In the morning, heavy knocks rocking the door of his chamber startled him awake.

His body was absolutely raw. Squinting, Heron tried to recollect the eve's events and as they revealed, bit by bit– him drinking too much, finally inviting Elana to a dance, only to fall on his way to bring it about– he cringed and wished the Ancients burned him with lightning, off the face of the earth forever. No need for Purification, please.

Venom! Even after multiple incarnations, he couldn't overcome that amount of shame. Because of his inappropriate state, he hadn't spent the night with Elana, he lay in his chambers, unable to imagine from where he'd gather strength enough to stand.

The knocks on the door sounded again.

Heron was hopeful his leg at least had been granted some healing through the night. But as soon as he pressed his feet on the ground, pain rippled up to his thigh, stinging like a stab where the wound was located.

He was still wearing his uncomfortable wedding clothes. He took off his vest and tugged the edges of his tunic to uncrumple the plies drawn over the night. When he opened the door, another memory of yesterday's night hit him—his father was there for their training for enlistment. "Father, I—"

"Be ready quickly, we must go before I have to open the courtroom."

Heron glanced behind him, beyond the window, finally realizing how early it was. The sun wasn't even out yet. He wasn't ready. He'd have too much to drink, his wound still seared him with pain when he forced it. But he'd given his word. "I won't last long, father." After ridding himself of his silk, body-fitting trousers for something ampler, Heron was back, out of his chambers and following his father to the stables where they took horses to enter the forest.

Throughout their way, Heron pleaded his father wouldn't scold him for his lack of restraint the previous night. For a change, The Ancients granted him that pleasure. They halted in front of a square field of cobbles stacked together. "I won't be knocking on your door the next time. I expect you to be here before me," Lomeon said.

"When will be the next time?"

"What we agreed on yesterday night," Lomeon said impatiently.

Heron's memory refused to retrieve that information for him. He was torn between waiting until he recalled something or asking the question directly. "I don't remember, Father." There. Lomeon could slap him if he wanted. "Yesterday night I was—"

"An absolute shame to yourself and the Monarchy." The words seemed to cut Heron to pieces. Lomeon interrupted the heavy silence that had settled. "You should be here every morning without exception," he sighed. "Sir Salmior judged it was better to dismiss your former guard. You must take things seriously because if you fail in the city, no one will be there to keep your back."

Heron nodded through the pain. "Yes." In fact, he agreed with his father. The truth about his mother's killer was at stake. It was the first time he'd had a meaningful goal in his life. His body wouldn't be his best ally this morning but he was determined to give all he had in him.

Immediately, his father ordered him into action and Heron realized how he'd underestimated the notion that his body wasn't ready for training. The first task consisted of running a short straight line. At full speed. Down a path with a steep slope at its mid-length. The number of round-trips: undetermined.

Lomeon simply said, "Well see how it goes" when Heron asked. When Heron's feet pounded against the dark, damp, and slippery forest ground, Heron detested him for being so misleading. The descent allowed Heron to let his weight pull him down the slope and propel him forward the rest of the path before he pushed himself a few jogs further to tackle the path in the opposite direction. But the climb was pure torture device: calves burned, breathing seemed to fail him, heart pounded like an explosion, and the wound—that cursed wound ached like the knife that caused it was still deep in his flesh.

On occasion, Heron peered to his father, for a sign of when it'd all be over, Lomeon stared at him as if watching a dance unfolding, serene and completely detached from the absolute suffering he was causing Heron. "You're losing speed," he insisted. "Come on. Keep going."

Heron wanted to curse Lomeon's lineage. But he thought of his mother instead, bit the interior of his lip, and kept going. Until his body refused to cooperate. Ultimately, he slumped over undergrowth like a wet a sack of grains.

"You can rest," Lomeon said.

Said rest seemed to last five breaths only. "Grab." A sheathed sword slumped by Heron's side. He wanted to protest but Lomeon was out of his vision's reach. As soon as Heron looked his way, he cut through shrubs, toward the field.

Heron grabbed his sword. "Ancients burn you, bastard," he muttered. Once on the field, the task announced appeared like an attempt to wound Heron's sense of capability: attacks, blocks, and parries. Sure, he wasn't a warlord. It was also true he had missed military school, but he wasn't entirely incompetent at sword fighting.

Lomeon insisted to review the movements step by step, "Left foot forward, right foot behind, sword upright at chest height, step forward, strike sideways." Heron executed with exaggerated competence. But he hadn't realized the real aim of the task after he was repeating the same move for the thirtieth time. Attacks, blocks, and parries. "Faster," Lomeon bellowed when Heron dared to slow down. His leg didn't suffer as much as while running up that putrid slope, but his arm's muscles burned. "Too sloppy," Lomeon scolded. "Blocks only," he ordered as he unsheathed his sword. His voice softened. "Perfect. Keep doing things exactly as you are." Then he struck.

