The sky was a faded gold when Raizen returned to the courtyard.
His arms still ached from yesterday's failure. His head throbbed with residual strain, but there was a fire in his chest that wouldn't let him rest. It wasn't anger or desperation—it was something quieter, heavier.
Conviction.
He stood at the edge of the ring, gazing at the single pebble left where he'd dropped it.
His fingers twitched, not from fatigue, but from habit. He wanted to reach for it physically. It would be so much easier. But that was not the Ashborne way.
"Training again, young master?"
Raizen turned his head slightly. A middle-aged woman in a crisp gray uniform approached with a basket of folded towels. Her graying hair was tied back in a neat bun, and her tone held that same gentle firmness he'd heard since he was a boy.
"Aren't you due for rest?" she added.
"I'm behind," Raizen replied. "I can't afford to be."
The woman, Mari, had been with the family longer than Raizen had been alive. She wasn't a fighter, but she ran the estate like a fortress, and everyone respected her—even Grandfather. She stepped beside him, eyeing the pebble with mild interest.
"You're only sixteen. You have time."
"Not enough."
He didn't explain. He didn't need to. Something in his tone silenced further questions. She set the towels down near a bench and offered him a small glass bottle.
"A recovery tonic. Your mother had it prepared this morning."
Raizen accepted it with a nod. "Thank you."
"Don't forget," she added as she turned to leave, "even a lion starts as a cub."
Raizen didn't reply. But something about the metaphor sat with him.
He spent the morning not lifting the pebble, but studying it.
His telekinesis didn't come from instinct—not yet. He had to dissect the shape, weight, balance. He had to memorize the texture and center of gravity. It wasn't just about force, but direction. Control. Focus.
By midday, sweat beaded his brow. His mana had recovered only partially. Still, the pebble lifted three times—slow, steady arcs, before tumbling again.
A minor improvement.
But still not enough.
He needed insight. Something new.
After lunch, Raizen wandered the estate, hands in his pockets, trailing along the outer hallways. His siblings were training in the west yard—visible from the upper balconies.
Lucien, his elder brother, danced through a mock battle with two elite guards. His sword never left its sheath, yet with each flick of his fingers, the guards stumbled back, weapons torn from their grip by unseen hands.
Selene, his elder sister, stood still in the middle of the yard, eyes closed. A ring of floating glass shards orbited her like planets, each one shaped like a dagger. Every time a sparring dummy lunged toward her—automated by the estate's mana constructs—she dispatched it with a whip of wind and flying blades.
They looked untouchable.
Perfect.
Raizen leaned on the railing, jaw tight. He wasn't envious, exactly. He was just… far. So far behind.
That's when he heard the voice.
"You're not meant to match them yet."
Raizen flinched, turning.
But there was no one behind him. Only an envelope, pinned to the railing with a small obsidian weight.
His name was written on it.
He opened it.
"Raizen—"
"I imagine you're pacing like your father used to. Good. Restless energy is fuel—if you learn to burn it right."
"You will fail. Many times. That's expected. That's necessary. The Ashborne blood runs strong, but it does not forgive arrogance. You must first conquer yourself. Telekinesis isn't about power. It's about precision."
"Tomorrow morning, go to the eastern woods. Take only the wooden blade and ten pebbles."
"Fail there. Learn there."
—Zerus
Raizen read the note three times.
Grandfather rarely spoke seriously. But when he did, his words clung to the skin like heat.
That evening, Raizen didn't return to the courtyard.
Instead, he sat by the koi pond near the inner gardens, listening to the trickling water. Fireflies blinked lazily around the lantern-lit paths. The estate was beginning preparations for the Ashborne-hosted party—he could hear servants discussing floral arrangements, invitations, and ward reinforcements.
Apparently, all eight of the Great Houses would be sending representatives.
Heirs, most likely, Raizen thought.
The idea twisted his stomach.
He was the youngest Ashborne. The weakest, too. What would they see when they looked at him? A failed prodigy? A charity case being coddled by his family?
No.
He'd make sure they saw someone dangerous.
Someone becoming.
As the moon rose, Raizen returned to his room. He set the letter carefully in a drawer and looked at the wooden training blade propped against the wall.
Tomorrow, he would follow Zerus' instructions.
No shortcuts.
No witnesses.
Just him, ten pebbles, and the weight of a legacy.
And that would be enough.