."
Preston leaned back in his chair.
"Knowing how a weapon works doesn't make you capable of using it."
"Exactly."
That answer caught his father off guard.
Soma stepped closer.
"That's why I want someone to teach me."
For a moment, Preston said nothing.
Then Aria lowered her cup.
"He's going to keep asking, darling."
"I know."
"Every day."
"I know."
"At breakfast, lunch, and dinner."
Preston closed his eyes.
"Aria, you're not helping."
She smiled sweetly.
"I'm helping our son."
Eventually, they reached an agreement. Soma could begin basic physical conditioning and supervised wooden-weapon exercises, provided Igor approved the activities and Samantha remained nearby.
There would be no dangerous sparring, no real blades, and absolutely no attempts to sneak into the barracks after dark.
Soma accepted these conditions with dignity.
He waited until he'd left the office before celebrating.
Unfortunately, his celebration consisted of raising both arms and shouting, "YES!"
Preston heard him through the door.
"SOMA!"
"THANK YOU, FATHER!"
Igor's first assessment took less than five minutes.
The veteran watched Soma jog across the yard, instructed him to perform several basic movements, then handed him the wooden sword responsible for his recent humiliation.
After witnessing the spectacular self-inflicted strike, Igor folded his arms.
"You're weak."
Soma looked up.
"Thank you for that sophisticated analysis."
"Your balance is terrible."
"Anything else?"
"Your feet are too close together. Your shoulders are stiff. You're trying to use your arms instead of your whole body."
Soma retrieved the sword.
"So how do I fix it?"
Igor's remaining eye narrowed.
Most noble children he'd trained either became embarrassed when corrected or immediately complained that they were being treated unfairly.
Soma simply waited.
"Put the sword down."
Soma obeyed.
"Now stand on one foot."
He raised his left leg.
"Hold it."
Five seconds passed.
Then ten.
By fifteen, Soma's ankle began trembling.
At twenty, he toppled sideways.
Igor caught him by the back of his tunic.
"That's your first lesson."
Soma frowned.
"Standing?"
"Balance."
Igor set him upright.
"You can memorize every sword technique in the world, boy. Won't mean a damned thing if you fall over trying to swing one."
Soma stared at his feet.
He hated how reasonable that sounded.
"Again," he said.
Igor grinned.
"Now that's a word I like hearing."
By the end of the morning, Soma's legs were trembling, his forehead was bruised, and he had accomplished precisely zero impressive sword techniques.
He was also smiling.
For the first time, he had discovered something he couldn't overcome simply by reading about it.
And that made him determined to return.
The following months introduced Soma to an entirely new understanding of suffering.
Muscles, he discovered, were vindictive little things.
They complained when exercised, complained when resting, and occasionally complained simply because he had the audacity to exist.
Igor seemed to find this hilarious.
"Again!"
Soma lowered himself into another squat.
His legs shook.
"How many more?"
"Until I say stop."
"That's not a number."
"Neither is whatever pathetic excuse you call that posture!"
Soma corrected his stance.
Samantha watched from the shade, a water flask resting beside her.
"You're doing wonderfully, Soma!"
"She's lying!" Igor barked.
"You're an unpleasant old man!" Samantha shouted back.
"And you're spoiling him!"
"Someone has to compensate for your personality!"
Soma sighed.
I'm surrounded by children.
Despite Igor's relentless criticism, the veteran never pushed him beyond what his young body could reasonably endure. Training sessions were short, rest periods frequent, and most exercises focused on coordination rather than strength.
There were days when Soma wanted to do more.
Igor invariably refused.
"Training isn't about seeing how much punishment you can survive," he explained after one particularly frustrating session. "It's about making your body stronger without breaking it."
Soma sat on a wooden crate, rubbing his aching legs.
"Then how do I know when I've done enough?"
"You listen."
"To you?"
"To your body, you mouthy little bastard."
Soma considered that.
"That seems inconvenient."
Igor snorted.
"Welcome to being alive."
When Soma turned five, he received a present he hadn't requested.
A morning schedule.
His father had arranged for him to continue his studies, physical training, and household lessons without sacrificing the sleep a growing child required.
