EndlessReverie
Chapter 13: Sword Arts
𝚉𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗
05/30/2025
A/N: i made two chapters today. im just gonna schedule them to 00:00 of every day in Hong Kong Time.
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Frost piled along the balcony railings as the morning sun spilled amber across the courtyard. The estate stirred with footsteps from the interior and soft conversations while outside were distant clangs of steel and murmured chants.
Zairon stood at the edge of the training hall, a thick woolen cloak swaddled around his shoulders, feeling small beside the statue-lined colonnades. A week prior—
Sovereign Asareth and Duchess Aidelie had departed on a continental-level diplomatic summons to Northfall—summoned by the capital's Inner Concord to mediate a volatile dispute between two regional border houses over unauthorized extraction.
There are a total of ten continents within the world of Aetheria and they are: Northrend, a small region in the north of the world where snow covered the land in the most of months, the continent where Navalia was located. Aursfor was a small chuck of land located in the west where Northrend stands, it houses most of the natural disasters due to its climate.
Elurenn was located just south of Northrend, located in the center of Aetheria. It spans across a huge portion of the world—notably, the entire continent is led by Luminark. Synthara is located east to where Elurenn stands, it covers distance but mostly made up of an exposed massive archipelago where domes are made of. It is the land of Synthara, a sanctuary of perfection and synthesis.
Dravantesh is the continent located in the south, it houses fierce and terrifying entities that can size up an entire house or a citadel. It's where the sacredguardians of Aetheria was first found. Cindralith is the opposite of Dravantesh—located just south east, it houses beautiful and elegant landscape that was artificially made by a sacred guardian. The whole lot of it are made up of greenery and soft hues of blue that was caught by rain.
The other four continents were named Istaria, located in the west below Aursfor. Virelya located north west of Aetheria— then Aurellis located west of Aetheria. And finally, Teroi—located south west. The continents remain undocumented as of the time.
For the time being, command of House Navalia fell to Cael, Asareth's iron-voiced right hand, and the court council.
Yet, Zairon wasn't bothered.
He wasn't here just to watch this time.
Today, he was to be formally inducted into the estate's martial regimen—not as a ceremony, but as expectation.
"Zairon—" came a voice behind him. Ethereth. Swordmistress of the House and a walking scowl. She moved like glass being drawn into shape—smooth, sharp, and elegant in purpose. "You're late. I expected you to come at first light."
Zairon gestured to the pale gleam rising over the horizon. "It is first light."
She stopped in front of him, eyes like polished iron. "Then you are exactly one breath behind. Remember, everything is costly at battle and war."
He swallowed. "Understood."
For a moment, nothing passed between them but cold air and quiet discipline.
"You'll observe first," she said. "Then fail. Then learn."
He gave a nod, ready to follow, but she turned sharply to look back at him.
"I chose to oversee your training," Ethereth spoke. "Because I will not have you picking up bad habits from Yve's improvisations and instincts. You may think her spirited. I see her flaws. You carry too much weight to stumble as she does."
Zairon's mouth opened with confused laughter. "I m—mean, she may be too much of a rogue. But I'm sure Yve will still do well—yes, Ma'am!"
He felt an intense glare coming from his sister. She spoke with hostile elegance. "When we are training, refer to me as Ma'am—and whatever ideas you had reserved for Yve, don't let it come out. Understood?"
He nodded his head fast.
"Good," she said. "Come."
She walked ahead—silent, commanding. He followed.
∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗
The courtyard—no, the Martial Grounds was already alive with motion—blades flashing, footfalls from marches pounding against dirt and stone, and the faint hum of snow brushing against everyone in this area.
Zairon felt the weight of every eye on him, though none were openly hostile. This was not just training; it was a proving ground, an oath to ensure honor and bravery amongst hunters and warriors.
Ethereth led him to the edge of the stone ring, where veterans and cadets alike moved in strict formations, practicing the seven forms—the foundation of all sword arts taught within Navalia.
Zairon's eyes traced the practiced forms—their bodies flowing through seven distinct sword arts, each telling a story of balance, power, and purpose.
Ethereth stood beside him, silent but watchful.
"The Weaving Navalian Sword Arts," she said softly, "is about flow. The sword moves through the air like you're brandishing a brush against a canvas. It's about coloring the blade with the blood of your enemies in a swift, precise manner. Every strike is deliberate, every motion a stroke of intent."
Zairon absorbed her words, trying to see beyond the physical—into the wonders of the movement. His own thread flared faintly, a wild violet spark that seemed impatient to break free of form.
"You'll be learning seven forms," Ethereth continued. "First Ripple, Hollow Fang, Echoforce, Seraphine, and such… each teaches a different approach. But none are a perfect fit for you—yet."
He glanced toward a cadet practicing a sword form, her blade tracing graceful arcs in time with her breathing. Her thread glimmered soft pink, a melody of emotion made steel.
