The sun hung high in the sky, casting dappled light through the forest canopy. Riven’s grip tightened around the hilt of the training sword, his knuckles white and trembling. Marek stood across from him, his massive, rune-etched blade resting lazily on his shoulder.

“Alright, kid,” Marek said, his voice calm but firm. “Lesson two: holding a sword doesn’t make you a fighter. If you don’t learn how to use it, you’re just swinging a glorified stick.”

Riven exhaled sharply, sweat already forming on his brow despite the cool breeze. “I get it, I get it,” he muttered, adjusting his stance.

Marek’s sharp eyes scanned him from head to toe. “No, you don’t. Your feet are too close together. Spread them out—shoulder-width. You need a solid foundation, or you’ll fall on your ass the second someone pushes you.”

Riven shuffled his feet apart, glancing down to check his stance.

“And stop looking at the ground!” Marek barked, his tone snapping like a whip. “Keep your eyes on your opponent. A vampire’s not gonna wait for you to figure out where your feet go.”

Riven’s gaze snapped up, meeting Marek’s piercing stare. He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Good,” Marek said, lifting his blade and pointing it toward Riven. “Now, let’s see if you’ve got enough brains to listen and fight at the same time.” Marek stepped forward, his sword gleaming in the sunlight as he swung in a wide, deliberate arc. Riven raised his blade, clumsily parrying the strike. The impact rattled his arms, nearly knocking the training sword from his hands.

“Too slow,” Marek said, stepping back and resetting his stance. “Again.”

Riven tightened his grip, his heart pounding in his chest. Marek came at him again, this time feinting left before slashing downward. Riven stumbled as he blocked the strike, his feet slipping on the uneven ground.

“Balance, kid!” Marek snapped, stepping back again. “If your stance is weak, your defense is weak. Fix it!”

Riven gritted his teeth, planting his feet more firmly. “You make this sound so easy,” he muttered.

“That’s because it is easy—for me,” Marek said with a smirk. “For you? It’s gonna be hell. But you’ll figure it out if you don’t die first.”

Marek swung again, this time faster. Riven barely managed to parry, his arms straining under the force of the blow. He tried to counter, thrusting forward with a clumsy strike, but Marek sidestepped effortlessly and tapped the flat of his blade against Riven’s shoulder.

“Dead,” Marek said simply, stepping back again.

Riven groaned, rubbing his shoulder. “This is impossible.”

“No, it’s not,” Marek said, his tone softening slightly. “You’ve got good instincts—you’re just not using them yet. Stop overthinking. Feel the fight. Trust your body, and let it move.” Marek surged forward again, his blade slicing through the air. Riven’s instincts screamed at him to move, and he ducked just in time, Marek’s sword grazing the hair above his head. He twisted, thrusting his blade toward Marek’s chest, but the older man parried effortlessly.

“Still too slow,” Marek said, his voice sharp. He twisted his blade, aiming to throw Riven off balance.

This time, Riven didn’t let the momentum take him. Instead, he let go of the hilt with one hand and slammed his palm against the flat side of Marek’s blade, forcing it to twist awkwardly in Marek’s grip.

The unexpected move sent a shock up Marek’s arm, throwing him off balance for a split second. Riven pressed the advantage, stepping forward and shoving his shoulder into Marek’s chest. Marek staggered back, his eyes widening in surprise.

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Riven didn’t hesitate. He swung his blade in a quick upward arc, aiming for Marek’s side. Marek barely managed to block, the force of the strike forcing him to reset his stance.

When Marek finally stepped back, lowering his blade, he was grinning ear to ear.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, his tone equal parts impressed and amused. “I’ve sparred with plenty of fighters over the years—kids, soldiers, even knights—and not one of them ever thought to pull a stunt like that.”

Riven straightened, panting and wiping sweat from his brow. “Was it… bad?” he asked hesitantly.

