As Caelan was curious about his mom's sword technique
Patriarch said
"Let's go to the edge of the forest," the Patriarch said, turning without waiting for a reply.
Caelan followed quietly. His heart was calm, but his mind was full of questions. He had just learned he would be taught the sword technique once used by his mother—a powerful legacy he never thought he'd touch.
The carriage stopped near the edge of the forest.
Birds chirped from the tall trees, and a soft breeze carried the smell of fresh earth and old leaves. Caelan stepped out beside his father. They walked deeper into the woods, saying nothing. Only the sound of boots on leaves broke the silence.
Soon, they reached a small clearing. Sunlight shone down through the trees like golden threads.
The Patriarch finally spoke.
"Do you know what your mother was called before you were born?"
Caelan looked up. He often thought about his mother, the woman he never got to know.
"Yes," he said. "Lirien Dorne, the Swift Tempest Sword of the House."
His father's eyes showed a mix of pride and sadness.
"She was called that because she could control wind with her will," he said. "The Elemental Technique was a special art from her family. But that family line ended… for some reason."
Caelan asked softly, "What exactly happened?"
The Patriarch's face turned cold. "It's not time yet for you to know."
"…Yes, sir," Caelan replied, though he still wondered.
His father continued, "Elemental Technique allows a person to use aura to control the elements—fire, water, wind, or earth. Your mother had a special gift. She could control wind as if it were part of her body. That's why she was called the Swift Tempest."
Caelan nodded slowly. "So… you're going to teach me?"
"Yes," his father said. "This sword technique lets you turn your aura into an element, depending on your nature."
"So my mother had wind nature?"
"Yes," the Patriarch said.
Caelan paused. "Then… what's your nature?"
His father didn't speak. Instead, he stepped forward. The ground shook slightly. Caelan stepped back, feeling the power in the air. Dirt and stones around the Patriarch began to rise and swirl toward him.
Then, with one hand raised, the Patriarch formed all that earth into a large sword—rough, heavy, and glowing with aura.
"My nature," he said in a deep voice, "is Earth."
Caelan stared at the blade of solid earth in his father's hand—its edges rough, but shaped by sheer will. The ground still trembled faintly beneath his boots.
He's a monster, Caelan thought. Aura, a powerful trait, and now this… Earth Element Nature too?
His fingers curled slightly at his sides, not from fear—but awe.
The Patriarch turned, catching the silent intensity in his son's eyes.
"I and your mother," he said, voice low and firm, "were the only two in our generation who could do this. Now... I am the only one left."
He let the sword dissolve back into dust. The earth obeyed his will like a loyal hound returning home.
"This technique has been kept secret from everyone," he continued. "Even your brother Seren, and the Valek family tied to him, believe it was lost."
Caelan blinked, surprise crossing his face. "Why keep it secret?"
The Patriarch's gaze dropped for a moment—rare vulnerability flickering across his usually unshaken face.
"Because your mother asked me to," he said. "She wanted me to pass it only to you—the only one left who carries her blood."
Caelan's throat tightened. "For me…?"
A strange warmth rose in his chest. Not pride. Not pressure. Something heavier. Something deeper.
Then I have to learn this, he thought, resolve solidifying in his chest like iron cooling into form.
The Patriarch stepped toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Listen carefully. The nature of your aura isn't just a power—it reflects who you are."
He raised a finger and began listing:
"Fire is born from anger, destruction, or burning passion.
Water flows with calm, but can become an uncontrollable force.
Earth stands for steadiness, endurance, and strength.
Wind... Wind means freedom—the will to move, to escape, to soar."
Caelan listened, each word feeling like it echoed through his core.
What am I?
"Reach out and release your aura lightly. Control it, but don't force it."
Caelan closed his eyes and focused, feeling his aura begin to stir within him. Slowly, he let it flow outward, just as he had been taught. It was a strange sensation, one unlike his magic. With magic, he could manipulate the elements by converting mana. But with aura, it was something more instinctive, as though he were trying to bend reality itself.
The Patriarch's voice came again, calm and steady. "Now, try to control your surroundings. Focus on anything you feel."
Caelan furrowed his brow, extending his senses outward.
He reached into the world around him, feeling the wind, the trees, the very earth under his feet. He could sense the cool, steady breeze, and with his concentration, he began to draw the wind toward him, just as he had been instructed.
At first, it was slow, gentle—just a faint stirring of the air.
The Patriarch's lips twitched in the smallest of smiles as he watched Caelan's progress. For the first time in a long while, the old warrior allowed himself to feel a flicker of pride.
But then, something shifted.
Caelan, lost in his concentration, focused harder. The wind responded to him, curling toward him, pulling more and more forcefully. His senses sharpened, and he could feel the wind intensifying, swirling faster around him. It started as a soft breeze, but soon it became a gust, then a full-blown whirlwind.
The Patriarch's eyes narrowed. "Stop."
But Caelan didn't hear him. His mind was consumed with the wind, urging it to bend to his will. It wasn't just the wind anymore—it was the world, responding to his presence. The branches of the trees above him began to sway violently. The leaves were torn from their branches, whipping through the air like arrows. The once calm forest had become a storm in the making.
The Patriarch watched for a moment longer before stepping forward, raising his hand, and countering with his own aura. With a burst of raw power, he clashed with Caelan's out-of-control wind, halting the surge in an instant.
Caelan gasped, his eyes snapping open. He stumbled back, disoriented. The forest around him was in chaos. Trees were bent, branches littered the ground, and leaves rained down like confetti. The wind, once gentle, now howled through the clearing, carrying the scent of destruction.
"What... what happened?" Caelan asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The Patriarch stepped forward, his gaze steady, but his voice was tinged with a touch of concern.
"You have wind nature, like your mother," the Patriarch said. "But hers was a gentle wind. A wind that nurtured life. It supported and protected. Yours, though... starts out gentle, but it becomes fierce. Uncontrolled. That is the cause of this storm."
Caelan swallowed hard, the weight of the words settling in. "So... what should I do next?"
The Patriarch regarded him for a moment before responding. "You need to train. Train until you can control the wind properly. Until you can wield it with precision, not chaos. You can't let it run wild like this. Your aura reflects your nature, but you must control it before it controls you."
The Patriarch gave him a few more guidelines on focusing, on using his will to shape the wind, to make it obey his commands without succumbing to its wild nature. Then, with a final nod, he turned to leave.
"Today, your training has come to an end," the Patriarch said, his voice firm yet filled with a strange kind of finality. "We will pick this up again tomorrow."
Caelan nodded, but instead of heading back to his room as instructed, he sat down right where he stood, in the heart of the now-silent clearing. His mind was racing.
"This is different from magic," he thought. "With magic, I convert mana into wind and control it. But with aura... I have to use my will to control the elements that are already around me. I'm not creating something new, I'm just bending what already exists to my will."
He placed his hands on the ground and closed his eyes again, focusing. He could still feel the wind swirling around him, though it had calmed. The aura was there, within him and around him. It was subtle, but it was there. The next step was clear—he had to focus his will, sharpen his control, and learn to bend the wind to his desires, without letting it consume him.
Hours passed as Caelan sat in the clearing, practicing. Each time he felt the wind rush too forcefully or veer off course, he would pull it back, calm it, control it. But it was hard, so much harder than magic. Magic was a tool; aura was a reflection of his very soul. He would have to shape himself before he could hope to shape the world around him.
As the sky darkened and the last traces of sunlight faded, Caelan finally stood up, his body sore but his resolve stronger than ever.
"This will take time," he muttered to himself. "But I will control it. I have to."
With that thought, he made his way back to the manor, ready to face whatever challenges awaited him next.