The morning sun cast long shadows across the training grounds as Avian moved through the Veritas sword forms. Each motion was a small betrayal, a conscious rejection of everything his body knew to be true.
Raise the blade in salute to heaven. Arc it down like falling light. Step with grace, not purpose.
"Horseshit choreography," he muttered under his breath, low enough that Master Corwin couldn't hear from across the courtyard.
The seventh form demanded a high guard that left his ribs exposed for a full second. In real combat — the kind where things with too many teeth tried to eat your face — that second meant death. But here, in this manicured garden where the biggest threat was disappointing your sword instructor, it was considered "elegant."
"Your transitions are still rough," Corwin called out. "The blade should flow like water, not crash like waves."
Avian adjusted, hating every second of it. Water flowed around obstacles. His way — Dex's way — was to go through them. But he smoothed the motion, made it prettier, made it useless.
"Better. Now, show me your aura manifestation."
This part, at least, he could control. Avian let his mana sink inward, following the familiar path from his Aether Core through the conversion process. Where mages pushed mana outward through their veins for spells, warriors pulled it in, condensing it into something denser, more reactive.
Life Force. Aura. Different names for the same thing — mana transformed into a weapon.
He let it seep out slowly, carefully. A faint shimmer of energy coated his blade, barely visible in the morning light. Novice-level work, maybe pushing into Expert if he was feeling generous. Nothing that would draw attention.
The truth was, he could coat the entire training ground in aura thick enough to choke on. Could project it in waves that would crack stone and bend steel. Had done it, in fact, when facing down things that made normal nightmares look friendly.
But Avian Veritas was twelve years old and trained in a tertiary branch. So he kept it weak, kept it simple, kept it safe.
"Adequate," Corwin said, which was high praise from him. "Your control is surprisingly refined for your age. Most students struggle with maintaining consistency."
That's because most students haven't spent years channeling aura while their guts were hanging out, Avian thought. Amazing what imminent death does for your focus.
"Thank you, Master Corwin. I've been practicing the breathing exercises."
"Show me the tenth through fifteenth forms. Combat speed."
Avian nodded and dropped into stance. These forms were meant to chain together, each one leading naturally into the next. The problem was they assumed your opponent would respond predictably, following the same school of swordsmanship.
In the real world, demons didn't give a shit about your forms.
But he performed them anyway, blade singing through the air in prescribed patterns. High cut to low sweep. Spinning deflection to thrust. Pretty, useless movements that would get you killed in any fight that mattered.
His aura flickered with each strike, adding just enough enhancement to show competence without excellence. The perfect mediocrity of a forgotten noble son.
"Enough," Corwin said after the final form. "You're improving. But remember — the Veritas style is about more than just movements. It's about embodying the ideals of our founder."
Our founder who stole credit for killing the Demon King, Avian thought viciously. But he bowed respectfully. "Of course, Master. I'll meditate on Saint Vaerin's teachings."
Corwin dismissed him with a nod, already turning to the next student. Avian sheathed his blade and headed for the water barrels, throat dry from the morning's performance.
That's what it was — a performance. Every day, every form, every carefully controlled display of adequacy. Playing a role until he forgot who was acting and who was real.
He splashed water on his face, letting the cold shock clear his thoughts. Six months until the heir trials. Six months of this theater.
"Your footwork is shit."
Avian didn't flinch. He'd sensed the presence approaching — another student, judging by the unrefined aura signature. He turned slowly, water still dripping from his chin.
Marcus Veritas stood there, arms crossed, wearing the kind of sneer that only came from being born into the secondary branch instead of the tertiary. Sixteen years old, built like someone had been feeding him nothing but meat and superiority complex since birth.
"Good morning to you too, cousin," Avian said mildly.
"Don't deflect. I've been watching your forms. You keep trying to shorten the movements, cut corners. That's not how a Veritas fights."
No, a Veritas fights by letting other people do the work and then claiming credit, Avian thought. But he kept his expression neutral. "I appreciate your concern for my training."
Marcus stepped closer, hand moving to his sword hilt. Not drawing, just resting there. A threat and an invitation. "Concern? I'm embarrassed. You're making the family look weak."
"Then perhaps you should offer guidance instead of criticism."
The older boy's eyes narrowed. "Is that a challenge?"
Avian considered. A spar would mean holding back even more, playing the fumbling younger student. But refusing would mark him as a coward, which brought its own problems.
"A learning opportunity," he said carefully. "If you're willing to instruct."
Marcus grinned. It wasn't a nice expression. "Get your blade. Training ground three. Let's see if we can beat some proper form into you."
From a high window in the main compound, a figure watched the proceedings with interest.
