The morning stung like a slap to the face.
Riven stumbled into the dusty courtyard behind the forge, hair wild, bandages wrapped like a mummy's guilt trip, and his wings had a faint ember trails smoldering at the tips, stretched behind him in full display. No cloak. No shirt. No shame. Let the world choke on it.
Slade was already there, arms folded, leaning against a barrel with the cut of someone waiting for a funeral that hadn't been scheduled yet. A battered cutlass hung from his hip like a promise no one wanted kept. Training dummies made of busted chairs and old rum barrels stood at crooked angles, their cloth heads half-falling off like they'd already seen enough.
Slade's eyes found Riven's wings, and narrowed.
"Showing off, are we?"
Riven grinned with his harp teeth. "Nah. Just figured if I'm gonna get wrecked, might as well do it fashionably."
"Pride gets you killed."
"So does looking basic."
Slade tossed a wooden cutlass at his chest. Riven caught it, twirled it once, wings flaring subtly to balance the motion.
"Cute," Slade said, stepping forward. "Now try not to die."
"You say that like it's optional."
The strike came fast with no warning.
CRACK!
Riven's cutlass was smacked aside and Slade's wooden blade thudded into his ribs. He stumbled back, gasping, wings flaring in startled defense.
"Hey!" Riven wheezed. "Damn man!"
"You telegraph everything," Slade snapped. "Your grip is garbage. You flinch when I breathe. You flap those wings like you're learning to drown."
"It's a new style," Riven muttered. "Call it , Chaotic Flailing."
Slade didn't smile. He came in again.
This time, Riven met the strike. Barely. His wrist trembled from the impact. He used his wings to twist away, feathers trailing sparks.
"Better," Slade muttered. "Again."
---------------------------------------
The sun clawed toward its peak. Sweat ran like rivers down Riven's back and chest, dripping from his jaw. His bare torso was a mess of bruises, scrapes, half healed wounds. His wings hung half open, twitching with each breath, feathers blackened at the tips from overuse.
Slade didn't let up.
"You keep dropping your back foot!"
"Because I'm injurred! You crusty torture goblin!"
"Then heal faster."
Another strike. Another near fall. Riven used his wings to keep upright, the muscles screaming in protest.
He lunged, cutlass aimed high, then twisted low. Slade blocked it with lazy efficiency and swept his leg.
Riven hit the dirt.
"Lesson one," Slade barked. "A cutlass isn't a club. You don't swing it like you're mad at a table. It's about placement. Economy of motion. Precision."
"So less caveman, more... ninja?"
"You think you're funny."
"No, I know I'm funny."
Slade struck again. Riven ducked. Barely. Rolled. Came up swinging. His wings arced like scythes behind him, trailing soot and flickers.
"Too slow," Slade said, sidestepping.
"You're too old."
"You talk too much."
"I breathe confidence."
Down he went.
-----------------------------------------------
The forge was quiet save for the shhkk shhkk of whetstone on steel. Slade sat, sharpening a real cutlass, the edge catching the low light.
Riven slumped nearby, legs splayed in the dust, wings loosely folded like tired shadows. His chest rose and fell slowly, bandages fresh. He'd refused help. He always did.
Slade didn't look at him.
"You're not bad," he said finally. "You've got instincts. Rage. That'll carry you. For a while."
Riven looked into the embers. "That your way of saying I'm a walking expiration date?"
Slade shrugged. "Why not both?"
Riven chuckled. Then winced. "Still not dying. Not until I get a dramatic coat and a cool one liner."
"Big talk for a brat who got knocked out by a broom handle."
"I let that happen. Had to boost your morale."
Slade threw a flask. Riven caught it, sniffed, then drank. He gagged.
"You always this warm and fuzzy?"
"I used to be worse."
------------------------------------------------
Training resumed. More footwork. More punishment. Riven fought like a mad dog. His wings weren't just ornaments now, they were tools. Shields. Balancing poles. Feints. He used the wind they stirred to kick up dust, to blind, to move unpredictably.
Slade tested him. Every swing, every fake, every taunt was designed to break him.
Riven wouldn't break.
He bruised. He bled. But he learned.
"Oh look, another slash to my spleen. Gods, you're good at this."
"Shut your mouth and Parry"
"Maybe if you missed once—"
"Maybe if you mattered."
"You wound me."
A blur. A strike. Riven spun out of reach, wings wide, eyes sharp.
He lashed out. The wooden blade skimmed Slade's arm. A shallow hit. But it hit.
Silence.
Riven blinked. Then grinned.
"I hit you! I hit you!"
"You bled me," Slade muttered, examining the nick.
"Yeah, but I still got you."
Slade rolled his eyes. "I'm going to smother you with your own feathers."
---------------------------------
Night draped Wyrmsreach in shadow. The forge fire had died down to glowing coals. Slade slept in a half reclined chair, flask on his chest, one hand still loosely gripping a blade.
Riven stood alone in the courtyard.
He breathed. Slow. Controlled. Wings open. Bare chest streaked with sweat and dirt and pride. Bruised. Scarred. Glowing faintly where embers flickered at the edges of his feathers.
He raised the wooden cutlass.
Moved.
Not a boy flailing at the world. A warrior in the making. He struck, pivoted, spun. The wings guided his balance. His momentum. Every motion flowed. A quiet, dangerous grace.
He was becoming something.
The flames in his Lunarian blood whispered again. Soft curls of fire licked along his wings, dancing in the dark.
He didn't hide them.
Not anymore.