“Bad?” Marek scoffed. “Kid, it was brilliant. Cheap, but brilliant. You’re not just swinging that blade like a hammer—you’re thinking, adapting, using everything you’ve got. If you keep this up, I’ll never be able to predict what you’re going to do next.” Marek stepped back, lowering his sword completely. “But here’s the thing,” he said, his tone shifting. “This?” He gestured to Riven’s sword. “It’s not enough. That little trick you pulled on me? It’ll work once, maybe twice. But against a Knight-Class vampire, or worse? You’ll need more than raw talent. You’ll need spells.”

Riven frowned, glancing down at his blade. “Spells?”

Marek nodded. “That speed I showed you earlier? Just a basic buff spell. Nothing fancy, but it’s the kind of edge you need if you’re going to survive out there. Talent’s good, kid, but it won’t mean a damn thing if you can’t channel your mana in a fight.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Riven asked, his voice tinged with frustration. “I can’t even use Fortify without sitting still and closing my eyes. How am I supposed to do it when someone’s trying to kill me?”

“Practice,” Marek said simply. “Keep using Fortify. Before training, after training, before you go to bed. Hell, even when you’re eating. You need to make it second nature. Once you can walk, run, and fight while keeping your mana flowing, then you’ll start to understand.”

Riven let out a frustrated sigh. “Why can’t we just jump into real training once I figure it out?”

Marek smirked. “Because, kid, you’ve got to learn how to crawl before you can walk. And you’ve got to learn how to walk before you can fight. Skipping steps gets you killed.” By the time they stopped, Riven was drenched in sweat, his arms trembling as he leaned on his sword for support. Marek handed him a flask of water, his grin still plastered across his face.

“Not bad for your first real spar,” Marek said, his tone gruff but approving. “You’re sloppy, slow, and you leave yourself wide open half the time—but you’re getting there.”

Riven took a long drink, glaring at Marek over the rim of the flask. “You’ve got a funny way of giving compliments,” he muttered.

“It’s not a compliment, kid,” Marek said, sitting down on a nearby rock. “It’s the truth. You’re good, but you’re not ready yet. You’ve got talent, sure, but talent won’t mean a thing unless you put in the work. And trust me, there’s a hell of a lot of work ahead.”

Riven nodded, his jaw tightening as he set the flask aside. “I’ll get there,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Marek. “I don’t care how long it takes—I’ll get there.”

Marek smirked, resting his blade against his shoulder. “We’ll see, kid. We’ll see.” The sun had dipped low in the sky, streaking the forest in hues of gold and red. Marek stretched his shoulders, the weight of his massive blade now resting against a nearby tree. “Alright, enough for today. It’s getting late,” he said, glancing toward the horizon.

Riven blinked, startled by how much time had passed. His body ached from the constant movement, and the lingering burn of mana use weighed heavily on his limbs. “Already?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Marek nodded, his expression growing more serious. “We need to head back before the patrol parties start coming out. Vampires love this time of day.”

As they packed up and began walking back toward their makeshift camp, the forest seemed to darken faster than usual. The gentle rustle of leaves gave way to an eerie stillness, broken only by the crunch of their boots on the dirt path.

Riven shivered, glancing over his shoulder. “Is it just me, or does it feel… off?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Marek didn’t answer immediately. His hand moved to the hilt of his blade, his sharp eyes scanning the shadows around them. “Keep walking,” he said, his tone low. “And stay quiet.”

Riven’s heart began to race as he quickened his pace. The sense of being watched grew stronger with every step. From the corner of his eye, he caught the faintest flicker of movement in the trees.

A low growl echoed through the forest, followed by another from the opposite direction. Riven froze, gripping his training sword tightly.

“Eyes forward, kid,” Marek hissed. “Don’t stop.”

But as the growls grew louder and the shadows around them seemed to move, it became clear they were being followed. The chapter ends with Marek drawing his sword, his voice cutting through the tension:

“They’ve found us.”