His momentum sent Heron several paces backward. He lunged forward again, hitting his blade with incredible impetus. Heron had braced for the impact but his palms still hurt against the pommel. Attacks rained on him. A multitude of them, with spins or regular—various body movements, but always lending where Heron blocked, even when Lomeon's body trajectory led Heron to judge otherwise. Lomeon moved with the agility of a serpent but hit with the magnitude of an enraged bear. The only reason Heron was able to defend effectively was that Lomeon knew exactly where to hit.

After the blocks, Heron parried, then attacked while Lomeon defended. Even while blocking Lomeon remained offensive, often causing Heron to stagger after his strikes. Thinking his exhaustion would decide the end of the session, Heron sent clear signs his body was unwilling to continue but Lomeon pushed him further. "I know you're angry at me," Lomeon urged. "Put all that anger in your blade. Come on."

Heron paused half a second in shock. Bastard! The sword clashes echoed with new-found vigor. If Lomeon wanted his rage, he would have it. Heron struck to hurt with all the strength he mastered.

"Watch your position," Lomeon bellowed. "Too sloppy. Left foot forward." Every time Heron made a mistake Lomeon pounced at him, sending him into a near-stumble. After a moment, even the rage ebbed away and Heron's leg buckled. He was drenched in sweat, his hair stuck to his face. It had felt good, intoxicating even. But he felt deeply ashamed. He could have hurt his father. When he tried to stand a wave of nausea hit him and suddenly, he was bent and vomiting.

"Well," Lomeon said. "It all had to come out eventually, hadn't it?" He outstretched his arm. "Come on."

With a raw throat and the taste of liquor in the back of his tongue, Heron grabbed Lomeon's hand and stood. "I can't do it anymore, father," he said. "I'll be in better shape tomorrow. I promise."

"Come with me," Lomeon said.

His body protesting, Heron followed him near their horses. Lomeon extracted a belt of flingerstones from a leather tool pouch fastened at the flank of the horses and falling down its side.

"Normally one doesn't get their first stonebelt before they are enlisted to the superior guard after rigorous military instruction from an academy." Lomeon exposed a thick belt with red Flogos stones cased into its leather structure, forming a straight line. He ran a finger along the length, never touching the gems. He caught Flogos with the tip of two fingers. Heron lost himself momentarily at the sight of the gem, painted in a gradient of red color darker at the outer edges. At its core, the stone seemed to burn. "Grab."

The stone weighed way more than its size suggested.

"Feel it," Lomeon encouraged.

With his fingers around the stone, the mineral seemed to throb inside his palm, like a small fire willing to escape.

"If you release it, it'll explode and blow you apart," Lomeon said casually as if discussing the weather. Heron's body tensed, his grip tightening to assure the stone didn't escape him. "You're sure about this Father?"

"When you burn incense to the Ancients, do you for our mines in Tholos, Anuteh, and in the north of the capital, as much as you do it for your health. Our army would have never achieved the position it enjoys in the Southern continent without the unprecedented development in weaponry technology during the last five centuries," Lomeon said. "It's the only reason why we have been at peace in Ceri territory for the past three centuries. But weaponry technology of Styra and Flogos has become quite common throughout the continent. Even seem to have spread to the East. That's why we should be pioneers in the extraction and technology of the electric mineral we plan to extract in the electric mines in Owynis.

"The stones are highly unstable," Lomeon continued. "Not meant to be disturbed. Think of them as a lover, very on edge. You touch them the wrong way, or the right way even," he shrugged, "and they blow up. It's best to retaliate before they harm you. Stonefling implies handling stones fast enough to harm your opponent, but most of all, to avoid harming yourself. If you release the stone in your hand it'll explode, but if you hold it for too long it'll heat up and explode all the same."

Heron felt paralyzed.

"Act!" Lomeon urged.

Heron panicked, spinning to fling the stone away, which exploded mid-flight, propelling heat and a shockwave that caused his hair to billow. Lomeon's stern look dissuaded him from the urge of complaining about him risking his life so carelessly.

"That is all you need to know to successfully wield Flogos. As a general rule, when brought to their elemental level, most fighting techniques are simple. Control and discipline to build them up are where most of the work should be done. You know more than I first judged."

Heron thought the words had announced the end of the training, But Lomeon dislodged Styra from his belt. "Take," he offered. "Two fingers. It's fragile."

Even holding the green gems seem to hurt his shoulder muscles, but Heron executed without voicing protest, with utmost care to boot, the last thing he wanted was to deal with additional injuries. Surprisingly, Styra's surface was cold and in comparison with the Flogos, the bits of green mineral appeared weightless. Inside it, a cloud of foam seemed to budge with Heron's slightest movements. It was ironic something so appealing to the eye was used not for jewelry but for weaponry for the army.

As if catching Heron's curiosity towards the mineral, Lomeon spoke. "There's gas inside," he explained, "toxic clouds trapped under layers of crystalized rocks. Takes place when there are gaseous eruptions at high temperatures and rapid crystallization of rocks before complete air dilution. At some point during military school, I considered becoming an academic in earth and mineral. It's all nothing short of fascinating."

