Blood Resonance

Chapter 8 – A Blade Unchained

Caelus sat alone in the western courtyard, surrounded by marble columns and faintly glowing lanterns. The mana in the air brushed against his skin like smoke—constant, ungraspable.

He inhaled. Focused.

And failed.

The mana stirred weakly at his call, barely responding. It flickered, like a reluctant flame under wet wood.

He tried again. Reached deeper. This time, he pushed too hard.

His heart jolted. The veins in his arm throbbed, rejecting the surge. A burst of static tore through his chest, and he staggered to one knee.

His breathing remained calm. His eyes did not change.

But the truth settled in.

“My sensitivity is high. But my pool… it’s shallow.”

It didn’t anger him. It didn’t disappoint him. It simply meant more work. And that was fine.

He stood.

Across the courtyard, a figure leaned against one of the shadowed pillars.

Thalor Virein.

Wrapped in a dark cloak, cane resting lightly in one hand—not from weakness, but from restraint. His face was pale, but his eyes were steady.

“Why do you look like that?” he asked quietly, stepping into the light.

Caelus didn’t turn.

“Like what?”

“Like nothing matters.”

Silence stretched.

Then Caelus replied, voice soft but dry:

“It doesn’t.”

Thalor studied him, gaze hardening.

“…Come,” he said. “Spar with me.”

Caelus followed.

The training court was old—built before either of them were born. Its walls were layered with enchantments designed to absorb shock, heat, force. The sigils lit dimly as the pair stepped inside.

Thalor stood without his cane now. His blade was a long, worn-edged weapon. Not ceremonial. Real.

Caelus took one from the rack. Balanced it. Said nothing.

“You won’t use mana or qi. Not yet,” Thalor said.

“I can’t,” Caelus replied.

Thalor nodded. “Even better.”

The match began without a countdown.

Caelus moved first.

His footwork was clean, precise. But not trained. It was instinctual—like a predator adapting in real time. He lunged, redirected, feinted high and struck low.

Thalor blocked every blow. Effortlessly.

But his eyes narrowed.

Not because Caelus was close to landing hits.

But because his strikes had no rhythm.

No pattern. No hesitations. Just a relentless, brutal efficiency—as if he didn’t see Thalor as a teacher.

But as meat.

Ten minutes in, Thalor knocked Caelus back with a twist of his wrist and a sharp push to the ribs. Caelus landed, rolled, stood again.

He didn’t grunt. He didn’t blink.

He attacked again.

And again.

Until Thalor raised a hand.

“Enough.”

Caelus stopped instantly.

Not from obedience.

But because there was nothing left to learn in that moment.

Later that night, Lucien poured two cups of silentleaf tea. He handed one to Thalor, who sat across from him.

“Well?” Lucien asked.

Thalor took a sip, then leaned back.

“He doesn’t fight like a noble,” he said.

Lucien raised a brow.

“He fights like a beast. Like something caged too long that forgot how to breathe.”

Lucien was silent for a long time.

“…Will you train him?”

Thalor looked down into his tea. Then nodded once.

“Yes. But not to teach him how to win.”

He glanced out the window, where the night stretched cold and open.

“I’ll train him so he doesn’t lose control.”