Chapter 32: Cain Silverhart
In the sprawling courtyard of the Silverhart estate, bathed in the golden hue of an afternoon sun, Calien Silverhart stood alone, save for a dozen poorly aimed kitchen knives embedded in the earth or clattering off the stone walls.
The family training yard—usually filled with the clash of swords and thundering hooves—was quiet, serene, save for the repetitive clink and thud of Calien's failing practice.
He stood ten meters from a worn training dummy, a simple sack of hay wrapped in chainmail and painted with crude red circles to simulate infection weak points.
Calien gritted his teeth as he held the last knife in his hand, eyeing the dummy with unyielding concentration.
"Throw it like teacher Nolan did," he whispered to himself, sweat dripping down his temple. "Teacher didn't even aim... it was like the knife just knew where to go."
He adjusted his stance again—feet shoulder-width apart, one forward, hand at ear level, mana coiling in his palm like a volatile whisper.
He hurled it.
The knife spun beautifully in the air, carried with a twist of mana—then veered hard left and buried itself in a wooden post with a dull thunk.
"Damn it!" he shouted, the frustration in his chest boiling over.
Again and again, he replayed the scene in his mind.
That precise, casual flick of Nolan's wrist in the lecture hall.