Strange that at some point Lomeon had considered taking a route diverging from his natural position as The Monarch. It was stranger that he disclosed that information with Heron. Both knew they were not permitted to deviate from their destiny, as did all those of their lineage. It was worse than the Ceri tradition required all regional Monarchs one single offspring—to avoid all internal struggles of power within the Monarchy.

"When wielded well, Styra can be more dangerous than Flogos. One crack of Styra clouds your vision. Two burn your eyes. Three can choke you to death. But it requires the wielder to be a quick thinker and versatile. You should be able to read your surroundings, and the wind and know your opponent to an extent. That way you know how to trap them where the conditions favor the gases the mineral releases," Lomeon said calmly as if he was reciting words that weren't his, as though remembering his introduction to the wielding the mineral, then abruptly, he delivered, "fling it on the ground."

"Now?"

"A heartbeat ago!"

Heron smashed the gem on the ground. But the stone didn't crack. He glanced at Lomeon, ashamed, and sprang towards the stone to redo the fling.

"Ron, no," Lomeon warned. It was too late. The stone on the ground cracked at Heron's touch, propelling a choking green cloud that enveloped him whole. Eyes burning, it felt as if he was coughing his lungs out of his mouth, all while finding the shorter way out of the green veil. Lomeon pulled him out of it at the end. H he spoke only after the coughs ceased. "I should have made clear that you should have applied more strength." He patted his back. "Pardon me."

Lomeon now offered Heron a full flingerbelt and then unsheathed his blade. He stepped away. "You know everything you need to know now. Attack me."

Heron buckled the leathered belt around his waist and scanned the stones clinging to it, unsure where to begin. On a whim, he grabbed Flogos and lobbed it towards his father faster than he could he could feel the heat's imprint on his hand. Lomeon stepped back, swinging his sword to crack the stone only with its tip, springing away to avoid the shockwave and the heat. Then lunged forward, sword straight and menacing. Heron panicked and stepped back but Lomeon's blade rested lightly pressed on his stomach before he could recoil an arm-length away.

"If I hated you, this is when I would charge to gut you," he said. "Avoid that by trying to overwhelm me before I can get to you."

Heron attacked again. And again. Lomeon dodged, broke Styra midflight, surged through the green clouds, and bated Flogos away with the flat of his sword. All with ease. And the tip of his blade found a spot on Heron's skin: neck, thigh, even his name, and the center of his forehead.

Strange that Heron was the one afraid of being blown apart. When Heron flung his last Flogos stone, he knew as soon as his fingers let go of the stone that hadn't applied nearly enough strength—He knew his father was seeking his limit, but Heron was reaching his breaking point.

Flogos blew up immediately where it landed, just paces away from Heron. Somehow Lomeon yanked Heron away from the blast fast enough to avoid the bulk of the blast, still, both were sent stumbling backward, then slumping with a thud against the field's ground.

Lomeon chuckled. "That was bad," he said, standing. He stretched him a helping hand. "You're technically not ready to wield Styra. Flogos makes you so nervous you can't strike precisely with it." He examined the broken pieces of the red gem scattered about the ground. "Or strike at all," he murmured. "It's alright," Lomeon said. "You've done alright. You're free to go for today."

Right after Lomeon uttered those words Heron's fatigue seemed to have claimed right of every bit of his body. He didn't think he was capable of as much as walking up to his horse. "I'll stay here for a while," he said. "I'll return in time for library readings," heron added to avoid the questions he sensed coming. "I also know I should spend time with Elana to compensate for my...state yesterday night."

"She can't be mad at you for being so joyous to have her you drank too much, can she?" Lomeon reverted his attempt at being humorous as soon as peered at Heron. "Look, Ron, I didn't love your mother right on the first day I met her. When she was brought to the royal domain, Samiya, your bother's mother was already pregnant and I was battling my father to allow me to give up my position as the next Monarch because I was still in love with her. One thing I always kept in my mind was to respect Servyna because she didn't have any more leverage than I did on the matter. I am glad I did because I came to love her, more than I'd ever loved a woman. This marriage is purely political for you, I'm aware you cannot love her but you still owe her respect and honor."

Heron's knees buckled. He had been so absorbed in his training he hadn't realized the start of the solar-arc. It remained little of dawn and even the remnants of sweat stuck to his skin, the humid heat of Sprout season was taking terrain. "I am exhausted, father."

"I should be in the courtroom in no time in any case," Lomeon said.

As soon as Lomeon stepped out of the training field, Heron was spread on the cobbles. It hurt everywhere, but he was so exhausted that his mind appeared empty. Tremendous, painful bliss! He smiled. And that corrosive anger was gone. Only alcohol had brought him to this state before. The euphoria was slighter and he was completely sore, but he'd settle for that for now.