The first morning after finishing her magic training, began with the scent of dew and oil. Celeste stepped into the primary courtyard, where her father waited in the center of a stone ring. Unlike the patient calm of her mother’s lessons, her father radiated challenge: silent, imposing, immovable.

  A wooden sword rested against his shoulder. Nearby, a target dummy stood scorched and half-splintered.

  "Today," father said, tossing Celeste a blunted practice blade, "we teach your body to fight alongside your mana. No more separate lessons. You will cast and strike together."

  Celeste caught the blade. Her grip adjusted instantly.

  “Show me Sword Draw,” father said.

  She exhaled and moved. The blade snapped out in a flash of motion. Clean. Fast.

  “Again! But this time, charge your blade with lightning.”

  Her mana surged. A faint hum crawled across the weapon’s edge. Sparks danced along the spine.

  She struck.

  CRACK!

  The energy surged forward. A bolt arced past the dummy and exploded against the courtyard wall, blackening the stone.

  Too much.

  “Control,” father said. “You are not hurling spells. You are shaping them through motion.”

  And so began the week.

  Celeste trained from sunrise to sunset with both her parents. Her father demanding strength and form, her mother emphasizing flow and finesse. One hour she drilled strikes while casting directional sparks, the next she ran circuits through the estate while maintaining passive mana circulation.

  Lightning Cloak became a dance. She cast it mid-roll, mid-leap, mid-strike. Each time she moved, the cloak flared; paralyzing an opponent who dared come close.

  Counter became a reflex. She would let father’s blade come within inches before parrying with a ripple of charged force, returning the strike twice as fast.

  “Again,” father said, after every successful hit. “Until it’s instinct.”

  They tied weights to her wrists. They blindfolded her. Her mother made her recite equations while striking. And father threw blunt stones at her mid-combo.

  She never backed down.

  By midweek, her movements had become seamless. She could call lightning through her fingers while vaulting over an obstacle. She could charge her blade mid-draw and discharge it with perfect timing.

  Luna began introducing new ways to use her mana. Like short bursts of mana that strengthens her limbs. A jump became a surge. A pivot, a blur.

  “You are not just a mage,” Luna whispered one night. “You are becoming something new.”

  Celeste didn’t answer. She only struck again.

  Even the servants began to watch. Word spread through the estate. The youngest Silver was training for something beyond the standard path. The guards exchanged looks of wary respect when she passed.

  Luke observed in silence, sometimes nodding to himself, sometimes watching her footwork with the narrow eyes of a soldier who saw potential.

  Onyx took to copying her drills in secret, frustrated when he couldn’t match her pace.

  Each evening, Celeste collapsed onto her bed with aches deep in her core, but she never stopped. She dreamed of storm-charged fields and enemies slowed by the hum of her blade.

  On the sixth day, Luna brought her a new practice weapon. Slim, curved, forged from a rare metal infused with lightning-reactive runes. The first time Celeste gripped it, her mana flared and the blade hissed with a quiet resonance.

  “Your body is trained. Your mind is focused. Your mana obeys. Now bind it all to this,” Luna said.

  The final test came the next day.

  Celeste faced Argo and two guards in a wide circle of the outer yard. No warning. No strategy briefing. Only a nod.

  She drew her blade. Lightning rippled.

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  The first clash came like thunder. Steel against steel, sparks flying. She moved through them like a current: swift, reactive, grounded.

  One opponent fell. Then two.

  Argo pressed her with relentless strength, but her steps were lighter than breath, her blade faster than his reach.

  A sudden pulse of mana… Lightning Cloak.

  His sword met her aura and jolted him mid-swing. She rolled behind him, blade charged, and tapped his side.

  A breathless pause.

  Her father’s voice then echoed:

  “You have improved greatly over the past few months.”

  Panting softly, Celeste allowed herself the briefest smile.

  She was ready.

  —

  After the sparring session, Celeste returned to the training courtyard alone. Her limbs still burned, but she couldn’t stop moving. The exhilaration of the battle still hummed in her blood.

  She practiced Chain Lightning mid-step, letting it crack from her hand to a post, then back to her blade. She pushed herself to cast Lightning Cloak and Counter simultaneously while dodging an imaginary strike.

