A week had passed since their dramatic entrance to Nereus Aquillion’s School of Elemental Arcana. A rather ironic name, given the distinct lack of both Magic and Aura Mastery in their curriculum, but Altair wouldn’t be the one to bring that up with his teachers.

The clacks of wooden swords clashing against one another rang out around him, though Altair’s gaze remained affixed to his sister.

Basic Swordsmanship I was in session and in a convenient yet logical progression of events, all the other students already had their own sparring partners. If a single new student had joined, then perhaps their swordsmanship teacher would personally step in until he could find a partner, but luckily the twins came in a pair.

The room they found themselves in reeked of magic. The training ground’s floor was carpeted with tightly packed ceramic-colored tiles that had caught Altair’s attention. Below his feet, the tiles stood firm but he had first-hand seen many children either overextending themselves and falling or simply tripping over their own footwork and being sent tumbling down— never did they suffer from the slightest of scratches, as the tiles somehow perfectly absorbed the impact.

That wasn’t all though.

Hanging down from the center of the room was a transparent glass diffuser, hallmarked by a broad base that tapered into a slender neck, it’s body’s upper half dotted with small holes. Of course, the diffuser alone wasn’t enough to capture Altair’s attention, no— it was its contents that had drawn his interest.

Chips of aurora blue crystal that were roughly the length of Altair’s small hands and ovular in shape, slowly leaking wisps of mana that explained why he felt so clear headed and abound with energy.

Aetherium Crystals of the low grade.

The official currency of the Vortera Veilands.

Unattuned Mana given physical form.

“Are you ready?” Altair asked, as he slowly shifted his feet into a stance more suited for combat.

His fight with Feran had been invaluable, first-hand experience; teaching him both his advantages and limitations. Ultimately, Altair had come to the conclusion that his victory was a result of two key factors. Firstly, he had been an active teenager and then adult far longer than he had been a child, which meant that his mind was accustomed to movements and maneuvers that were far beyond the reach of the average child.

And secondly, his thought process was rather divorced from his opponent’s. As ferocious as Feran had been in the duel, Altair couldn’t help but see him as a child. He couldn’t claim that he hadn’t been threatened by Feran’s impassioned swordplay, but it was still hard to be intimidated by him.

Those two factors had been enough for him to win the duel and even though it wasn’t exactly a fair victory, Altair’s purpose was satisfied— no one had bothered either him or Nocturne with a challenge after that; at least not yet.

“Yes,” An eight-year-old Nocturne affirmed and then she shot forward without giving Altair any more time to let his thoughts meander.

Nocturne’s movements were janky and unpracticed as she rushed towards him. Her sword was drawn backwards and then released in an arc too wide, her grip too loose to properly transfer all the momentum.

All Altair had to do was place his sword defensively before him at the correct intercept trajectory and Nocturne’s blade was sent bouncing backwards, destabilizing her footing.

With a mighty exhale, she managed to stop herself from tripping onto the floor.

Slowly raising her gaze, she met Altair’s.

The determination in her eyes hadn’t wavered in the slightest.

“Again.”

A telegraphed overhead strike was evaded with a sidestep.

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“Again.”

A running thrust left Altair with no choice but to parry it, sending Nocturne’s blade clattering to the side.

“Again.”

The intervals between each bout got longer and longer, as their tiny bodies drew heaving gasps of air to fuel their motion.

“Again. Again. Ag-”

“Stop,” Their old instructor’s annoyed voice cut through the odd silence of the arena. It was only then did Altair allow himself to take a glimpse at his surroundings, to allow himself to take his focus off the sword-wielding Nocturne.

To his surprise, most of the students had already left the training hall. Even the ever-friendly Vorina and the skilled swordsman Feran had left, leaving behind a few students that were either curiously watching the spectacle unfold as Nocturne kept challenging Altair, or were in the middle of rehydrating themselves with sips of ice-cold water.

“Oh,” Nocturne sheepishly murmured, her cheeks growing hot with embarrassment.

----------------------------------------

Almost six years later…

“Must we really do this, sister?” A thirteen year old Altair protested as he set aside the thick, leather-bound tome he had been lugging around with him at one end of the training room.

A young girl walked past him. Her white hair captured the purity of fresh winter snow, the straight tresses cascading down her back; bobbing up and down as she moved forward with both poise and purpose.

“Of course you have to do this, Al,” A boisterous voice cut into their conversation, the words spoken with the grace of a heckler. Altair’s annoyed gaze flashed to the side, where a young boy with spiky citrine hair was flashing him a cheeky grin.

“You bet on me,” Altair enunciated each word slowly, his annoyance rising by an octave with every passing word.

“Five Low Grades,” Feran replied with a shrug, as his gaze angled over to a young girl with striking violet hair.

Vorina just giggled in response.

Altair just let out a long, weary sigh and let his partly-mock, partly-genuine annoyance flow away with his exhale.

“I can’t believe that you’re my best friend,” Altair ribbed, his delivery deadpan.

“If I wasn’t, you’d probably be buried under a mound of dusty old tomes by now,” Feran retorted animatedly, closing his eyes and sticking his tongue out to better convey the imagery.

Altair didn’t have a response for that.

The truth often had that effect on people.

“Vorina,” Nocturne finally spoke, her voice devoid of the nervous energy that used to permeate her words when she had first entered the school.

The violet-haired girl turned her gaze towards Nocturne.

“Will you keep count? For the final bout,” Nocturne had a small smile on her face as she asked the favor of her friend.

“Sure, Nocty,” Vorina answered the call, no traces left of the formal stiffness she used to carry around as a child.

Nocturne winced at the nickname.

Both Altair and Feran let light chuckles escape, immediately drawing death-glares from Nocturne.

“Here, Al. Catch,” Feran hurriedly tossed a wooden sword at Altair, who caught it by the hilt without much effort— a bare-faced plot to escape Nocturne’s scathing gaze, but one that ended up working.

Vorina slowly walked towards Nocturne with a sword of her own and for a moment, the girls’ gazes met.

Complex emotions flashed within and then passed by before the other could get a read on them.

But both Vorina and Nocturne knew that there was less than a week separating them from the fateful day.

“Thank you,” Nocturne took the sword from Vorina’s outstretched hands.

It was quite a sight to behold, to take in the changes in Nocturne’s demeanor and stance as she took hold of the blade.

With a comfortable pivot she turned to face Altair. Her motions were practiced as her knees bent slightly, lowering her center of gravity. The hilt of her sword came to rest a little above her navel, the blade resting in Nocturne's relaxed grip poised to slash in any direction within her field of view.

One of the four stances Basic Swordsmanship IV had taught them— The Wind Stance.

Altair had adopted a similar stance, though his weight and the angle he held his blade at seemed to be poised more defensively than oriented towards offense.

“You ready?” Altair asked his sister, expression focused.

“I am,” Nocturne replied, offering him a small smile before her expression reverted to one of razor-sharp concentration.

“Toss it, Feran!” Altair called out commandingly.

The sound of a flipped coin briefly sounded out and then there was silence.

A silence that was broken by the clinking of a coin moments later.