Chapter 11: The Next Step

The Next Morning

The faint light of dawn spilled into the room, casting a soft glow through the tall windows. Raye sat up in bed, the aches in his body lingering, though no longer unbearable. The memories of yesterday sat heavy on his chest, but the clarity of a new day gave him something he hadn’t felt in a while—a sense of direction.

He washed his face in the nearby basin, ran his hand through his messy hair, and dressed in a clean set of simple clothes neatly folded on the chair. A soft breeze brushed in as he opened the window slightly, taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air.

Downstairs, he found a small tray of breakfast waiting—a piece of warm bread, dried meat, a cup of tea, and a bowl of fruit. He ate quietly, lost in thought yet attentive to every movement. His senses felt sharper now, more aware—perhaps a lingering aftereffect of the Aura he had unknowingly tapped into.

Not long after, he heard a knock.

He turned as the door opened slightly. Caelan stepped in, composed and steady as ever.

Raye stood and nodded. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Caelan replied with a light smile. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t really sleep anymore,” Raye admitted. “But I feel better. A bit sore, but good.”

“That’s nice to hear.” Caelan stepped closer, his tone shifting slightly—more focused. “Let’s talk about what comes next.”

Raye straightened, attentive.

“You said you wanted to learn Aura. I didn’t forget,” Caelan said. “And I’ve arranged for someone to help you.”

Raye raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Wait—I thought you’d be the one to teach me.”

Caelan smirked knowingly, as if he’d expected that reaction. “I figured you’d think that.”

Then he added with a short chuckle, “Look, Raye, I’m a king. And with this war… you already know how my hands are tied. But that’s not the only reason.”

He stepped closer and placed a hand on Raye’s shoulder.

“The person I’ve chosen to teach you—he’s better suited for you than I am. In more ways than one. You’ll learn more from him than I could’ve taught you.”

Raye didn’t need more convincing. There was weight in Caelan’s words, something grounded in trust and confidence. He nodded firmly. “Alright. I trust you.”

“Good.” Caelan stepped back, his voice returning to that commanding clarity. “Go to the front court. He’ll be there. Give him thirty minutes.”

Raye nodded. “I’ll be ready.”

Raye stood in the centre of the front court, the morning air brisk against his skin. The wide training yard was quiet save for the distant sound of soldiers drilling elsewhere in the fortress. The stone beneath his boots was cool, and the sunlight had only just begun to reach across the walls.

He waited, posture straight, eyes focused. A quiet determination settled over him like armor.

Footsteps echoed from the archway, firm and deliberate.

The man who approached was tall—around 5’10”—with a lean, athletic frame honed by years of discipline. His hair was a striking blend of orange and golden-yellow, catching the light like a flicker of flame. His armor was practical yet elegant: a fitted dark crimson gambeson beneath a reinforced black-and-bronze mantle, the insignia of Aeldenmarch's Knight Command stitched into the shoulder in gold. At his hip hung a slightly curved sword in a burnished scabbard, its hilt wrapped in ember-red leather.

He moved with calm assurance, his gaze sharp and assessing.

Raye took a breath and stepped forward. “Good morning,” he said clearly. “I am Raye Blazeborne, prince of the Fire Kingdom.”

The man stopped a few paces from him, tilting his head slightly with a faint, sly smirk.

“Prince?” he echoed. “Of a kingdom that no longer exists?”

The words struck like a slap—cold and deliberate.

Raye’s jaw tensed, eyes narrowing briefly. But he didn’t lash out. He straightened further, voice steady and low.

“Perhaps. But as long as I still stand, the Fire Kingdom hasn’t fallen yet.”

Silence stretched between them—brief, but heavy.

Then the man’s expression shifted—not to mockery, but to a flicker of approval. The smirk faded. He gave a small nod.

“Hmph,” he said. “Good. That’s the fire I was looking for.”

Raye blinked, caught off guard.

“I meant no offense,” the man said sincerely this time, placing a fist lightly over his chest in a respectful gesture. “I needed to see how you’d respond to provocation—not insults, but pressure. A knight must stand even when shaken.”

“I understand,” Raye replied, shoulders relaxing.

“I am Theron Ignace, Commander of the Knights of Aeldenmarch,” he said, straightening. “And from this day forward, your instructor.”

