By midmorning, the usually quiet training fields of House Vaelthorn were alive with steel and fire.
Kael stood at the edge of the elevated terrace overlooking the grounds. Below him, dozens of warriors sparred in segmented arenas—blades clashing, spells colliding with shimmering barriers, and instructors barking critiques over the roar of exertion.
These were not academy students.
These were estate retainers. Nobleborn sons without lands. Scions of minor branches. Knights trained by the duchy's finest.
And every single one of them had something to prove.
At Kael's side, Lyra observed in silence, arms folded.
"You're really doing this," she finally said.
Kael nodded. "I've already sent word. Those interested in joining the squad must report by this evening. I'll test them myself."
"You're creating an elite unit from scratch in your second day back. Bold."
Kael glanced at her. "You said not to walk alone."
That caught her off guard.
She looked away, feigning interest in a pair of duelists below. "…Right."
---
By noon, a temporary trial ground had been assembled at the southern ring of the training yard. A circular platform of hardened stone surrounded by enchanted pylons—each attuned to suppress fatal injuries but allow full force. It was a dueling arena… and a test.
Kael stood at its center.
Across from him, the first challenger entered: a young knight with silver armor and a smirk.
"Sir Kael," he said, emphasizing the title with mock respect. "I am Darien Vaelthorn, third son of Lord Mirus. I request the honor of—"
Kael interrupted. "Drop the formalities."
Darien blinked.
"You came here to fight. So fight."
A flash of irritation crossed the knight's face, but he drew his blade in one smooth motion.
Lyra watched from the edge, alongside a gathering crowd. Word had spread fast. The heir was forming a squad—and was handpicking every member through direct combat.
The duel began.
Darien lunged, fast and practiced. His strikes were sharp, his stance clean. Years of noble tutelage evident in every motion.
Kael sidestepped. Calm. Unhurried.
He didn't draw a weapon.
Darien pressed harder. A flurry of slashes aimed to overwhelm. Kael's movements were minimal—half-steps, shifts of weight, precision.
Then, in one sudden moment, Kael moved.
He ducked beneath a high swing, pivoted inside Darien's guard, and struck him in the chest with a closed fist.
The enchantment flared. Darien flew backward, landing hard on the arena floor, gasping for breath.
Kael spoke, loud enough for the crowd.
"If you rely on your father's sword, leave now. I'm not building a wall of names. I want fangs."
He turned away, letting Darien crawl off the platform.
The next candidate stepped forward.
And so it went.
---
By sundown, Kael had fought fifteen times. Four passed. The rest limped away with bruised pride and bruised ribs.
Each victor bore a temporary badge—an iron brooch shaped like a lion's fang.
By the last duel, Kael's coat was scuffed, a shallow cut on his cheek from a close call. He wiped it with his sleeve, unbothered.
"Last one," Lyra said from the side, handing him a flask.
Kael took a sip. "Thanks."
He looked toward the next candidate stepping forward—and froze.
It was a girl.
Younger than most. Lean build. Black leather armor. A wooden practice staff strapped to her back.
She bowed. "Vyre, daughter of no house. Orphan raised in the east wing barracks."
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
"A servant?" someone muttered.
Kael stared at her. "Why are you here?"
"I want out of the shadows," she said simply. "And I've seen the way you fight. You're not like the others."
He considered her, then gestured toward the platform.
"Prove it."
---
The duel began.
Vyre didn't rush. She moved lightly on her feet, staff in hand, using range and speed to probe Kael's defenses. Her strikes were clever—testing weak spots, redirecting momentum, using the terrain.
She didn't fight like a noble.
She fought like someone who had to survive.
Kael allowed himself to match her rhythm—not overwhelming her, but not holding back either.
Then, in one seamless exchange, she spun low, swept his leg, and nearly unbalanced him.
A hush fell.
Kael landed with a backroll, quickly regaining his footing. But he smiled.
"Good."
The duel ended shortly after. He raised a hand.
"Accepted."
Vyre's eyes widened. She bowed deeply.
The crowd was silent.
A servant girl had made it.
---
Later, in the estate courtyard, Kael leaned against a stone railing while Lyra approached.
"So," she said, "you've picked five."
Kael nodded. "They're raw, but they'll do."
Lyra looked at him sideways. "And what are you calling them?"
Kael thought for a moment. "…The Lion's Teeth."
Lyra smirked. "Edgy."
"Fitting."
She grew quiet.
"And me?" she asked. "What's my place in all this?"
Kael turned to her fully.
"You're not a Tooth," he said. "You're the one who decides who bites."
She blinked.
"…You want me to command them?"
"I trust you more than anyone here," he said simply.
For a moment, Lyra couldn't speak.
Then she muttered, "You really are a reckless bastard sometimes."
Kael shrugged. "So I've been told."
---
That night, Kael sat at his chamber desk, writing a sealed letter.
To: Lord-General Thorne Vaelthorn
> I am forming an independent security division under my direct authority. Five candidates have been selected. Further operations pending.
Consider this notice, not request.
He sealed it with his personal crest and handed it off to a courier.
As the door closed behind the messenger, Kael leaned back in his chair.
He stared at the ceiling.
They would come soon. Protests. Power plays. Whispered threats behind closed doors.
But for the first time in days, his eyes burned not from exhaustion—
—but from fire.
---
End of Chapter 52