Morning in the castle is quiet.
Not the tense, suffocating silence of my former organization, where every breath was monitored and every movement judged. This quiet is different. It is vast. Unconcerned. As if the walls themselves do not care what I do, because nothing I do could possibly threaten them.
That realization still feels strange.
I wake without the sound of bells. Without instructors shouting. Without the pressure of schedules carved into bone. No one checks whether I slept properly. No one records my performance.
No punishment waits for failure.
At first, I thought this was negligence.
Now I understand it is confidence.
Here, nothing is in danger.
Not the castle. Not its inhabitants. Not even me.
I finish dressing and head to the training grounds out of habit more than necessity. My body still craves motion after waking, still expects to be tested immediately. Old conditioning does not disappear simply because circumstances change.
The ground is smooth stone, recently repaired. No bloodstains. No scars. Even the air feels different, lighter, unburdened.
I draw my blade.
I train.
Strike. Step. Guard. Turn.
The movements are familiar, but my mind is calmer than it has ever been. No one watches from the shadows, waiting to correct me. No hidden eyes measure my worth.
I am free to fail.
That thought lingers longer than it should.
In the organization, sparring was survival.
Mistakes were punished. Injuries were permanent reminders. No one held back. No one stopped a match early. The goal was not improvement. It was dominance.
Here, I feel no killing intent.
Not even from myself.
I am halfway through a sequence when I sense him.
There is no sound. No shift in air. Yet I know.
Vaelor is here.
I turn instinctively, blade raised, posture ready. He stands a short distance away, hands relaxed, expression neutral. He is not wearing armor. He rarely does.
"You are slower today," he says.
I frown. "I am not."
"You are," he replies calmly. "But not weaker."
That unsettles me.
Before I can respond, he steps forward.
"I will spar with you."
My grip tightens.
Sparring with Vaelor is nothing like training with anyone else. There is no rhythm I can adapt to, no pattern I can read. It feels less like fighting a person and more like testing myself against the world itself.
I do not refuse.
We take positions.
The moment I move, I know.
He is holding back.
Not out of mercy.
Out of boredom.
I strike first, fast and precise, aiming for his shoulder. He shifts slightly, the blade passing through empty air. I adjust mid-motion, redirecting toward his side.
He is already gone.
Not retreating. Not advancing.
Simply no longer where I expected him to be.
A finger taps my wrist.
Light.
Casual.
My blade drops from my hand.
I stare at it as it clatters against the stone.
That would have been death.
I recover instantly, spinning, drawing my secondary blade. I press harder, faster, layering attacks, feints, and sudden shifts. Every movement is one I perfected through years of combat.
None of them land.
He avoids without effort. Sometimes he blocks. Sometimes he redirects. Sometimes he simply steps aside as if my blade were never meant to reach him.
At one point, he stops moving entirely.
I strike anyway.
My blade stops an inch from his throat.
Not because I halted it.
Because he caught it.
Two fingers.
No pressure.
Just control.
My breath catches despite myself.
"This is not sparring," I say. "This is you humoring me."
"Correct," he replies.
That irritates me more than I expect.
I pull back, launching another attack. He releases the blade, steps forward, and suddenly I am on the defensive. His movements are minimal, precise, almost lazy.
He taps my shoulder.
Then my knee.
Then my wrist again.
Each touch lands exactly where it would incapacitate or kill.
I cannot touch him.
Not once.
The gap is humiliating.
And yet.
There is no killing intent.
No threat.
No pressure crushing my lungs.
Only overwhelming difference.
Finally, he steps back.
"That is enough," he says.
My chest rises and falls steadily. I am not exhausted, but something inside me feels shaken loose.
"In my organization," I say quietly, "sparring like this would not exist."
"I know."
"You would have killed me by now."
"Yes."
"And yet you didn't."
He looks at me then, really looks, crimson eyes steady.
"There is no need."
That simple statement leaves me strangely unsettled.
He turns to leave.
Then pauses.
His hand rests briefly on my head.
The touch is light. Almost absentminded.
Not a reward.
Not a command.
Acknowledgment.
Something in my chest tightens again.
As he walks away, I realize something fundamental has changed.
For the first time in my life, I am training without fear of death.
For the first time, I am being challenged without being broken.
And for the first time, the strongest blade the clan ever forged is beginning to understand what it means to be sharpened without blood.
I watch Vaelor disappear into the castle.
And I know.
Tomorrow, I will train again.
Not because I must.
But because I want to see how far this difference truly goes.