Three more years passed swiftly over the eternal snowfields of the northern territory. Now eight years old, Caelen von Vaelith's body had grown noticeably more upright and sturdy.
His dark blue hair, once a wild tangle, now framed a face that was beginning to show the sharp, defined lines of a young nobleman. His golden eyes still gleamed with the same keen intelligence, but they now radiated a far deeper sense of calm.
Today was a day of great significance for every heir of House Vaelith. The day when formal physical training and swordsmanship officially began.
A biting winter wind swept across the castle's wide training grounds. At the center of the stone courtyard, a broad-shouldered man in full silver armor stood waiting.
That man was Sir Keith—the trusted knight of Grand Duke Vaelith, who three years ago had sworn to bury the secret of Caelen's origins beneath a magic altar.
Sir Keith watched the eight-year-old boy approach him with steady, unhurried steps. There was no contempt in the knight's eyes. As a loyal retainer, he respected his lord's decisions. But as the duchy's foremost warrior, he held an uncompromising standard for anyone who bore the Vaelith name.
Sir Keith lifted a practice sword carved from oak off the weapon rack and tossed it toward Caelen.
Caelen's hand snapped out and caught the hilt cleanly. The sword was heavy for a child his age, but he settled into a balanced stance without so much as a wobble.
"From this day forward, I will bear full responsibility for your swordsmanship training, Young Master," Sir Keith said, his deep voice carrying across the quiet grounds.
Caelen looked down at the wooden sword in his hand, then raised his gaze to meet his new mentor's. His adult soul sharpened to immediate alertness. He knew exactly who Sir Keith was. This knight was the only person outside his adoptive parents who knew the truth—that he was not the Duke's blood.
Caelen understood that the best way to secure the absolute loyalty of a soldier like Keith was not through pleading, but through proof. He had to meet every expectation placed on his shoulders—and then exceed it.
"Understood, Sir Keith. I look forward to your guidance," Caelen answered in a child's clear, carrying voice, but his golden eyes held steady without a trace of doubt.
Training began with fundamentals that were as tedious as they were physically punishing. Caelen was instructed to hold a basic stance and swing the wooden sword through the air five hundred times beneath the freezing bite of the winter air.
For an ordinary eight-year-old, a session like this would have drawn tears or complaints within the first hour. Caelen kept swinging at a constant, measured rhythm.
The wooden blade cut through the descending night air again and again. Sweat ran down Caelen's temples and dampened his dark blue hair, but his focus never fractured.
Drawing on the discipline of his adult mind, he was able to absorb every correction Sir Keith offered after hearing it only once. If Keith told him his elbow was too low, the very next swing corrected it with precise, clean form.
Sir Keith stood at the edge of the grounds watching, and slowly his brow began to furrow. His sharp eyes did not miss a single movement.
He was genuinely unsettled by the level of concentration a small child could sustain. There were no signs of mental fatigue, no aristocratic whining. There were only two golden eyes staring straight ahead with a ferocity of will that was almost unnerving.
Two hours passed, and Caelen completed his final swing with a firm, decisive snap. His breath came hard, and his small palms had gone red and raw from the friction of the wooden hilt.
Sir Keith walked over and examined Caelen's stance—still solid, feet planted firmly in the snow.
"How are you holding up, Young Master? Would you like to rest? Your hands are already injured," Sir Keith asked, deliberately testing the boy's resolve.
Caelen lowered the sword slowly and looked at his stinging palms. He glanced up and offered a thin, confident smile.
"It's just a minor scrape, Sir Keith. A knight of Vaelith doesn't retreat because his palms are a little red, does he? Cael can continue to the next exercise," Caelen replied, his tone calm but firm.
Sir Keith went quiet for a moment. The words coming from the mouth of an eight-year-old struck something deep in his pride as a knight. A genuine, unguarded flicker of admiration began to kindle behind the mentor's eyes.
"Very well. Then let us begin basic sparring drills," Sir Keith said, drawing his own practice sword with a respect that had now grown unmistakably real.
That evening, the atmosphere inside Grand Duke Vaelith's private study was warm with the glow of a crackling hearth. The Duke was reviewing a stack of territorial documents when a quiet knock came at the door.
"Enter," the Grand Duke said in his low, measured voice.
Sir Keith stepped inside and dropped to one knee before the desk, his expression grave—though a flash of something he couldn't quite suppress moved across his face.
"How did Caelen's first day of training go, Keith?" the Grand Duke asked without lifting his eyes from the documents in his hand.
Sir Keith drew a slow breath before delivering his report with full honesty. "Your Grace… what I witnessed on the training grounds today was entirely beyond the bounds of my rational understanding."
Grand Duke Vaelith set down his pen and straightened in his chair. His gaze sharpened, demanding elaboration.
"Young Master Caelen did not merely meet the high standards you have set, Your Grace," Sir Keith continued, his tone carrying a wonder that might have sounded excessive from anyone else—but rang completely sincere. "His capacity for focus, his motor adaptation, and the sheer strength of his mental fortitude surpass anything I could have imagined from a child of eight years."
Sir Keith bowed his head lower. "I have trained many noble children throughout the empire over the course of my life. But Young Master Caelen's talent and maturity exist on an entirely different level."
"Speaking objectively, I would venture to say that the Young Master's current potential has in all likelihood already surpassed every noble child his age in the empire… or perhaps even the Crown Prince himself."
Hearing such an extraordinary evaluation from a trusted knight famously stingy with praise, Grand Duke Vaelith went still in his seat. Silence settled over the study for a long moment.
Slowly, a proud smile—one rarely seen on the face of the north's stern ruler—carved itself across his features. His decision eight years ago to bring the mysterious infant out of the Forbidden Forest had proven to be the greatest blessing House Vaelith had ever received.
"Is that so…" the Grand Duke said, his voice carrying a quiet, deeply satisfied tremor. "Continue his training, Keith. See to it that he grows into the sharpest blade this family has ever wielded."
"I will carry it out on my life, Your Grace," Sir Keith answered, his loyalty now fully and irrevocably bound to the substitute heir.