Lyriq Raveline-The Time Swordsman

The carriage jolted over the rutted road, carrying Lyriq and his strange mentor beyond the borders of Ravelinora when lyriq woke up, Morning mist clung to the fields, where distant spires and watchtowers marked the edges of the subkingdom. Lyriq pressed his small hands against the wooden window frame, his dark eyes bright with questions.

"Master," he ventured after a while, "what lies beyond Ravelinora? Are all kingdoms like ours—poor but peaceful?"

The man in black, walking beside the carriage on foot, glanced up at him. "Each realm is different," he replied. "Some prize swordsmanship above all. Others revere magic. Many blend both. You will learn of such things in time. For now, focus on your training."

Lyriq frowned. "But why did you come to Ravelinora? What drew you here of all places?"

The man paused, boots crunching on gravel. He did not answer, but at last said, "I seek disciples. Those unsatisfied with complacency." He turned a gaze on Lyriq. "Those who believe there is always more to learn."

Lyriq considered this. "You said your former students were satisfied… what does that mean?"

"Satisfied," the man repeated, "means they met their purpose. They mastered what I taught—but never challenged it. however you are interesting despite your age, That is why I chose you."

Shaking off the thought, Lyriq asked, "What will you teach me next?"

"First," the man said, "we refine your grip and agility. A blade be it knife or sword is only as strong as the mind that wields it. Deception and flexibility are your allies. Sometimes an enemy fears what he cannot read. Sometimes he overcommits to his own strength. You must turn that against him."

Lyriq nodded earnestly.

The man led him through a shaded grove into the edge of a dense forest. Sunlight dappled the undergrowth. Ahead, a snow-white rabbit sat frozen, its nose twitching at distant birdsong.

"Here," the man said softly, handing Lyriq a short, razor-edged trainer's blade. "Your first lesson in deception. Your strike must be swift and decisive. Do not merely overpower—misdirect. Show your enemy what he expects, then betray it. Today, that enemy is a rabbit. Learn its movement, anticipate its flight, and employ illusion."

Lyriq knelt, clutching the blade. In his mind, he replayed every feint and counter-step his master had shown him: the slight foot shuffle that hinted a lunge to the left, then pivoting right; the flicker of the blade's tip to draw the eye, then the true strike elsewhere.

He slid forward, careful to mute his breath. The rabbit's ears perked—sure of the path ahead. Lyriq halted an arm's length away, lowering his sword with exaggerated slowness. The rabbit relaxed for a heartbeat.

Then, with a sudden blur of motion, Lyriq snapped the blade upward only to collapse the movement into a low sweep at the rabbit's shoulder. The animal bolted, but its momentum carried it directly into the arc. The blade found its mark.

Lyriq staggered back, heart pounding. The rabbit lay still. He looked to his master, waiting for reproach or praise.

The man nodded once. "You understood deception. You struck where he did not see the threat. That is your first true lesson."

Lyriq swallowed, mixed pride and sorrow in his chest. The forest held a somber hush. The boy, still only seven, realized the gravity of his path.

"We will return," the man said, sheathing his own knife. "Tonight, you will read tactics, anatomy, the art of feint. And tomorrow, we advance again."

Lyriq bowed his head. The world beyond Ravelinora's marble halls had grown vast, dangerous, and full of hard truths. Yet for the first time, he felt truly seen not as a forgotten prince, but as a fledgling swordsman, poised to carve his own name into history.