Silent Lessons

Nyssara

The stronger you are, the more you train.

Our family trainer always said that, like it was gospel.

So, here I am at 3 am, breath fogging in the cold night air, standing in the training grounds between two of the most powerful Alphas in our generation, my twin brothers, Caelan and Theron.

“Tighten your stance, Nyx,” Caelan says stifling a laugh. “You show up on a battlefield like that, and you’ll be dead before anyone draws their weapon.”

Theron chuckles, not even pretending to hide his amusement. “She’s too used to playing tutor to pups.”

I roll my eyes. “At least I know who to run from and who I can take on. Unlike some arrogant people who walk into fights with nothing but ego and biceps.”

“Confident,” Theron corrects. “Not arrogant", "Besides, if we’re going down, we’ll die with pride.”

“Sure,” I scoff. “And so will your pack. Dead with pride.”

“Less talk. More discipline.” Master Veylan’s voice cuts in, calm, cold, and sharp as a blade through silk. He watches us from under the hood of his deep blue cloak, always unreadable, always ten steps ahead. “You three are the pride of the Aurellian house. Second only to the Duskveins, who are now nothing but ash and whispers. That means you’re expected to be flawless, emotionally, mentally, and physically.”

His gaze shifts to me. “Nyssara, how is the mastering of your gift progressing?”

I straighten. “Three of the seven boons are fully mastered. I’ve read six.”

He nods, slowly. “Not ideal, but satisfactory. And you two?” he turns to my brothers.

“We’ve mastered all the techniques you gave us,” they say in unison.

Since childhood, we were bred to outmatch everyone, not just the common folk, but the other Great Houses too.

The House of Varkai boasts unmatched physical strength. So we trained harder, longer, until our bones ached.

The House of Serathyn are seers, strategic manipulators. That was my role. My mind was expected to be sharper than any blade. My gift made that expectations even heavier.

The House of Myrradon, witches, politicians, networkers. To surpass them, we made connections laced with purpose, not flattery. We learned to unravel spells by instinct.

And then there was the fallen House of Duskvein. No one talks about them. No history books. Just a heavy silence and wary glances when the name is spoken aloud. They were power incarnate, mystical, untouchable. Until they weren’t.

We trained like they were still out there.

Hours blurred into more hours. Muscles strained. Sweat stung our eyes. Exhaustion was never an excuse. Perfection was the only standard.

Rhyven

“Something good happen?” one of the pack guards asks as I pass by him. “You’re in great spirits.”

“Not really,” I lie, forcing a casual shrug. I needed to rein it in. Even those who used to ignore me were starting to notice.

Back in my room, I find the quietest corner of the backyard and pull out the small black notebook–Volume One. I flip to the first page. The script is elegant, precise. The title of the technique is Fallen Petal, Rising Wind.

Beneath it, a description.

“Flow with the wind, then become the wind. Nimble and swift, gather momentum in your core, align it with your will. When the time is right, channel everything into one decisive, fatal strike. Precision over power. Intention is the difference between bruising and killing.”

I breathe in deeply, reading it again. It sounded… beautiful. Almost poetic. Like something out of one of the fantasy novels Nyssara pretended not to love. But there was something mysterious in the way it was written. Grounded.

This wasn’t in any combat scroll I’d read before. It seemed very old.

I close my eyes. Visualize the motion. Feel the pull in my limbs and chest.

Then I begin.

The early morning breeze curls around me, cool and soft. I mirror it, letting my movements grow fluid, not forced. My steps become lighter, my grip more attuned. The wind lifts at my back, and I move with it.

Energy surges through my limbs. Not brute strength. Not the painful strain I’m used to. This was… clarity. Focus. Something in me clicks.

The boulder in front of me.

I strike.

It’s like slicing through silence.

The stone splits cleanly down the center, falling in two perfect halves with a soft thunk on the grass.

I stare at it, frozen.

Not even the best trained warriors in my family could cut stone so cleanly. Not with that kind of grace. And I… I’d done it.

I let out a shaky breath.

Was it the technique? Or was it me?

Flipping to the second technique, I read quickly. This one is called Petal’s Grace, a refinement of the first.

“To sever without harm. To slice without breaking. A masterful strike on the most delicate target. This technique is an evolution of the first—precision elevated into artistry. You must see the soul of the target. Respect it. Feel when it gives way.”

The test was clear. A flower.

I find a single wild lily blooming nearby.

Centering myself again. Following the wind. Steady breaths.

Then I strike.

Nothing.

No surge. No clarity. My movements are fine, even practiced, but they lack the precision. The power behind the grace. My blade grazes the flower. It bends slightly, still straight.

Again.

Still nothing.

Frustration gets under my skin. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. And yet it wasn’t working.

I stare down at the notebook again. At the tiny signature at the back page:

“From your tutor, N.

If you're reading this, you're not hopeless.”

I dial the number.

“Hello?”

Her voice is soft, a bit wary, like she hadn’t expected me to call so soon.

“It’s Rhyven.”

A pause. “That was fast. Didn’t think you’d try it before noon.”

“I tried the first one, Fallen Petal, Rising Wind. It worked. I cut a rock clean in half.”

She hums, and I can picture the faint smirk on her face. “Impressive.”

“But the second… Petal’s Grace... it’s not working. I can’t feel the energy. It’s like something’s missing.”

“You’re not wrong,” she says. “The second technique isn’t just about movement. It’s about intent. If the first teaches you how to kill, the second teaches you how not to.”

I frown. “That’s… contradictory.”

“No. It’s balance.” Her voice sounds thoughtful. “The power to destroy means nothing if you can’t control it. Petal’s Grace only activates when your desire isn’t to strike, but to understand. You can’t force it. You have to mean it.”

I stare at the flower again. Its pale purple petals seem to sway in the wind, undisturbed by my earlier attempt.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “I’ll try again.”

“Don’t rush,” she murmurs. “Let the wind carry you. Don’t push against it.”

Before I can thank her, the line clicks off.

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