Caelan stood alone beneath the shadow of the ancient willow, his breathing slow, fingers poised mid-air. A thin thread of light spiraled from his palm, weaving through the air with precise elegance before dispersing into a fine mist.
Not a waver. Not a single misstep.
In half a year, Caelan had forged himself into a Third Circle mage—a rare achievement, even among the prestigious academies.
Magic that once flickered now obeyed him like an extension of his will.
"Focus. Frame. Flow."
The three principles Thorne had burned into him echoed through every movement.
Mastery hadn't come from grand battles or explosive breakthroughs. It had been built, hour by aching hour, with sweat bleeding into the stone, with late nights beneath silver moons—where no one watched, and no one cheered.
In the same months, Seren Dorne—Caelan's younger brother—had risen higher among the swordsmen.
At fifteen, Seren achieved the Fourth Star of swordsmanship.
He could now sheath his blade in raw aura, making his strikes heavier, sharper, almost untouchable to the younger generation. His sparring matches became events in themselves, crowds gathering to watch the boy genius carve through opponents twice his size.
Even the elders nodded in approval when Seren passed, murmuring about the future of the Dorne name.
Caelan?
Caelan remained a shadow—half-forgotten by the swordsmen, whispered about by the stewards, and smiled at politely by the maids who remembered the chaos of his younger days.
He liked it that way.
Hidden strength grew better in silence.
His body, once frail and stubbornly weak, had transformed.
Through disciplined eating, strict healing exercises, and careful mana reinforcement of his muscles, Caelan was now built like a healthy young noble—lean, wiry. His stamina still lagged behind Seren's raw might, but compared to the half-dead boy he had once been?
He was reborn.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, when Caelan looked into the mirror, he saw not just the surgeon lost across worlds, but a weapon being forged.
Later
On a cold evening, as winter's breath brushed the training grounds, Thorne stood beside Caelan after their daily sparring—a mock battle of spell against spell.
"You're advancing fast," the mage said, tossing Caelan a water flask. "Too fast."
Caelan caught it, his knuckles whitening for a moment.
"Is that a problem?"
Thorne's lips twisted into a rare, grim smile.
"Only for those who notice. Power stirs envy. Especially in places like this."
The House of Dorne was a house of swords, after all. And no blade liked being outshined by an unseen flame.
Caelan drank deep from the flask and said nothing.
He didn't need their approval.
He just needed time.
Time... and a plan.
Later Still
The heavy oak doors of the patriarch's hall creaked open as Caelan entered, his footsteps steady but respectful. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the marble floor.
At the end of the hall, seated on the throne carved with the sigil of House Dorne—a sword entwined with a dragon—was Lord Armath Dorne, the Patriarch, and Caelan's father.
He looked up from the scroll he was reading, sharp grey eyes fixing on his eldest son.
For a moment, the silence pressed between them like a physical thing.
"Caelan," Armath finally said, voice deep and even. "To what do I owe this visit?"
Caelan bowed low, his right fist placed over his heart in formal salute.
"Father," Caelan began, "I've come to report my progress. I've reached the Third Circle in magic."
There was a flicker—a brief, almost imperceptible lift of Lord Armath's brow. He leaned back slightly in his chair, regarding Caelan with a new, sharper focus.
"Third Circle..." he mused. "Faster than expected."
Pride did not color his tone, but neither did disdain. It was the voice of a man weighing possibilities.
"Magic, however," Armath continued, "is not our house's pride."
"I know, Father," Caelan said, lifting his gaze, steady and unwavering. "That's why I've come with a request."
Armath's fingers drummed once on the armrest, an invitation to continue.
Caelan drew in a breath.
"I wish to learn swordsmanship. From the beginning."
The hall seemed to still around him.
The Patriarch rose slowly, robes sweeping across the floor like a gathering storm. He descended the dais with deliberate steps, the weight of his presence filling the room.
Stopping before Caelan, he studied him—this son who had once been a stain on their legacy, now standing firm without trembling.
"Swordsmanship," Armath repeated, voice quiet but carrying iron beneath. "You, who chose the path of magic."
"I chose the path to survive," Caelan answered, meeting his father's gaze without faltering. "Now, I choose the path to grow."
The two stood in silence, the air charged.
At last, Armath let out a low, thoughtful sound.
"Very well," he said. "But the House of Dorne does not gift its blades lightly."
He turned, beckoning a steward with a sharp gesture.
"You will be granted a single chance."
The steward stepped forward, bowing low.
"You must land a hit—one clean strike—against Commander Veyon Dorne."
Caelan's eyes narrowed slightly.
Commander Veyon—Armath's distant cousin and the current head of the House Dorne's elite sword division. A swordsman who reached fifth tier stage of sword ship and also known for his ruthless precision and the aura of violence that clung to him like a second skin.
"Succeed," Armath said, voice cold and final, "and I will personally oversee your sword training. Fail, and you will abandon this notion forever."
The weight of the challenge settled onto Caelan's shoulders like a heavy cloak. And yet... a spark lit within him. A challenge was better than silence. Better than pity.
He bowed once again, lower this time.
"I accept."
The corner of Armath's mouth twitched—whether in amusement or approval, it was hard to tell.
"Good," the Patriarch said, turning away. "Prepare yourself, Caelan. Your trial awaits."
As Caelan left the hall, the steel of determination burned in his chest.
"I will not give up , I will not fail"