Naturally, Soma immediately began attempting to improve it.
The first proposed improvement involved waking at three in the morning.
Preston rejected it.
The second involved reducing his afternoon rest period.
Aria rejected that.
The third involved training every single day.
Igor laughed directly in his face.
"Do you actually enjoy telling me no?" Soma demanded.
"More than you can imagine."
"You're all conspiring against me."
"Correct," Aria replied pleasantly. "It's called parenting."
Soma eventually agreed to a more reasonable arrangement.
He would rise early on training mornings, complete a supervised workout, spend several hours studying, and reserve afternoons for family activities or lessons with his father.
His free time remained his own.
Which generally meant reading.
Sean declared the entire arrangement horrifying.
"If somebody gave me free time, the last thing I'd do is study."
"That explains a great deal," Simon remarked.
Sean pointed accusingly.
"You're supposed to be on my side!"
"I've never once claimed that."
Nearby, Serena sat beside Soma with a book resting across their knees.
"Ignore them, Bubba."
"Excellent advice."
She turned a page.
"Now read the dragon part."
Soma smiled and continued.
His afternoons with Preston began innocently enough.
At first, Soma simply sat in his father's office while the Archduke worked. He occupied a cushioned chair near the windows, surrounded by books and the quiet scratching of quills.
Over time, however, he began listening.
And then he began asking questions.
"Father, why does that shipment have to pass through three separate checkpoints?"
Preston glanced at the ledger on his desk.
"Because it crosses three administrative boundaries."
"But the goods are already registered."
"Yes."
"And the merchants have paid the required tariffs."
"Yes."
"Then why does each checkpoint need to inspect the cargo again?"
Preston stopped writing.
He looked at the page.
Then at Soma.
"Because that's how it's traditionally been done."
Soma tilted his head.
"Is tradition a good enough reason?"
His father stared at him for several seconds.
Then he burst out laughing.
"Gods help me. You're going to be a nightmare for the council."
He beckoned Soma closer and explained that the checkpoints belonged to different administrative offices, each responsible for different aspects of transport security and taxation.
What appeared wasteful to Soma was partially the result of generations of legal compromises between the countries of Arcaelis.
It wasn't a simple problem.
And that fascinated him.
He began to understand that governing a kingdom involved far more than issuing commands.
A ruler could order grain distributed to a struggling town, but someone still had to transport it.
Someone had to pay the drivers, maintain the roads, protect the cargo, and ensure the grain reached the intended recipients.
Every decision touched dozens of people Soma would never meet.
"Remember this," Preston told him one afternoon. "A nobleman's authority is only worth something if he understands the people affected by it."
Soma considered his father's words.
"Then why do some nobles behave as though everyone exists to serve them?"
Preston's expression darkened slightly.
"Because being born into privilege doesn't guarantee wisdom."
"Or kindness?"
"Or kindness."
He rested a large hand on Soma's shoulder.
"That's why I want you to learn more than how to command. Someday, people may depend on your judgment. Their lives will matter more than your pride."
Soma looked at the maps spread across the desk.
For once, he didn't have another question.
By six, Soma could complete his balance drills without falling, run short distances without exhausting himself, and handle several wooden training weapons with reasonable coordination.
He was proud of this progress.
Igor was considerably less impressed.
"Your footwork's still ugly."
Soma lowered his training sword.
"You said it was improving yesterday."
"It is."
"Then why is it ugly?"
"Improvement and ugliness aren't mutually exclusive."
Samantha nearly spilled his water laughing.
Igor began introducing simple defensive exercises, teaching Soma how to recognize the direction of an attack and move out of its path.
Initially, Soma failed spectacularly.
A padded practice staff struck his shoulder.
"Too slow."
Another tapped his side.
"Wrong direction."
A third caught his ankle.
He fell backward into the dirt.
"Absolutely terrible."
Soma glared up at the veteran.
"You seem to be enjoying this."
"Immensely."
Soma accepted Igor's outstretched hand and pulled himself upright.
"Again."
This time, he watched the man's shoulders instead of the staff.
When Igor moved, Soma stepped aside.
The padded weapon passed harmlessly through the space he'd occupied.
