"Like the eye of a hurricane," Sir Reginauld finished, setting aside his own weapon.
"Calm at the centre, but with trendous power spinning around it. That is your aura core, young man. You've awakened what every true warrior seeks."
Jaenor sat heavily on a nearby bench, overwheld by the sensation of completeness that filled him. The core wasn't just a source of power—it was a point of perfect balance, a place of absolute certainty from which all action could flow. He could feel his aura responding to his will now, not as a foreign force to be wrestled into submission, but as a natural extension of his own body.
"The technique you just executed," Sir Reginauld continued, settling beside him, "required you to read your opponent's intentions and respond to attacks that had not yet fully developed. That level of awareness, that perfect integration of mind and body—it's only possible when the core is properly established."
"How long did it take you to develop yours?" Jaenor asked, still marvelling at the new sensation.
The old knight smiled, an expression filled with decades of mory.
"Twelve years of training under my father and another eight of battlefield experience before I achieved what you just accomplished. But you, you are really one of talent. I'm surprised that you did not start training at a younger age; if you did, you would have beco a really strong knight."
"I didn't have anyone to teach , like you do now."
As the sun began to set over the town, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, Jaenor sat in quiet ditation.
The core pulsed within him like a second heartbeat, steady and strong.
-
Back at Berdshire Fortress, the dawn brought an unexpected sight that sent ripples of confusion and awe through the weary defenders.
Anita the Destroyer had indeed arrived with her column, but she was not alone.
Three figures rode beside her as they approached the main gates—legends made flesh, heroes whose nas were spoken in the sa breath as the greatest warriors of the age.
Rodney Dennholm strode with the easy confidence of a man who had never t a battle he couldn't win. His golden hair caught the morning light like spun tal, and his elegant rapier hung at his side with the casual grace of a gentleman's walking stick. Despite the early hour and the grim circumstances of their arrival, his handso features bore their characteristic cheerful expression, as if he were arriving at a festival rather than a war council.
Beside him moved Marylla Shadowend with the ethereal grace that marked her elven heritage. Her silver-blonde hair flowed like liquid moonlight, and her violet eyes held depths of wisdom that spoke to centuries of experience.
As one of the Grewood Kindred, she carried herself with the natural authority of the forest folk, though her presence here, so far from the ancient woodlands, suggested matters of grave importance.
The third mber of their group could not have been more different from his companions.
Paxton Whyte was compact and wiry, his brown hair kept short in a practical style, and his movents carried the subtle economy of motion that marked a true stealthy warrior.
The twin daggers at his hips were unremarkable in appearance, but those who knew his reputation understood that their blades were coated with poisons that could fell a giant with a single scratch.
All three were in their thirties—past their first flush of youth but still in their pri as warriors. They had earned their fa in the early years of the war, when hope still burned bright and victory seed achievable through skill and courage alone.
As the group reached the fortress gates, General Kaider stepped forward to greet them; his weathered face bore the mark of absolute respect. The heroes are what made the legions push back, and every single citizen of the empire knew that.
"Master Dennholm, Lady Shadowend, Master Whyte," he said, his voice carrying the respect due to proven heroes.
He turned to the witch and greeted her, "Lady Nightwhisper."
"Berdhshire Fortress welcos you."
"The pleasure is entirely ours," Rodney replied with a warm smile, his cultured accent marking him as nobility despite his martial calling.
"Though I confess, we'd hoped to find you all in less dire circumstances."
"What brings the three of you so far?" he asked, his scarred features giving nothing away.
It was Marylla who answered, her lodious voice carrying clearly across the courtyard.
"The sa purpose that brought Anita, I suspect. Word of the three chosen ones gathering here has reached even the most remote corners of the realm. Mother Supre felt it wise to have... experienced counsel available."
Then she looked at the two young n and the woman, taking in all of their features and power.
"You're all so young," Paxton observed, though his tone held no condescension.
"Younger than we were when we first made our nas. Yet the power radiating from each of you..."
He shook his head in wonder.
"Remarkable."
Darian had made sure that three of them had defended the fortress against the Lich's legion and killed him. It was one of the important aspects of gaining a na and spreading information about their deeds.
"Youth has its advantages," Anita interjected, her pale eyes studying the three defenders with clinical interest.
"Fewer preconceptions, greater adaptability. Though experience has its place as well."
The formal greetings continued for several minutes, each side taking the asure of the other.
Taeryn, Baren, and Rena, all three of them, watched the old heroes with astonishnt in their eyes. They have heard about them from Morgana, but never expected them to be humble.
And it was their first ti seeing an elf directly. Taeryn wasn't even blinking his eyes.
The realm had not seen such a phenonon in their entire history, as far as they were aware.
It was clear that while the older heroes bore no ill will toward their younger counterparts, there was an underlying tension—the natural friction between those who had carried the burden of war for years and those just beginning to understand its weight.
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