The morning sun had barely risen above the horizon, but the training courtyard of the eastern wing of Castle Aetheryn was already alive with motion.
Lyssia, Nyara, and Reia stood side by side, dressed in lightweight training gear tailored to their small frames. Their gazes were fixed on the young prince before them—Serenil Aetheryn.
Despite being only four years old in body, the way he carried himself, the intensity in his violet eyes, and the controlled grace of every movement made him appear decades older. A master of the blade hidden behind a child's visage.
"First rule," Serenil began, pacing before them, "You do not rely on instinct. You hone it."
He unsheathed a wooden practice sword.
"Second rule: You are not killers. You are swords. A sword without discipline is just a butcher's cleaver."
He tossed three training swords at their feet. "Pick them up."
They obeyed without question.
Their first hours were brutal. Serenil pushed them harder than they expected—even for trained assassins. He corrected their stances, forced them into unfamiliar forms, and deconstructed their assassin techniques.
"You were taught to kill quickly. I will teach you to fight without relying on tricks. Strength. Will. Technique. That is what I demand."
Reia collapsed first, gasping for breath. Lyssia followed, her arms trembling from blocking a flurry of strikes. Only Nyara remained standing, barely holding on.
Serenil looked down at them, unflinching.
"You will break," he said. "But if you endure, I will reforge you into something greater."