(ヽ´ω`) First Time
The bell rang once.
Low and drawn. Heavy enough to wake the stone.
It came from the western tower of Golden Manor—an old signal bell, reserved only for blade rites and predawn drills. Servants did not stir to it. Nobles did not answer to it. Only swordsmen. And heirs.
Atlas Caelum Westenra was already awake.
He stood barefoot on the outer court's frost-rimed tiles, dressed in a sleeveless tunic, iron practice sword in hand. The air clung cold to his arms, but he didn't shiver. His breath came slow. Controlled. Fogged the space in front of him with each exhale.
He stood not at the ready, but at rest. One hand loose by his side, the other gripping the dull-edged blade loosely at the balance point. His back was straight. His weight centered. His gaze fixed.
Not on a foe.
But on a statue.
The courtyard's centerpiece—**a golden tiger leaping mid-roar**, frozen in time atop a base of cracked obsidian. Its polished hide no longer gleamed. Its metal fangs had dulled. And yet, it still radiated something ancient. Stillness. Power. Silence born of watching too many sons fall short.
Atlas did not blink.
"Begin," came the voice from the arch.
He turned slightly toward it—only with his head.
Dame Liora Ferren stepped into the open.
Wrapped in a deep grey dueling cloak, her boots thudding firm against the old courtyard stone, she looked more like a weapon than a teacher. Her silver-streaked hair was tied back into a thick braid, and the eyepatch over her left eye bore a faded sigil of House Westenra—once gold, now tarnished.
"Tiger's Claw. Twelve times. Perfect form. Now."
Atlas nodded once and moved.
His stance widened. Left foot planted, right foot pivoted, hips wound tight. He drew breath—not sharp, not forced—and brought the blade upward in a curved arc from his left hip to his right shoulder.
The first strike was clean. Not powerful. But fluid.
Liora said nothing.
He repeated the motion.
And again.
And again.
Each cut arced slightly differently. Angle by angle, he adjusted. The blade made no sound save the faint rush of it slicing cold morning air.
By the seventh swing, his right shoulder burned. The weighted training sword wasn't meant for endurance. It was meant for correction. For humility.
Liora circled him, her boots ticking against the tile like the steady beat of a metronome. Her gaze dissected him, sharp and patient.
"You've outgrown the form," she said finally. "But you haven't mastered it."
"I know," Atlas replied.
He spoke plainly. His voice was low for his age, with that slightly hushed tone of someone who rarely needed to raise it. There was no pride in it. Just clarity.
"You're growing taller," she added. "Your stance is off-balance now. It needs to adjust."
"I already adjusted it."
Liora raised a brow. "Without permission?"
"Without flaw."
He held the final stance, motionless, watching her reaction.
Her lips thinned.
Arrogant, she almost said. But she didn't. Because he wasn't wrong.
Atlas Caelum Westenra was no longer the silent ten-year-old boy she'd once dragged through footwork drills and slammed into sand pits. He was nearly fourteen now—**tall**, **lean**, with **broad shoulders that hadn't caught up to his frame yet**. His **ash-blond hair** had darkened slightly over winter, falling in messy strands over cold gray eyes that never flinched. His jawline had begun to sharpen, but his face hadn't lost its youth.
He looked noble.
But more than that—he looked *composed*.
"Once more," Liora said, stepping back. "Then rest."
He struck again.
*Tiger's Claw Draw.*
This time, the blade cut faster. Cleaner. With almost unnatural quiet.
The dummy before him—carved wood in the shape of a duelist's frame—shivered slightly from the force of air displacement.
Liora's one eye narrowed.
"You've been practicing without me."
Atlas said nothing.
"You altered the foot drag. Shortened the wind-up. That's not in the Pulse Scrolls."
"I know."
"That's not how we do things in Westenra."
"I know."
She stared at him.
Then nodded once.
"Good."
---
Atlas washed in cold water and changed into his daywear—a high-collared black tunic lined with subtle gold stitching, bearing no crest, no showy braid. Westenras didn't flaunt what they couldn't afford to lose.
He made his way through the manor's east wing, passing long-dead suits of armor, shuttered archways, and torch sconces still cold. Golden Manor was too large for the family it held now. Most wings were unused. Some were forgotten.
His steps echoed.
He didn't rush.
Atlas walked like someone who had measured every step he ever took.
The dining hall door creaked when he pushed it open.
Inside, Lady Elen sat at the long table's head, writing.
She always wrote before eating.
Atlas took his seat at the left side—never the right. The right side had once been his father's place. It remained empty.
"Your grip's changed," Elen said without looking up.
"I adjusted it."
"To what?"
"To a forward choke. For tighter control."
"You're not strong enough yet for that."
"I will be."
Elen looked up now. Her green eyes—sharp, frost-rimmed—locked with his.
"You don't speak like a boy anymore."
"Should I?"
She tilted her head slightly, lips unmoving. "No."
There was no warmth in her voice. But there was a shift.
She was watching him now.
Not as a mother watches a son.
But as a commander studies a recruit.
He reached for the tea cup in front of him. Steadied his hand before lifting it. Poured cleanly. No tremble. No spill.
His fingers had grown steadier since the dreams began.
And they *had* begun.
Two nights ago. A flicker.
Last night? A storm.
---
He returned to the upper hall after breakfast. Past the quiet servants who never met his eye. Past the oil paintings of Westenras who had ridden to war. Past the black-and-gold banners.
He entered his room and closed the door.
Bolted it.
The sun broke through the slits in the curtains, striping his desk with gold lines.
He didn't sit.
He stood before the mirror.
Stared at himself.
This face. This body.
Familiar now. But it hadn't been.
Not when the dreams started.
There had been lights.
Screams.
A sword made of silver fire.
A man whose jacket flared in the wind, standing atop a tower, holding a blade in one hand, a phone in the other.
He remembered a voice saying *"Final round begins now."*
He remembered a girl in a long coat performing a draw so fast it broke the sound barrier.
And he remembered sitting in a dark room… watching it all happen on a glowing screen.
Not in this world.
In another.
One that felt more real than it should have.
He pressed a hand to his chest.
It beat steadily.
But something inside him felt out of rhythm.
Like there was another beat—buried under this one—trying to wake.
---
That night, as he lay staring at the ceiling, the dream returned.
This time, he stood in a white space. Infinite. Silent.
No sky.
No floor.
Only sword clashes echoing from far away.
And something watching.
A voice spoke.
Not with words.
But with *memory*.
**Seven fangs. That's all a tiger needs.**
He opened his eyes.
The moon was high.
The stars silent.
And Atlas Caelum Westenra understood only one thing.
He was no longer dreaming.
He was *remembering*.