  Luna arrived silently and watched from the garden’s edge. She did not interrupt. Instead, she observed her daughter’s form, her fluidity, the quiet command she had over her skills.

  “Again,” Celeste muttered to herself. “Again!”

  Luna finally stepped forward. “Your mana is stabilizing while in motion now. That’s rare for someone your age. It will give you an edge not just in combat, but in every confrontation to come.”

  Celeste paused. Her eyes glowed faintly with residual energy. “It still feels like I’m just beginning.”

  “You are,” Luna said. “And that’s the most dangerous part.”

  That night, her father placed a wrapped bundle beside Celeste’s bed. Inside was a journal bound in old leather. Its pages were filled with battle strategies, notes on elemental manipulation, and diagrams of forms that combined spellcasting with melee.

  “Start your own additions,” the note read. “Improve what I couldn’t.”

  Celeste ran her fingers over the worn cover and quietly added her name beneath his at the bottom of the first page.

  The storm had found its blade.

  And the blade had found its storm.

  —

  The following day, Argo and Luna summoned Celeste to the top of the east watchtower, where the wind howled and the land sprawled for miles. It wasn’t a place of battle, but of clarity.

  “You’ve trained your body,” father said, “and your mana. But there’s a third trait that separates a warrior from a legend.”

  “Your judgment,” mother added. “Your ability to act not just with power, but with purpose.”

  They tested her with trials of awareness. Observation drills. Combat scenarios with surprise rules. Illusion magic that warped terrain. Tasks designed to confuse, to force mistakes.

  Celeste adapted. Slowly at first, then faster. She began reading openings with a glance. Countering feints with anticipation rather than reaction. Her instincts sharpened.

  One drill had her blindfolded in the woods, surrounded by muffled sounds created by illusion runes. She had to listen, discern, and react. The rustle of leaves, the creak of a shifting branch, each held meaning. Twice she tripped, thrown off by misdirection. The third time, she struck the target cleanly, a precise jab driven by instinct honed in stillness.

  Another day, father sent two guards disguised as travelers into the market. Celeste was to identify them without engaging. She moved through alleyways and market stalls with subtlety, tracking their movements through shadows, watching their gait, their eyes, the timing of their steps. She noted how one guard touched his belt too often, a nervous habit he hadn't trained out. The other favored his left foot while walking, a telltale sign of a past injury.

  She found them before they could even meet, intercepting their rendezvous point by anticipating their pattern. The guards looked at her in surprised silence. She simply nodded and walked away.

  Luna pushed her with psychological puzzles. Scenarios involving moral ambiguity, false hostages, or manipulated memories. One trial placed her in a room with three illusionary versions of her father, each claiming to be the real one. Only one remained silent as she questioned them. "What do you do when the enemy wears your face?" Mother asked.

  Celeste answered, “test their silence.”

  Another puzzle simulated a betrayal among allies, forcing her to choose between abandoning a mission or sacrificing a team member. She found a third path, disarming the trap and escaping with both goals intact.

  At dusk on the fifth day, they gave her a map. A mock battlefield, riddled with complexity. She was to lead a team of house guards through a simulated mission across the estate: reach a marked point without being seen, recover a relic, and escape.

  She memorized the terrain within minutes, assigned silent signals to each guard based on their strengths, and rerouted their approach three times when false traps were discovered. She identified patrol patterns by the sound of footsteps echoing against the stone and the soft rustle of grass disturbed by wind, or something else.

  They made it to the relic, but Luna had changed the escape path while they were en route. Celeste paused, assessed the new layout with a glance, and adapted. She bluffed their way past the sentries using noise decoys and flares made from her magic, directing her team with precise hand signals and bursts of light reflected off metal.

  They moved like shadows through moonlight. They made it out.

  She succeeded.

  Barely.

  When she returned, panting and covered in dust, Luna met her with a long look, then nodded once.

  “You’re ready for the academy.”

  Her father folded his arms. “More than ready.”

  Celeste bowed her head, catching her breath. But inside, something else stirred:

  Not fear.

  Anticipation.

  Whatever came next, she would meet it head-on.