"You admire her form," Ethereth observed, reading his glance. "But that path isn't yours. You aren't yet fitted for the requirements to study such form—you thread will be the one to service you."
Zairon frowned. "I don't even know what my thread wants. It's like a storm inside me."
Ethereth's gaze hardened. "Then your first lesson is this—understand what you fight for. Without purpose, even the sharpest blade is just a stick."
Whee—!
A sharp whistle called their attention as the training intensified. Cadets surged through drills, essence threads shimmering faintly with each strike.
Zairon stepped onto the field, sword in hand. The cold bit into his skin, but his focus sharpened.
Across the yard, Yve waved, her usual teasing smile in place. She held her arms up with a hand gesture—telling him that he'll size him up if Ethereth wasn't for his liking.
"Come on, Zai. Stop daydreaming. You're slower than a frost crawl." Ethereth coldly muttered before dragging Zairon in front of a training dummy.
"Strike."
He lunged, aiming for a swift strike.
Clang!
His blade was parried effortlessly—a dummy made Zairon stumbled back, there was a hidden giggle by Yve on the background as she left to find a partner to spar with.
"You think too much," Yve said, grinning. "Try feeling it. Don't force the sword—become the sword."
Zairon scowled. "That's terrible advice."
"And it's what Father taught us, now strike again!"
Zairon kept flailing his sword until his arms trembled and breath came in ragged bursts. His violet thread sparked erratically inside, raw and untamed.
Later, a tall figure in ink-black robes approached. Silver eyes assessed him with quiet intensity.
"Maevan," Ethereth introduced. "Blade master and former commander."
Maevan nodded, then fixed his gaze on Zairon. "Sword Mistress Ethereth has put me in charge to size you up, Young Master. So—show me your stance."
Zairon obeyed, muscles tight and nerves taut.
Maevan struck—light, deliberate. Zairon's blade met the assault instinctively, parrying with unexpected fluidity.
"Your movement isn't unruly," Maevan said after a dozen exchanges. "It's waiting. Waiting for your intention. What do you fight for, boy?"
Zairon's breath caught.
"W—what do you mean?"
"Every man or woman, young or old—has a reason to live," and as he spoke, he struck against Zairon's blade. Staggering the Young Master down to the ground as he gritted his teeth and crawled away. "—and you, Young Master, haven't found your purpose to fight."
Memories flickered: shattered steel, a promise whispered in the cold ash of a lost battlefield. But those thoughts were compromised as his weapon was forcibly dropped from his grip as Maeven had his knee against Zairon's chest.
Maevan's expression softened. "We have a lot to learn, Young Master. A sword style is born not from tradition—but from your soul."
∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗
A sword style is born not from tradition—but from your soul.
Those words echoed in Zairon's mind long after the sun had dipped behind the frost-rimmed walls of the estate. The training ground had emptied, leaving behind only the scent of sweat, steel, and churned snow.
His limbs ached.
Not just from exertion—but from the weight of expectations.
He slipped away to the rear courtyard, where the last golden light of day softened the stone. It was quiet. The kind of silence that made one aware of their heartbeat, of the sting in their knuckles, of the slight tremble in their fingers. He sat on the edge of the fountain, dipping his hands into the chilled water.
The cold bit his skin, but he welcomed it.
"Don't soak them too long," came a voice—gentler than before, teasing only at the edges.
He turned.
Yve stood a few paces behind, arms crossed, cloak unfastened and half-draped like she had sprinted to catch him. Her breath formed small clouds as she approached, then crouched beside the fountain.
"You moved like a panicking princes," she said, peering at his hands. "You're burning yourself out too fast."
"I'm fine," Zairon muttered. "And for your information, you're mean."
A chuckle stifled in her words.
"You're not." She flicked a droplet of cold water at his forehead. "You've been holding your breath since morning."
He didn't respond immediately.
Yve tilted her head, watching him. "You think if you train harder, it'll give you answers. That the blade will shape your fate for you."
Zairon frowned. "I don't want the sword to decide my fate. I want it to obey."
Yve's voice softened. "Then don't rush. You won't master yourself in a day. Let the sword become your voice… not your chain."
The wind stirred her hair, casting strands of raven-silver across her cheek. For a moment, they just sat there—brother and sister, both burdened, both stubborn, both quietly trying to protect the other without saying it.
She stood, offering him a hand.
"Come on, Zai. You earned soup and sleep. Don't make me carry you."
He took her hand, warmth meeting cold. She didn't let go right away.
And neither did he.
As they walked back toward the estate, the snow crunched softly beneath their feet. Spring's brief breath still lingered in the air, fragile and rare in Northrend.
But even the shortest spring was enough to remind him—
He was alive.
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𝙰𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙲𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚡
Sacred Guardians are sacred entities that take form of an animal or great creature. They are spiritual in a keen sense, born from the essence of the world and are influenced by the 8 anomalous figures of the world that hadn't yet been introduced — they hold power to great creation or devastating destruction.