Aurelian woke before dawn.
Not because he wanted to, and not because his body was ready, but because his mind refused to rest. The memory of the Gravebound Brute lingered behind his eyes every time he closed them, the sound of its weight tearing through the forest, the way the ground had shaken beneath its steps, the certainty of death that had followed him with every breath.
He lay still on his narrow bed, listening to the quiet of the house. His mother and sister were still asleep. The hearth had long since gone cold. Outside, the faint sound of wind brushing against the shutters carried the promise of another grey morning.
His chest tightened, not from fear alone, but from awareness.
If his father had not been there, he would be dead.
That truth settled heavily in him. It did not frighten him but it sharpened him.
Aurelian pushed himself upright slowly, careful not to let the sudden motion trigger the familiar dizziness. He sat there for a few breaths, one hand resting over his sternum, feeling the quiet presence beneath. The hybrid core did not respond loudly. It never did. But it was there, steady in its imbalance mana leaking in faint warmth, aether holding firm like a silent spine.
He dressed without sound and stepped outside.
Caelan was already waiting.
He stood in the courtyard, back straight, hands clasped behind him, eyes on the pale horizon. He had changed into lighter clothing than usual, stripped of anything that might restrict movement. His posture was relaxed, but Aurelian knew better now. Relaxed did not mean unready.
"You're early," Caelan said without turning.
Aurelian nodded. "I couldn't sleep."
"That's expected."
Caelan finally faced him, studying him with the same careful attention he gave broken weapons and wounded soldiers. His gaze lingered on Aurelian's eyes, then his hands, then his stance.
"You're not injured," Caelan said.
"No."
"Good."
That was all the reassurance he would get.
They moved without further words to the far edge of the yard, where the ground sloped unevenly and the grass grew thin. Caelan gestured for Aurelian to stand in the center.
"Yesterday," Caelan said, "you ran well. You chose terrain wisely. You did not panic."
Aurelian lowered his gaze. "I still would have died."
"Yes."
The word was simple. Absolute.
Caelan stepped closer. "So we adjust."
Aurelian's breath caught slightly. He had expected more drills. More repetition of what they had already done. Instead, his father's tone carried something different,it's intent.
"You will not train to fight monsters," Caelan continued. "Not yet. You will train to recognize when the world is about to turn against you."
He circled Aurelian slowly. "Your body cannot afford mistakes. So your awareness must be flawless."
Caelan stopped abruptly and flicked his fingers.
A stone snapped toward Aurelian's head.
He moved without thinking, dropping into a low crouch, the stone passing harmlessly over him. His heart skipped not from fear, but from the realization that he had reacted before conscious thought.
Caelan nodded once.
"Again."
This time it was not a stone, but a sudden step into his space. Caelan's shoulder brushed past him, not striking, but forcing Aurelian to shift or fall. He twisted, foot sliding back, balance barely held.
"Again."
Aurelian barely had time to breathe before Caelan changed angles, speed, rhythm. Not attacking, but invading. Each movement forced Aurelian to respond, to reposition, to keep himself upright without ever planting his feet too firmly.
Minutes passed. Then more.
Aurelian's muscles burned. His breathing grew shallow. Sweat trickled down his back. His body wanted to stop.
Caelan did not.
"Your instinct," Caelan said calmly, "is to conserve energy. That is correct. But you hesitate too long when adjusting. That will get you killed."
He stepped in again, faster this time. Aurelian stumbled, caught himself on one hand, rolled, and came back to his feet with a sharp gasp.
The hybrid core flared faintly, not with power, but with alignment. Mana seeped into his limbs, easing the strain just enough to keep him moving. Aether locked his timing, preventing the slip that would have ended the drill.
Caelan noticed.
His eyes narrowed not in concern, but interest.
"Don't force it," he said quietly. "Let it happen."
Aurelian nodded, teeth clenched.
They continued.
Not strikes. Not blocks. Just movement. Weight shifts. Awareness. Control.
By the time Caelan stepped back, Aurelian's legs were trembling violently. He swayed, vision dimming at the edges, but he remained standing.
"That's enough," Caelan said.
Aurelian exhaled shakily. "Is that… all?"
"For today," Caelan replied. "Your body needs to recover."
He placed a hand briefly on Aurelian's shoulder. "You did better than you think."
The words landed heavier than any praise.
As they walked back toward the house, Aurelian realized something unsettling.
The training had not made him stronger.
But it had made him harder to kill.
And for the first time since his illness had been named, that felt like hope.
Caelan waited until the sun dipped just enough to soften its glare before calling Aurelian outside.
The boy emerged slowly, careful with his steps, his thin frame wrapped in a loose tunic that hid more frailty than it revealed. He looked tired, though he always did but there was a kind of exhaustion that clung to him like a second shadow, one that sleep never truly chased away. Still, his eyes were alert. Sharp. Watching everything.
Caelan noticed that first. He always did.
"Come here," Caelan said, voice calm, unhurried.