For one glorious instant, victory seemed assured.
Then Igor tapped him lightly on the head with the opposite end.
"Dead."
Soma stared.
"That's cheating!"
"That's fighting."
"That's infuriating!"
"Also fighting."
From the sidelines, Samantha burst into laughter.
Soma decided that someday he would defeat Igor.
Preferably before the old man died of natural causes.
His world continued expanding beyond the training yard and his father's office.
Stephan occasionally took him through the merchant quarter, explaining the movement of goods and the importance of trade agreements. Simon introduced him to the complicated relationships between noble houses, regional officials, and the royal court.
Sara taught him etiquette with a strictness that rivaled Igor's drills.
Scott encouraged his interest in weapons, while Sean continued attempting to introduce him to activities that Aria generally considered hazardous.
Serena simply wanted her little brother to remain available for stories.
Soma tried to make time for all of them.
It wasn't always easy.
He discovered that knowing many things did not make him particularly good at understanding other people's feelings.
One evening, after spending nearly an entire day studying military maps, he found Serena sitting outside his bedroom.
Her favorite picture book rested in her lap.
"Serena?"
She looked away.
"You're busy."
Soma blinked.
"I was studying."
"I know."
Something in her voice made him stop.
She'd waited for him.
Perhaps for hours.
And he hadn't even noticed.
He sat beside her on the carpet.
"I'm sorry."
She glanced at him.
"For what?"
"For making you wait."
Serena looked down at the book.
"You always have something important to do."
Soma considered that.
Then gently took the book from her hands.
"Not more important than this."
She brightened.
"Really?"
"Really."
He opened to the first page.
"Now, where were we?"
Serena scooted closer.
"The dragon!"
"Of course. The dragon."
He began reading.
And for the next hour, there were no kingdoms to study, no training routines to perfect, and no mysteries to solve.
Only a little girl, her younger brother, and a particularly foolish dragon who apparently couldn't distinguish a sheep from a cloud.
The years passed.
Soma grew taller. His shoulders broadened, his movements became more coordinated, and his training developed from simple exercises into structured physical conditioning.
At seven, Igor introduced longer runs and more demanding drills. At eight, Soma began practicing with a wider variety of wooden weapons, including spears and practice bows.
He discovered that he enjoyed archery.
He also discovered that enjoying something and possessing immediate talent for it were entirely different matters.
His first arrow landed nowhere near the target.
His second struck the ground.
His third disappeared into a bush.
Igor folded his arms.
"Planning to kill that shrubbery, are you?"
Soma lowered the bow.
"It looked suspicious."
"Deadly suspicious?"
"Extremely."
Igor laughed and adjusted his stance.
"Again."
Gradually, Soma improved.
Not through miraculous strength or supernatural talent, but through countless repetitions.
By nine, his mornings had become something of a curiosity among the royal guards.
The young Locke heir frequently arrived before the training yard grew busy, completing his exercises while the first shift prepared for duty.
He remained smaller and weaker than the adults around him, but he was disciplined.
More importantly, he listened.
Older soldiers began offering occasional advice.
A swordsman corrected his grip.
An archer showed him how to regulate his breathing.
A shield-bearing guard explained why a defensive formation depended on the reliability of every person within it.
Soma absorbed these lessons eagerly.
And sometimes, to everyone's amusement, he asked questions the soldiers couldn't answer.
On one such morning, Igor watched Soma complete a series of practice strikes before lowering his weapon.
"Not bad, brat."
Soma turned.
He stared.
"Did you just compliment me?"
"Don't get used to it."
"I'd like witnesses."
"Shut up."
"Someone should document this historic occasion."
Igor threw a towel at his head.
Soma caught it.
And grinned.
As his tenth birthday approached, Soma began noticing changes around him.
His father invited him to observe increasingly serious meetings, though he was still required to remain silent unless addressed. His studies included broader subjects, from military logistics to the customs of distant countries.
Preston had also begun discussing his future.
Not as an Archduke's infant son.
Not as a precocious child.
But as someone who would eventually stand before the Awakening Temple and discover what kind of path the gods and the world had placed before him.
