CHAPTER 31: THE ARCANA PATH

Midday frost crusted the flagstones, defiant against the weak winter sun. Soren adjusted his stance as he waited with the other recruits in the training yard, his breath clouding before him.

The usual chatter filled the air, boasts about yesterday’s matches, complaints about the cold, speculation about today’s drills. Tavren’s voice carried above the others, recounting some exaggerated feat that had most of the trainees laughing.

Soren flexed his fingers, working feeling back into them. ’Another day of the same drills,’ he thought, eyeing the weapon rack. ’At least it keeps the blood moving.’

The laughter died suddenly. The great iron gate at the yard’s edge creaked open, drawing everyone’s attention.

Soren expected Master Durnach with his perpetual scowl, or perhaps one of the senior knights come to evaluate their progress.

Instead, an old man entered.

He wore robes of deep midnight blue, lined with intricate silver glyphwork along the hem and sleeves.

His gray hair was tied back in a simple knot, and he carried a long, weathered staff that looked more like a walking stick than a weapon.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about him, no dramatic entrance, no shimmering aura of power, no air of intimidation. He simply walked in as if he had all the time in the world and nowhere particular to be.

Whispers rippled through the assembled recruits.

"That’s the mage?" someone murmured behind Soren.

"He looks like my grandfather," another voice replied, followed by poorly suppressed laughter.

Tavren nudged the recruit beside him. "If he trips over that robe, we’re all in trouble."

From the front row, a trainee Soren recognized as one of the Blackridge recruits muttered loudly enough for those nearby to hear: "I thought mages wore pointy hats."

Soren kept silent, watching. The old man, Kaelen Veyth, if the rumors were true, approached the center of the yard with unhurried steps.

He seemed to take no notice of the whispers or the barely concealed smirks. His face remained placid, his eyes taking in the assembled recruits with mild interest.

When he reached the center, he planted his staff on the ground with a soft tap and nodded to the trainees.

"Good day to you all," he said, his voice softer than Soren had expected, but somehow carrying to every corner of the yard.

"I understand you’ve been training hard with blade and bow. Today, we’ll try something different."

The master of arms stepped forward, his usual stern expression firmly in place. "Recruits, this is Master Kaelen Veyth, mage of House Velrane. You will show him the same respect you show me."

Soren glanced up toward the balcony overlooking the yard. Sure enough, Veyr Velrane stood watching, arms resting on the stone railing. Beside him, taller and more imposing, Lord Callen Velrane observed the proceedings with a face carved from granite.

Kaelen Veyth smiled slightly. "Who would like to demonstrate their skills first? Come at me one by one, any weapon you prefer."

The recruits exchanged glances, a mixture of confusion and eagerness on their faces. A tall, broad-shouldered boy from Kaldris stepped forward, a practice sword already in hand.

"I’ll go first," he announced, confidence radiating from him like heat.

Kaelen nodded, making no move to draw a weapon of his own. He simply stood there, staff planted beside him, looking for all the world like he was waiting for a merchant cart to pass by.

The Kaldris boy circled once, then charged with surprising speed for his size. His blade whistled through the air in a powerful overhead strike.

Kaelen tapped his staff once on the ground, a gesture so small Soren nearly missed it. A sudden arc of force, invisible but unmistakable, swept across the flagstones.

The charging recruit’s legs went out from under him as if he’d hit a sheet of ice. He crashed down hard, sword clattering away, looking as bewildered as a fish suddenly finding itself on land.

Kaelen hadn’t moved from his spot.

A hush fell over the yard.

The second volunteer approached more cautiously, a girl from Coralward with quick eyes and quicker feet. She feinted left, then right, her blade weaving an intricate pattern as she sought an opening.

Kaelen murmured a single word that Soren couldn’t quite catch. Frost bloomed across the girl’s blade, spreading like spilled ink until it reached her fingers.

She gasped, her numbed hand opening involuntarily, the sword dropping to the stones with a dull clang.

By the third match, the smirks had vanished. By the fourth, a tense silence had fallen over the yard. By the fifth, even Tavren wasn’t making jokes anymore.

Each opponent fell in turn, disarmed, swept off their feet, or left too winded to continue, while Kaelen Veyth barely seemed to exert himself.

His movements were minimal, precise, and devastatingly effective. He never struck a cruel blow, never humiliated his opponents beyond the simple fact of their defeat, but each match ended decisively.

Soren watched with growing fascination. He tracked Kaelen’s footwork, his timing, the way his staff moved in small, economical gestures.

There was a pattern to it, almost like Bladecraft in its precision, but different, stranger. It bent the rules of space and force in ways Soren’s training couldn’t account for.

’It’s like watching someone fight the air itself,’ he thought, his eyes narrowing as he studied each subtle movement.

The shard at his chest pulsed once, warm against his skin. Valenna remained silent, but he sensed her attention sharpening, focusing on the mage’s techniques with the same intensity as his own.

Up on the balcony, Veyr leaned toward his father, a slight grin playing across his features.

"They always forget," Veyr said, just loud enough for Soren to catch. "He’s not just a mage. He’s our mage."

Lord Callen’s expression never changed. "They forget because they’ve never seen him in a real fight."

Kaelen dispatched his latest opponent, Lyrik, who had approached with more bravado than sense, with a gesture that sent the boy’s sword spinning from his grasp as if plucked by invisible fingers.

"Are there any more volunteers?" Kaelen asked, looking around the yard. His breathing remained steady, his posture relaxed, as if he’d spent the last half hour in quiet conversation rather than combat.

No one stepped forward. The recruits shifted uneasily, exchanging glances, each silently hoping someone else would volunteer.

Soren felt a strange certainty settle over him. He didn’t understand what he had just witnessed, and that was precisely why he needed to experience it firsthand.

He stepped forward.

"They were cocky," he said, his voice calm in the silence of the yard. "That’s why they lost. I’m not."

He paused, aware of every eye upon him, including those from the balcony.

"I’ve never fought a mage before. I want to see what it’s like."

Kaelen studied him for a long moment. The faintest hint of amusement flickered in the old man’s eyes, there and gone so quickly Soren might have imagined it. Then he nodded once.

"Very well."

Soren drew his practice sword, the weight familiar in his hand. He settled into a ready stance, centered and balanced, watching Kaelen with unwavering focus.

The mage lowered the tip of his staff toward the ground, his posture shifting almost imperceptibly.

"Then come, boy," Kaelen said. "Let’s see if your blade can cut through the wind."