Ignace. The name stirred something faint and unspoken in Raye, like a candle flicker in the back of his memory—but he chose not to question it.

Theron continued, tone calm and resolute, “From today, I will train you not just to use Aura, but to wield your fire as a weapon, as a shield—and as a voice.”

Raye gave a firm nod. “I’m ready.”

Theron moved without a word, drawing his blade in a swift, fluid motion.

Steel shimmered in the morning sun—then came the strike.

It was fast.

But Raye’s instincts were faster.

He leaned back just enough, the edge of Theron’s sword slicing the air where his chest had been a heartbeat ago. His boots scraped against the stone floor as he backstepped, eyes narrowing.

He didn’t flinch. No armor. No time to prepare. Just his blade.

Raye didn’t hesitate. He knew what this was—a test. A real one.

Theron tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk on his lips. “Not bad.”

The prince said nothing. He lowered into a ready stance and stepped forward, sword in hand, confidence in his bones.

He lunged. Their blades clashed in a flash of motion—metal ringing out in sharp, crisp echoes.

Raye moved with purpose. He was trained. Quick on his feet. His strikes were clean, deliberate, and filled with raw intent.

Theron parried easily at first, his movements measured and almost relaxed. He wasn’t toying with Raye—he was observing. Testing. Calculating.

But the moment Raye nearly slipped past his guard with a fast upward slash, the knight’s expression shifted.

“This won’t do,” Theron muttered, stepping back.

Then he exhaled.

Raye felt it before he saw it—like a silent pressure suddenly folding over the court. The air thickened. The ground beneath him seemed heavier.

Aura.

A deep, golden-orange light began to radiate subtly from Theron’s body. It didn’t blaze—it pulsed, calm but undeniable. Like heat rising off a smouldering forge.

Theron dashed forward—and this time, Raye barely managed to block the blow.

The impact rattled through his arms. It felt like getting hit by a hammer cloaked in fire.

Another strike came—then another.

Raye staggered, each clash pushing him back. His breathing grew sharper, sweat already lining his brow.

He's faster. Heavier. Stronger. This is Aura-enhanced combat.

Theron didn’t let up, his movements precise and overwhelming. “If this is all you’ve got,” he said coldly between strikes, “then you’ve already lost.”

Raye’s muscles screamed, but he didn’t back down.

Then, for the briefest moment—he remembered.

That moment in the battle against Vaerond. The sensation of weightlessness. The rush of power from within.

He closed his eyes mid-duel, even as Theron charged again.

And something sparked.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t controlled. But it was there.

A faint red-orange glow bled from Raye’s form—unrefined, flickering like a candle in wind. But it pushed back.

Theron’s next strike met Raye’s sword with a violent crack, both men forced back by the force. The stone under their boots split slightly from the burst.

The knight’s eyes widened, just for a moment. “You’re already using it…”

“I don’t know how—” Raye panted, gripping his sword, “—but I feel it.”

Theron chuckled, raising his sword again. “Then let’s bring it out properly.”

The duel escalated—not into a brutal war dance, but a sharp, elegant clash of wills and aura. The energy around them shimmered subtly, heatwaves dancing around their limbs, drawing glances from guards stationed along the walls.

Blow after blow, Raye held his ground. Unstable, but burning. Like a wildfire just finding its wind.

He wasn’t just defending now—he was pushing.

And Theron felt it.

One final clash—steel against steel, aura flaring.

Then Theron stepped back, his blade lowered, and raised a hand.

“That’s enough.”

Raye dropped to a knee, panting, aura flickering away like embers fading.

Theron looked at him, no smirk this time—just a nod of deep approval.

“You’ve got the fire,” he said. “You just need to learn how to shape it.”

Raye glanced up, still catching his breath.

“Good instincts. Strong resolve. And more importantly…” Theron sheathed his sword. “You didn’t hesitate to rise, even when the odds turned against you.”

Raye slowly stood, wiping the sweat from his brow. His arms ached. His heart pounded.

But he was smiling.

“I’ll make sure you learn to master that power,” Theron continued, voice now laced with something more than duty—respect. “You’re not just some fallen prince, Raye Blazeborne. You’re something more.”

And for the first time in a long time, Raye believed it.