Chapter 19.5 — Alone in the Yard
(Kaelen/"Shadeblade" POV)
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The dawn was weak, barely cutting through Portscab's lingering fog. Most of the city still slept. Only the gulls cried over the docks, and only the faint scrape of boots on stone disturbed the silence.
I stepped into the abandoned training yard Selia had shown me the day before. Empty crates, rusted chains, and the smell of brine and iron surrounded me. Here, I could be Shadeblade without an audience — without someone judging my every misstep.
I drew my sword.
It felt heavier than usual in my hand. Not the steel itself — it was well balanced — but the weight of expectation, of failure, of survival pressing down on me.
I had been thinking of Bran, of Mira, of Selia, and the first contract looming ahead. Tier-3 Path-Bearers who would not tolerate weakness. Not just physically, but strategically, mentally, emotionally.
And I was still only Tier-1: The Touched, struggling to reach Tier-2: The Tempered.
I remembered Volrag's words, spoken once in the quiet of his training hall years ago:
> "Kaelen… the sword is not just a weapon. It is an extension of your body, your mind, your patience. Master it, and you forge yourself. Fail, and it will betray you. A style you inherit will betray you. A style you forge will die with you — but only if you survive long enough to shape it."
Volrag had taught me fundamentals, nothing more:
Stance — the foundation of balance
Grip — the subtle tension between strength and flexibility
Footwork — the silent path between being hit and striking
Balance — knowing how weight, inertia, and aura flow together
Angles of attack — how to reach weak points, not just strike hard
When not to swing — patience often kills faster than steel
That was it. No flashy moves. No named techniques. No spells. No shortcuts. Just the brutal basics.
I took a deep breath. The fog mingled with the smell of iron and sweat. I let my aura flow along my arm and into the blade — not to cast magic, but to reinforce every muscle, every tendon, every joint. The sword became part of me, but it wasn't perfect. It was raw, awkward, unpolished.
I began moving:
Step forward, pivot, strike a chain hanging from the rafters.
Slide back, adjust stance, swing with the minimal arc.
Step sideways, angle the tip, stab at imaginary weak points.
Pain quickly followed. My shoulder still throbbed from Bran. My ribs screamed. My hands blistered against the hilt. Each failed swing left me tasting blood in my mouth.
And yet, I continued.
I imagined the upcoming contract: a small group of mercenary allies depending on me, some stronger than I could ever be. Mistakes weren't just mine to bear; they could cost lives.
I swung again, forcing my aura into the motion. This time, the blade felt slightly smoother, the weight slightly less alien. Not mastery — not even competence. But progress.
I paused. Sweat dripped down my face, soaking into the mask. Breath ragged. Muscles trembling.
For the first time, I acknowledged it fully:
I was a hybrid — half-blood, half-unknown, full of potential and arrogance alike. But potential alone wouldn't keep me alive. Only discipline, observation, painful trial, and adaptation would.
I remembered the last lesson Volrag had drilled into me:
> "Kaelen, magic can blind, burn, and destroy. The sword can only extend your will. But the sword never lies. It will only do what you allow it to. Respect it. Respect yourself. And learn faster than the world punishes you."
I stood in the middle of the yard, sword in hand, mask hiding my face, aura humming faintly along steel and flesh.
The fog swirled around me, obscuring everything, leaving me with only two certainties:
1. I would survive this arc by forging my own style.
2. I would suffer endlessly until I did.
And so I began again. Step. Pivot. Swing. Pain. Adjustment. Repeat.
Shadeblade, alone but alive, was learning to temper himself. Slowly. Brutally. Mercilessly.