Aedric Veritas, Patriarch of the clan and one of the Five Great Blades, stood motionless as stone. His presence was so controlled that even the air seemed afraid to move around him. This was a man who could split mountains with a casual swing, who had walked through battlefields that would break lesser warriors' minds.
And right now, he was watching his forgotten son prepare to be humiliated by a secondary branch bully.
"Interesting," he murmured.
His aide, standing at what he hoped was a safe distance, cleared his throat. "My lord?"
"The boy. Avian. Watch his feet."
On the training ground below, Avian had taken his stance. The Veritas opening position — weight evenly distributed, blade held at middle guard. Textbook perfect.
Except...
"He's compensating," Aedric said. "Look at the micro-adjustments. His body wants to settle into a different stance entirely. He's fighting his own muscle memory with every movement."
The aide squinted, seeing nothing but a nervous boy about to get thrashed. But Aedric's eyes — eyes that had witnessed the death of gods and the birth of legends — saw something else.
"Why would a twelve-year-old need to override muscle memory?" Aedric asked, though he wasn't really asking the aide. "What stance is so deeply ingrained that he has to consciously correct it?"
Below, the spar began. Marcus came in aggressive, using his size and reach advantage. Avian gave ground, movements slightly too mechanical, slightly too thoughtful. Like someone translating a foreign language in real time.
"He's holding back," the aide ventured, trying to contribute.
"No." Aedric's voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. "He's holding everything back. Watch."
Marcus pressed harder, blade flashing in complex patterns. For a moment — just a fraction of a heartbeat — Avian's body moved without thought. A perfect dodge that turned into positioning for a counter that would have ended the fight.
Then he caught himself, stumbled, let Marcus's blade knock his aside.
"Fascinating," Aedric breathed.
"My lord?"
"He recognized the opening. Saw the perfect counter. Then deliberately failed to execute it." The Patriarch's eyes narrowed. "That wasn't incompetence. That was camouflage."
They watched as Avian continued to lose ground, each retreat calculated to look natural. His aura remained weak, flickering like a candle in wind. But sometimes, when Marcus pressed too hard, there was something else. A density to the air around the boy that spoke of power held in savage check.
"Should I... investigate, my lord?" the aide asked carefully.
Aedric was quiet for a long moment. Below, Marcus had backed Avian to the edge of the training circle, victory assured.
"No," the Patriarch said finally. "Whatever that boy is hiding, he's gone to considerable effort to keep it buried. There's a reason for that."
"But if he's concealing his true strength—"
"Then he's either very wise or very dangerous. Possibly both." A ghost of a smile touched Aedric's lips. "Do you know what the most interesting part is?"
The aide waited.
"His style. The one he's suppressing. In those moments when his control slips... it reminds me of something. Something that shouldn't exist anymore."
"My lord?"
But Aedric had already turned away from the window. "Double the branch family's training resources. Quietly. I want to see what happens when our young genius thinks no one is watching closely."
"Yes, my lord. And the boy?"
"Leave him to his games. For now." Aedric paused at the door. "But have someone check the historical archives. Specifically, any records of pre-war sword techniques. The ones we... discouraged after the peace."
The aide bowed, confused but obedient. When he looked back at the window, the Patriarch was gone, moving with the kind of speed that made distance a suggestion rather than a law.
Below, unaware of the scrutiny from above, Avian picked himself up from the dirt.
"Pathetic," Marcus spat, not even breathing hard. "I've seen servants with better form."
Avian wiped blood from his split lip, keeping his expression carefully neutral. The cut would heal within hours — his aura, even suppressed, accelerated recovery. But for now, it served its purpose. Made him look properly beaten.
"Thank you for the lesson," he said, bowing despite the ache in his ribs where Marcus had landed a particularly nasty strike.
"Lesson?" Marcus laughed. "The only lesson here is that tertiary branches should stick to bookkeeping. Leave the swords to real warriors."
Several other students had gathered to watch, drawn by the spectacle of an easy victory. Some laughed. Others just looked away, embarrassed by the display.
Avian straightened, meeting Marcus's eyes. For just a moment, he let something else show through. Not anger. Not humiliation. Just... acknowledgment. Like a wolf recognizing another predator's territory marker.
Marcus's laughter died. His hand moved unconsciously back to his sword.
Then Avian smiled — polite, harmless, forgettable — and the moment passed.
"I'll take your advice to heart, cousin. Perhaps you're right about bookkeeping."
He turned and walked away, pace measured despite the urge to run. Or to turn back and show Marcus what a real fight looked like. His hands shook with the effort of control, nails digging crescents into his palms.
"That was hard to watch."
Avian glanced sideways. One of the other students — Kai, he thought, another knight in training — had fallen into step beside him.
"I've had worse," Avian said.