Five years remained until that ceremony.
Five years until the Nexus limiter would be removed.
Five years until Soma could truly begin exploring the possibilities he'd spent his childhood reading about.
The thought excited him.
It also frightened him a little.
He understood enough about the world to know that an impressive class didn't guarantee a meaningful life.
Power could protect.
It could build.
It could also destroy.
And he had seen enough of the kingdom's politics to realize that the people wielding the greatest authority weren't always the people most deserving of it.
One evening, he found Preston standing on a balcony overlooking the capital.
The Citadel rose beyond the royal grounds, its impossible height disappearing into a gathering bank of clouds. Far below, Highmere glimmered beneath thousands of enchanted lanterns. Beyond the city, the distant mountains stood like enormous dark sentinels beneath the stars.
Soma approached quietly.
"Father?"
Preston turned.
"Couldn't sleep?"
"Not yet."
"Birthday excitement?"
"Possibly."
His father smiled and rested a hand on the balcony railing.
"Ten years old tomorrow."
"So I've been told."
Preston chuckled.
"It feels like yesterday you were small enough to fit in one arm."
Soma eyed his father's enormous shoulders.
"I'm fairly certain you could still manage it."
"Don't tempt me."
For a while, they stood together in comfortable silence.
Then Soma looked toward the Citadel.
"Father, do you think everyone who climbs that tower deserves what they're searching for?"
Preston followed his gaze.
"That's a difficult question."
"Uncle Zane says those are the interesting ones."
"Your uncle enjoys avoiding straightforward answers."
"He says the same about you."
Preston laughed softly.
Then his expression grew thoughtful.
"No, Soma. I don't believe everyone who seeks power deserves it."
Soma looked up.
"Then how do you know who does?"
His father was quiet for a long moment.
"You don't. Not always."
Below them, the city continued its nightly rhythm.
"But you can learn something about a person by watching what they do when they have power over someone weaker."
Soma absorbed the words.
"Is that what you've been teaching me?"
"Among other things."
Preston knelt, bringing himself closer to his son's eye level.
"Listen carefully. You've worked hard. You're clever, and you're becoming stronger every day. I'm proud of you for that."
Soma felt an unexpected warmth in his chest.
"But I don't want you to become someone who thinks those things make him better than everyone else."
"I don't."
"I know." Preston smiled. "That's why I'm proud."
He placed a hand against Soma's shoulder.
"Whatever class you awaken, whatever adventures you pursue, and wherever this world takes you, remember that you're a Locke. And being a Locke means people should feel safer because you're there."
Soma looked toward the distant streets.
The training yards.
The markets.
The buildings surrounding the Citadel.
The enormous kingdom beyond them.
"I'll remember."
Preston stood and ruffled his hair.
"Good. Now get some sleep. Your mother has been planning tomorrow for weeks, and I suspect she's invited half the kingdom."
Soma groaned.
"Please tell me you're joking."
"Would I joke about something like that?"
"Constantly."
"Excellent point."
They returned inside together.
Later that night, Soma lay beneath the covers of his enormous bed, listening to the quiet sounds of Locke Manor settling around him.
For nearly ten years, this place had been his entire world.
Its hallways had witnessed his first steps.
Its library had opened his mind.
Its training yard had taught him humility.
And its people had given him something he hadn't known how to ask for.
A home.
Tomorrow, he would turn ten.
There would be presents, embarrassing family celebrations, and almost certainly some horrible joke involving his father's mustache.
He suspected Sean had already prepared something.
Soma smiled into the darkness.
Then his thoughts drifted toward the training grounds and the unanswered questions waiting beyond the estate walls.
He knew his father had been making arrangements concerning his education.
He'd noticed whispered conversations and unfamiliar correspondence passing across Preston's desk.
Whatever was coming, it seemed that the next stage of his life would demand more than books and wooden swords.
Soma turned onto his side and closed his eyes.
Well, tomorrow should be interesting.
Outside, the Citadel stood silent beneath the stars.
And somewhere beyond the peaceful walls of Locke Manor, the world continued turning.
Unaware that the youngest son of the Supreme Archduke was about to take his first steps into a much larger story.