Chapter 427: Training (1)
The wind stirred the leaves. Far above, the stars seemed to flicker, once, faintly, as if echoing the truth of his words.
And deep beneath the earth, far beyond even the World Tree’s roots, something old and cold turned in its sleep.
—
The training terraces of Lorienya unfurled across the forest’s living heights, built not from stone but from the wide, braided branches of ancient oaks.
Morning light filtered through canopies of emerald, casting gold across the dew-slick platforms. The air smelled of sap, steel, and the sharp scent of mana.
Lindarion stood at the edge of the upper terrace, white hair catching the light, golden irises faintly reflecting the shimmer of the world tree beyond.
Ashwing perched on his shoulder, tail flicking lazily. Below them, Lorienyan soldiers trained, not with rigid formations, but with fluid rhythm, each movement part of the forest’s own breath.
Roots rose and coiled under their feet, forming temporary platforms that twisted and vanished as they stepped.
Bows sang soft notes, arrows humming with green mana that curved in midair before striking vine-wrapped targets. Swords glimmered faintly with druidic sigils, the steel less a tool of war and more an extension of nature’s will.
But under the melody of movement, Lindarion could feel it, the tension. Eyes that flicked upward too often. Backs held a little too straight. Blades drawn with a touch too much force. The elves trained not only for their own perfection, but for his judgment.
"Looks like they’re dancing for you," Ashwing muttered inside his mind. "Do they even know you hate attention?"
’I don’t hate it,’ Lindarion thought back. ’I hate what it makes people forget.’
’That you’re still just a person?’
’That they are.’
He folded his arms behind his back, watching as two groups broke off into sparring circles. The first pair fought with twin blades and root manipulation, the ground moving like waves beneath them.
The second pair, archers, wove shots between moving branches that reacted to every missed arrow. Each movement was beautiful, harmonious, yet inefficient.
Too much grace, not enough lethality.
A commander approached, his armor grown from hardened bark and golden leaves. His face bore the calm dignity of Lorienya’s warriors, but his tone carried strain. "Prince Lindarion," he said, bowing slightly, "it is an honor to have your eyes upon our drills. We have heard of Eldorath’s martial perfection, I fear our ways may seem primitive in comparison."
Lindarion’s gaze did not move from the sparring elves. "Primitive?" He tilted his head. "No. Alive."
The commander blinked, uncertain whether it was praise or judgment.
"Your soldiers move with the forest," Lindarion continued, his voice calm, measured. "That is strength. But the forest does not bleed as men do. You move to protect. You must also learn to end."
The commander’s jaw tightened. "We are guardians, my lord. Not conquerors."
"And if the world burns?" Lindarion asked quietly. "Will you still guard? Or will you bury yourselves with your trees?"
The words cut like quiet thunder. The commander bowed again, deeper this time. "We will remember your counsel."
Lindarion nodded once. "Good. Continue."
Below, the spar intensified. One of the younger soldiers, his braid bound with green twine, caught sight of Lindarion watching and faltered for just a heartbeat. His opponent’s staff struck his ribs hard enough to make him stumble. The young elf grimaced, recovered, and then poured mana into the vines around his arms, far too much.
Roots exploded from the floor in uncontrolled fury.
Lindarion’s eyes narrowed. The commander’s shout came too late.
The vines whipped toward the sparring circle, shredding the bark floor beneath. One tendril lashed toward the group of watching trainees—
Lindarion moved.
A shimmer of golden light cracked the air. His blade was unsheathed before anyone saw the motion, cutting through the errant vines with effortless precision. The mana dissolved into harmless mist, fading into the air with a soft hiss.
Silence fell.
The young elf who’d lost control dropped to one knee, breathing hard, eyes wide in horror. "I—I didn’t mean—"
"You didn’t control," Lindarion said evenly, sliding his blade back into its scabbard. "Nature obeys only those who command it without fear. You let it feel yours."
The young elf lowered his head, shame heating his cheeks.
Lindarion stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder. "You are not weak. Just loud. Learn the difference."
Ashwing muttered, "That’s what you said to me when I set the tent on fire."
’You did set the tent on fire.’
’It was practice!’
Lindarion ignored him, turning his gaze back to the others. The commander signaled for the drills to resume, but now the rhythm had changed.
The soldiers moved sharper, tighter, still flowing, but now aware that beneath their grace, a blade watched.
A group of archers shifted formation. Their leader, a tall woman with silver bark-armor, drew her bow and called for mana alignment. The air around her shimmered with green light as her team synchronized, twelve bows drawing at once.
Their arrows pulsed with life energy, glowing brighter and brighter until the commander barked the release.
The volley fired skyward, then curved downward in perfect unity, striking twelve vine-bound targets at once.
The targets exploded into cascading petals.
Even Lindarion’s eyes flickered with approval. The Lorienyan archers were no mere ornaments. Their style wove art into death.
"You do not waste mana," he observed quietly.
The archer leader bowed from below. "The forest provides balance, my lord. We return what we take."
He inclined his head slightly. "Then remember, balance must sometimes tilt toward survival."
The sun shifted overhead, beams breaking through canopy gaps. The drills stretched for hours, each formation testing a different harmony of spell and steel, roots binding, arrows piercing, healers channeling sunlight through leaves to restore mana flow.
It was not war; it was ritual. But in that ritual, Lindarion could sense the fracture of peace. Too much beauty, too much hesitation. Lorienya had not fought a true war in centuries, and their serenity had dulled their readiness.
Ashwing yawned again, curling his tail. "They’re too soft. Pretty, though."
Lindarion’s expression didn’t shift. ’Softness is a luxury. One they’ll lose soon enough.’
’You think war’s coming here too?’
’It already has. It just hasn’t reached the trees yet.’
At last, the commander called for rest. The soldiers dispersed, murmuring to one another. Some glanced up toward Lindarion again, awe, fear, reverence all mingled into one. A few children who’d come to watch whispered his name like a story.