Sword Brother

Gaël and Kaëlan needed time to recover, but respite was a luxury they weren't granted. Not with Hector in charge.

He allowed them only a brief visit to the Lumen Baths, scalding pools infused with purifying light. At first, the searing heat made Gaël wince, as if thousands of needles were piercing his skin. Yet, as he submerged deeper, the pain dulled to something almost bearable. Superficial wounds began to close, leaving behind pink scars. His mind, however, remained on high alert, refusing to relax.

Their brief moment of relief was quickly cut short. They were ordered to change into fresh clothes, simple attire: ash-gray tunics, worn leather belts, and reinforced trousers at the knees. Nothing luxurious, but at least they were no longer covered in sweat and dried blood.

Then, their student-instructor gathered them with a clipped command. Arms crossed over his broad chest, his gaze swept over the group with that familiar gleam in his eye, the kind possessed by someone who believed in merit through suffering.

Hector jerked his chin toward the open training ground beyond the hall, where the view of the valley was breathtaking.

"Come. It's time to meet those with whom you'll share your sweat."

As they stepped onto the southern esplanade, the air turned crisp, carrying the scent of moss clinging to the stones and the resinous aroma of trees below. The valley stretched as far as the eye could see, a sea of dark green foliage, interwoven with something even darker.

Gaël halted for a moment, inhaling deeply. For the first time in days, the weight on his chest lightened… if only a little.

Before them, the rest of their training cohort engaged in various free activities on the Day of Lumen.

Thirty-three in total. Twenty-two first-years, eleven second-years, including Hector, the top of his class. The third-years were notably absent. In fact, Gaël had never seen them before.

Perhaps they trained in a different part of the academy.

The numerical difference between the two years seemed insignificant at first glance. And yet, a lingering question wormed its way into Gaël's thoughts:

'Why so few in the second year? Where had the others gone? Could the training alone explain this decline… or was there something else?'

A cold shiver crawled down his spine.

Hector stopped them with a sharp gesture. With a subtle nod, he indicated the group of first-years gathered at the archery range.

"Get to know them. You'll either work together… or compete against each other. That's up to you."

Without waiting for a response, Hector pivoted on his heels and strode away, heading toward three second-year students seated around a low table. They were engrossed in a strategic board game, where miniature figurines represented armies and fortresses.

The four boys exchanged glances.

"Not exactly the sociable type, our dear student-instructor," Kaëlan muttered.

Gaël shrugged. Tired or not, he didn't have the luxury of backing down.

"Let's go. The sooner we blend in, the less we'll stand out as outsiders."

The group moved toward the archery range, where about twenty boys were practicing under the half-hearted supervision of an assistant.

The taut pull of bowstrings, followed by the sharp whistle of arrows, rang out in rhythmic intervals, punctuated by frustrated groans or bursts of laughter whenever someone spectacularly missed their mark.

A red-haired boy, his face covered in freckles and sporting a wide grin, noticed them. He dropped his bow, raised an arm, and called out:

"Hey! Look who survived remedial training! Ten days of hell with Hector, and they're still standing! I'm impressed, guys!"

Kaëlan, quick with a retort, shot back instantly:

"A bald guy isn't gonna take me down!"

Laughter erupted around them.

"Careful, man… Never say that in front of him!" another student chuckled. "Hector's got ears everywhere! You wanna end up pinned to the wall like a training dummy?"

But Kaëlan had clearly made a good impression, earning a few friendly pats on the back.

Another archer, more composed, lowered his bow and approached. His sharp features and calm gaze exuded quiet confidence. Holding out his reinforced wooden bow, weathered from years of practice, he offered:

"Anyone want to give it a shot? Three arrows in the center, and you get to pick anyone's dessert at dinner. Simple, right?"

Kaëlan raised an intrigued eyebrow.

"A game with food on the line? Now you're speaking my language, my guy."

Gaël hesitated. Exhaustion still gnawed at him, but refusing meant setting himself apart… and he could already feel the weight of their gazes on him. Stepping up meant proving something.

He reached out his hand.

"Give it here. I'll try. How many attempts?"

"Five."

Gaël took the bow. The worn wood bore the imprint of countless hands before him, and the string vibrated under his fingers. He adjusted his grip, drew the bowstring, and instantly felt the strain tug at his sore, overworked muscles.

Focus.

First arrow.

He aimed… released.

The arrow smacked against the edge of the target with a dull thud, far from the center. A few whistles of mockery rose, but nothing too harsh.

Gaël pressed his lips together, steadying his breathing. Second shot. Third. Fourth.

None landed in the center.

The fifth arrow barely landed better than the previous ones. Gaël lowered the bow and sighed.

"Archery… not really my thing," he admitted, offering no excuses.

Kaëlan snatched the bow with a wink.

"Watch and learn."

His first arrow missed by a hair. The second… better, grazing the inner ring. The third finally struck the center, earning a few scattered claps.

"There! That's how you win other people's dessert!" Kaëlan declared with a broad grin.

"Yeah, yeah… You only hit one. You needed three," the red-haired boy from earlier teased.

"Not wrong!" Kaëlan suddenly conceded, scratching his head.

Laughter and playful jabs filled the air.

As Kaëlan kept joking around with the group, earning friendly taunts and pats on the back, Gaël drifted away, his mind still restless despite the lighthearted atmosphere.

He found solace near the edge of the esplanade, where an old willow stretched its slender, drooping branches like a natural curtain. The leaves rustled softly in the breeze, weaving a soothing melody.

He sat on the stone ledge, cold to the touch but oddly comforting, and lifted his gaze to the valley stretching far below.

The dense, shadowy forest sprawled like a green ocean beneath the fading daylight. In the distance, jagged mountain ridges carved the sky into uneven lines, bathed in hues of orange by the setting sun.

Gaël wasn't afraid of heights. Not really. But a strange shiver crawled up his legs, a tingling sensation creeping into his feet, a quiet reminder that the abyss always had a way of making its presence known.

His thoughts wandered. To Kernéval. To his mother, his brother… To who he was before. And who he was becoming here.