"Still. Marcus is an ass. Someone should put him in his place."
I could. Right now. One move. But Avian just shrugged. "He's stronger. That's how it works."
Kai shot him a strange look. "That's... practical. Most people would be swearing revenge or something."
"Revenge requires effort. I prefer naps."
That got a laugh. "Fair enough. Hey, some of us train in the evening, after the masters leave. Less formal. You should come."
Avian considered. Informal training meant less scrutiny, but also more chances to slip. "Maybe."
"Think about it. Marcus won't be there — he only shows up when there's an audience."
They reached the fork where paths diverged to different residence wings. Kai headed left with a wave. Avian continued straight, toward the tertiary branch quarters.
His ribs had already stopped aching. The lip would be healed within the hour. Physical damage was easy to fix when you had the aura reserves of someone who'd fought actual wars.
The humiliation, though. That lingered.
Not because Marcus had beaten him — that was the plan, after all. But because he'd had to let it happen. Had to stand there and take hits from someone who wouldn't have lasted thirty seconds in a real fight.
This is what you wanted, he reminded himself. Stay hidden. Stay safe. Stay forgotten.
But as he walked through empty corridors, blood still copper on his tongue, he wondered how much longer he could stomach the taste of his own lies.
A servant passed, bowing quickly. Avian nodded back, the perfect image of a defeated but dignified young noble.
Nobody noticed how his shadow seemed denser than it should be, or how the air grew heavy in his wake. Nobody saw the flicker of killing intent that leaked through his control like blood through bandages.
He was getting tired of pretending to be weak.
And that, more than any trial or revelation, might be what finally gave him away.
His chambers were empty when he arrived — Elira must be attending to other duties. Good. He needed space to think, to process the morning's events without maintaining his mask.
Avian moved to the washbasin, studying his reflection as he cleaned the blood away. The split lip was already sealed, just a faint line that would vanish within minutes. Another reminder of what he really was, hidden beneath this child's face.
He'd felt his father's presence during the spar. That absolute weight of power, impossible to miss once you knew what to look for. The Patriarch had been watching, analyzing, drawing conclusions that might be dangerously close to truth.
"Shit," he muttered, then caught himself checking for observers even in his private room. The paranoia was getting worse.
But justified. Aedric Veritas hadn't become one of the Five Great Blades by missing details. If he'd noticed the suppression, the deliberate failures, the shadow of something else beneath Avian's movements...
A knock interrupted his spiraling thoughts.
"Come," he called, quickly arranging his expression back to neutral.
The door opened to reveal not Elira, but Seren. The young historian clutched her ever-present notebook, ink stains fresh on her fingers.
"Young master. I heard about your... training session."
"News travels fast."
"Marcus tends to brag loudly." She entered uninvited, closing the door behind her. "May I ask you something?"
Avian gestured to a chair, curious despite himself. "You may ask."
"Why did you let him win?"
The question hung between them like a blade. Avian kept his face carefully blank. "I don't know what you mean. He's older, stronger, more experienced—"
"More experienced?" Seren flipped open her notebook. "Let me read you something. 'Subject demonstrates unusual muscle memory patterns inconsistent with standard Veritas training. During moments of stress, reverts to unknown form characterized by economy of motion and practical application over ceremonial structure.'"
"You've been taking notes on me?"
"I take notes on everything. It's what I do." She leaned forward. "But you're particularly interesting. Do you know why?"
"I'm sure you'll tell me."
"Because you move like someone who's been in real fights. Not training spars. Not controlled duels. The kind of fights where—" she paused, searching for words, "—where people die."
Avian said nothing. Silence stretched between them, heavy with implication.
Finally, Seren closed her notebook. "I'm not here to threaten you. Or expose you. I just... I think there's more to history than what they teach us. More to the present, too."
"Dangerous thinking for a church historian."
"Probably." She stood, smoothing her robes. "The evening training Kai mentioned? I'll be there. We could use someone who actually knows what they're doing."
"I never said—"
"You don't have to." She moved to the door, pausing at the threshold. "You know what I find most interesting about the Demon King?"
Avian's jaw tightened. "What?"
"Nobody ever asks why he fought. In all the histories, all the accounts... he's just there. Evil for evil's sake. But real people don't work that way. Real people have reasons."
She left before he could respond, the door clicking shut with quiet finality.
Avian stood alone in his chamber, morning sun streaming through windows to illuminate dust motes dancing in the air. Outside, he could hear the distant sound of continued training, the clash of steel on steel as students played at war.
His hands clenched and unclenched, muscle memory wanting weapons that weren't there.
Evening training. Informal. Less oversight.
Maybe it was time to let a little more truth slip through the cracks.
After all, what was the worst that could happen?
He'd already died once.