The snow fell in broken, wind-drifted sheets outside Kaelstrid Hold, and with it came silence. Riven stood alone at the edge of the sparring ring, the green-bladed sword resting across his back, its hilt wrapped in worn leather and dried bloodstains.
Around him, the sons of nobles circled. Some curious. Some arrogant. All thinking they were equals.
He had returned from the wilds weeks ago, wordless and harder than the stone walls they called home. And now, they whispered—about the raids, the pirates, the ghost with the forest sword.
They didn't know who he truly was.
But they wanted to test him.
The first stepped forward, bold and mocking.
"You fight shadows, Kaelstrid. Let's see how you fare against men."
Riven didn't speak. He drew his blade and struck—not to kill, but to break. A clean movement. The boy dropped, blood from a split cheek steaming on the cold ground.
Another came. Then another.
He dropped them all.
Fast. Brutal. Precise.
Not one landed a blow.
He moved like frost through fire—uncaring, unrelenting, perfect in form.
When the last boy hit the dirt, groaning, Riven sheathed his blade.
"None of you are ready," he said flatly. "And I will not teach weakness."
He turned his back to them and walked away.
Let them struggle. Let them train with each other. He was not their leader—not yet. Not while his mother and father still ruled. Not while Kaelstrid still stood.
He had no warband.
No soldiers.
No brothers.
Only a sword, a forest full of ghosts, and the memory of how quickly peace could be shattered.