Victoria sat quietly on a sun-dappled bench at the edge of the training grounds, her hands folded neatly on her lap, a single finger tapping against the smooth marble of the seat. The morning wind ruffled her crimson cloak, and the scent of lavender from the garden clung faintly to the air.
But her eyes were on him.
Hector.
She watched him converse with the Royal Runemaster as though the man were merely another peer, not one of the most accomplished spellcrafters in Kael-Terun. And when he countered the Wind Spiral Sigil with a series of harmonics she couldn't even perceive until after the spell collapsed—
She blinked.
It wasn't surprise that struck her. It was admiration.
Through all the mirrored selves she had summoned, all the parallel Victorias that had survived battlefields, heartbreaks, and impossible duels—not a single one had thought of that counter.
I would've shielded, she thought. Summoned the grief-hardened version of myself, cloaked in loss and pain. Absorbed the impact.
But Hector had taken a more elegant path. A path of precision. Of legacy.
Her fingers clenched tighter in her lap.
He's not just strong, she thought. He's vast.
She had felt it that first night—when their fingers touched, when their hums aligned. But seeing it unfold on the battlefield, watching his knowledge move through him like a second language... that was different. That was real.
A flicker of warmth stirred in her chest. A whisper, perhaps. Or a longing finally answered.
"Master Belian," Hector said as the disrupted spell faded and the wind calmed, "I'll give you a tome later. Some of the old runes and techniques from the Golden Era—four thousand years ago, give or take. Forgotten by most."
Belian turned, stunned. "Truly? That knowledge has been lost to the archives for—"
"With a condition," Hector interrupted gently. "You must take it to the Academy. Make it public. Teach it to the young. Let it live again, not locked in a vault."
There was a long silence.
Then the old man's eyes widened with something rare in the seasoned: hope. "Done," he whispered, voice trembling. "May the stars bless your generosity, my prince."
Hector smiled.
But it was already gone from his face as he turned to the next instructor.
"Swordmaster. Shall we?"
The swordsman was a broad-shouldered man named Ravann, a former battlefield commander and master of the dual-blade style. His eyes were sharp, but the moment Hector approached, they softened in quiet amusement.
An 11-year-old? With delicate limbs and scholar's hands?
"No magic," Ravann said, stretching. "Just blade and footwork."
Hector nodded once. "Of course."
Victoria leaned forward from her bench, interested.
The duel began.
Ravann moved first—fast, two blades gleaming in the morning light. He came in a blur, a diagonal slash followed by a spinning feint and a lunge aimed at Hector's midsection.
And then—
Hector was gone.
There was no flash. No flare. No signature of magic or ripple of mana.
Just absence.
Then:
A gentle poke against Ravann's back.
"Point."
The swordmaster spun, stunned.
"What—?"
Hector tilted his head. "You left your upper quadrant exposed."
The silence was deafening.
Victoria's lips parted slightly. She had watched the entire exchange. He hadn't vanished—she realized it, barely. He had calculated the blind spots in Ravann's vision and dashed to an angle beneath the sweeping arm, then curved behind before his opponent could recalibrate.
He knew exactly what Ravann would see, she thought, awed. And what he wouldn't.
Hector stood still, waiting for the next round.
This time Ravann narrowed his eyes. "Again."
The second bout lasted longer. Steel rang, feet slid across dust. Hector infused himself with 24 souls—all chosen for agility and footwork. In one life he had been a martial artist who walked the path of the blade for enlightenment. In another, a soldier forgotten in a meaningless border skirmish. He pulled strength from them all.
Their memories guided him. Their instincts lived through him.
Each strike was a dance between countless lifetimes.
Each dodge was a whisper of forgotten hands.
Ravann grew increasingly desperate. Hector never attacked with force—only precision. A poke here. A tap there. Never once using magic. Only blade. Only body.
And then—
"Enough!" Ravann dropped his swords, panting. "What in the gods' names are you?"
"Just someone who remembers," Hector said.
Victoria, sitting alone, smiled to herself.
And someone worth remembering.
After the match, Hector approached the stunned instructors.
"Thank you," he said politely. "If you'd like, I can write down a few sword forms I gathered over the years. They may help your cadets with posture and evasion."
The magic instructor, silent until now, finally spoke.
"You are… not what I expected."
"Neither was I," Hector said, cryptically.
As the sun climbed higher, the wind cooled, and the field lay still once again.
Somewhere in the distance, bells rang faintly for noon.
But for Victoria, and for those who had watched, the sound that echoed louder than any bell was the beat of something inevitable:
The rise of a soul who remembered too much…
And loved too deeply to forget.