Aurelian obeyed, stopping a step too far away out of habit. Caelan closed the distance himself and rested a large hand on the boy's head, fingers threading gently through his hair. Not ruffling it, not playful just warm. Present.
Aurelian stiffened for half a breath, then relaxed.
"You did well today," Caelan said quietly.
"I didn't do much," Aurelian replied. "I just followed what you said."
"That's exactly why you did well."
Caelan let his hand slide from Aurelian's head to his shoulder, steady and reassuring. He kept it there as he guided the boy toward the packed dirt behind their home, the place where training always happened not because it was special, but because it was familiar. Safe.
Caelan did not hand him a sword.
He never did.
Instead, he gestured for Aurelian to sit.
They sat together on the ground, father and son side by side, knees drawn up, watching the wind ripple through the tall grass beyond the fence. For a long moment, neither spoke.
"Aurelian," Caelan said at last, "do you know why I don't train you the way soldiers train their sons?"
Aurelian thought about it. He had thought about it many times before.
"Because my body can't take it," he said.
Caelan nodded. "That's part of it."
Another pause.
"But it's not the most important part."
Aurelian turned his head, curious.
"The most important part," Caelan continued, "is that soldiers are trained to win fights. You are being trained to survive them."
He placed a hand flat against Aurelian's chest, just over the heart. The boy could feel the weight of it, solid and grounding.
"You don't need strength that breaks bones," Caelan said. "You need strength that keeps you breathing."
That stayed with Aurelian as they began.
The training that followed looked unimpressive to anyone else.
No shouting.
No heavy weights.
No wild swings of wooden blades.
Caelan had Aurelian stand barefoot on the uneven dirt and close his eyes.
"Balance," Caelan said. "Not power. Balance keeps you alive when your body fails you."
He made Aurelian stand on one leg, then the other, shifting slowly, forcing his muscles to engage in quiet, controlled ways. When Aurelian wobbled, Caelan's hand was there immediately on his shoulder, steadying him without scolding.
They practiced breathing next. Long, measured inhales. Controlled exhales. Caelan timed them with the rise and fall of his own chest, letting Aurelian match his rhythm.
"This is how you fight fatigue," Caelan said. "Not by pushing through it blindly. By managing it."
As the minutes passed, sweat began to form along Aurelian's brow. His limbs trembled, not from strain alone but from the constant effort of control. His hybrid core stirred faintly in response not flaring, not empowering, just existing. Mana leaked in tiny, useless trickles, while the aether sat dense and quiet, like a watchful presence he could not yet touch.
Caelan noticed the subtle changes in Aurelian's breathing immediately.
"That's enough," he said, stepping in.
"I can continue," Aurelian said quickly, stubbornness flaring.
Caelan crouched in front of him, meeting his eyes. He placed both hands on Aurelian's shoulders, firm but gentle.
"No," he said. "You stop when your body tells you to stop. Not when your pride does."
Aurelian swallowed and nodded.
They shifted next to movement drills. Short steps, pivots, controlled turns. Caelan demonstrated slowly, deliberately, exaggerating each motion so Aurelian could see exactly how weight transferred from heel to toe, how hips aligned, how shoulders stayed relaxed.
"This," Caelan said, stepping lightly, "is how you avoid being hit."
He moved again, faster this time, stopping just short of where Aurelian stood.
"And this," he added, tapping Aurelian's forehead lightly with two fingers, "is how you avoid being killed."
Aurelian absorbed everything.
They practiced falling next.
Not dramatic tumbles, but controlled descents. How to roll without jarring the spine. How to protect the head. How to hit the ground and get back up without panic.
Aurelian failed often.
Each time, Caelan corrected him patiently, never raising his voice, never letting frustration seep through. When Aurelian's hands shook too badly to continue, Caelan ended the session immediately, resting his palm on the boy's back as he caught his breath.
"You're not weak because you stop," Caelan said quietly. "You're weak if you don't listen."
As dusk settled, they sat again, side by side.
Aurelian's muscles ached in places he hadn't known existed. It wasn't the burning pain he imagined training would bring. It was deeper, quieter. A promise of change, slow and careful.
"Father," Aurelian said after a while, voice hesitant, "were you strong when you were my age?"
Caelan smiled faintly.
"I thought I was," he said. "Turns out I was just reckless."
He placed a hand on Aurelian's head again, resting it there longer this time.
"You're different," Caelan continued. "You think. You watch. You survive."
Aurelian looked down at his hands, small and thin.
"I want to be stronger," he said. "Not to fight. Just… to last."
Caelan's grip tightened slightly, just enough to be felt.
"You will," he said. "Just not the way the world expects."
The sky darkened fully by the time they finished. Caelan walked Aurelian back inside, his hand never leaving the boy's shoulder. When Aurelian finally lay down to rest, exhaustion dragging him toward sleep, the last thing he felt was his father's hand brushing gently through his hair.
Outside, Caelan stood alone for a long time, staring at the stars.
His son's path would be harder than any battlefield he had ever walked.
But he would make sure Aurelian learned how to walk it without dying.