CHAPTER 46: THE SEED FALTERS

Dawn bled over the horizon, painting the training yard in shades of pink and gold that did nothing to warm the bitter air. Soren’s muscles already screamed in protest as Kaelor strapped yet another weight to his forearm, the leather cuff biting into skin already raw from yesterday’s punishment.

"Too slow," Kaelor growled, tightening the strap until Soren couldn’t suppress a wince. "Pain is just weakness leaving the body. You’ve got plenty to spare."

The old swordmaster stepped back, his single eye narrowed in assessment. With his white hair catching the early light and his scarred face set in lines of perpetual disappointment, he looked like some vengeful spirit sent to torment those who dared aspire beyond their station.

Soren lifted the practice blade, its weight multiplied by the iron discs now strapped to both arms.

His shoulders burned with the effort of merely holding the weapon level. His palms, still blistered from gripping heated hilts two days prior, throbbed in protest as rough leather pressed against raw flesh.

"First form," Kaelor barked, circling like a predator. "And if I see your edge drop again, you’ll taste the dirt."

Soren moved through the standard opening stance, one that any recruit could perform in their sleep. The weights transformed the simple movement into agony, dragging at his muscles, threatening to pull him off-balance with each shift. Sweat already beaded on his forehead despite the morning chill.

"Pathetic," Kaelor spat, his training sword cracking against Soren’s calf. "Back straight. Knees bent. Again."

The yard remained empty save for them, Kaelor had demanded these sessions begin before the other recruits woke, ensuring no distractions. No witnesses, either, to the methodical dismantling of Soren’s body each morning.

As he reset his stance, mind emptied of everything but survival, a memory flickered, the forgotten library, the dusty book with its nine-petaled flower. The knowledge Valenna had poured into him like molten steel into a mold, burning and transforming.

’The Seed Awakens,’

he thought, the first form of the Nine Petals vivid in his mind’s eye. Not the crude diagrams from the book, but Valenna’s perfect version, a dance of subtle weight shifts and precise angles that made traditional swordplay look like children swinging sticks.

The shard warmed against his chest, a gentle pulse that seemed to ask a question.

Kaelor turned his back momentarily, reaching for a water skin. In that brief moment of inattention, Soren made his decision.

He shifted his weight, not to the standard second form but to the opening stance of The Seed Awakens, feet positioned slightly differently, blade angled with subtler intent. The weights fought him, but he compensated, adjusting the movement to accommodate their drag.

The shard flared warmer as he began the transition, and Valenna’s voice whispered through his mind.

’Elbow higher. Wrist looser. Feel the ground through your heel, not your toes.’

He made the adjustments instinctively, the blade cutting a pattern through the air that was both familiar and utterly foreign to his muscles. For a heartbeat, it felt right—balanced, inevitable, like water finding its path downhill.

Then reality reasserted itself.

His blistered palm slipped against the hilt, grip faltering at the crucial moment of transition. The weight on his left arm pulled him fractionally off-center, destroying the delicate balance the form required. His body, already exhausted from days of punishment, betrayed him.

The blade wavered, edge dropping.

Kaelor was on him in an instant, moving with speed that belied his age. The training sword struck Soren’s ribs with surgical precision, finding the exact spot where yesterday’s bruise was still forming. Pain exploded through his side, driving the air from his lungs in a harsh gasp.

His knees hit the dirt before he registered falling.

"What in the eight hells was that?" Kaelor loomed over him, his voice quiet with dangerous intensity. "That wasn’t any form I taught you."

Soren struggled to breathe, each inhale sending fresh spikes of agony through his ribcage. The weights dragged his arms down, making it nearly impossible to push himself up.

"I asked you a question, boy." The swordmaster’s boot nudged his shoulder, not quite a kick but the threat was clear.

"Trying... something different," Soren managed, tasting copper on his tongue.

Kaelor’s face darkened. "I don’t train you to be different. I train you to be disciplined." He struck again, the practice sword cracking across Soren’s shoulder blades. "Discipline means perfecting what you’re taught, not inventing flourishes like some courtyard dandy trying to impress the ladies."

The shard burned against Soren’s chest, Valenna’s presence sharpening with something that might have been anger or excitement, the line between them had always been thin. Her voice cut through the haze of pain, colder than the morning air.

’Did you think a flower blooms after a single watering? No, boy. To master this dance, you must bleed until the seed drinks deep.’

The shard pulsed in time with his racing heart, each beat sending a jolt of heat through his chest that seemed to synchronize with the throbbing of his injuries. It hurt, gods, it hurt, but beneath the pain was something else. A certainty. A purpose.

"Up," Kaelor commanded, stepping back. "We haven’t even started today’s real work."

Soren forced his body to move, muscles trembling with the effort. He tasted dirt and blood as he pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet. The practice blade felt impossibly heavy in his hands, but he raised it nonetheless, settling back into the standard opening stance.

His ribs screamed. His palms wept. His shoulders threatened to unlock from their sockets. But he stood.

Kaelor studied him, his single eye revealing nothing. "Again," he said finally. "From the beginning. And this time, no deviations."

As Soren moved through the basic forms, the mindless, repetitive drills that Kaelor demanded, part of him retreated inward, to where Valenna’s knowledge still burned bright. The Nine Petals wouldn’t bloom today. Perhaps not tomorrow. But they would.

’Next time,’ he promised himself as his body performed the mechanical movements Kaelor demanded. ’Next time, my grip will be stronger. My balance truer.’

The shard pulsed once in what felt like agreement, then settled into a steady warmth against his skin.

Overhead, the sun continued its climb, indifferent to the small dramas playing out beneath it. In the dirt of the training yard, Soren bled and sweated and endured, his body breaking while something deeper took root.