Rolling back and forth in his room, Cyran felt this sense of unease that he just could not shake. It was an earlier time to rise for a normal training day but the extra time could not hurt in any way so he got up and performed the early morning stretches that Virion had drilled into his very soul. Being stiff and inflexible was a poor way to lose a fight.
Opening his wardrobe revealed a full selection of sparring clothing, leather armours and carved weapons which Cyran could practice with. Many bruised shoulders and a tempered ego found that his proficiency and preferred fighting style lay with dual wielding. Speed and dexterity were two particular traits that Cyran far excelled at making the twin swords his ideal partners and they had been for some time. The left short sword had a multitude of notches in, almost as if Cyran had attempted to reshape the handle, each one representing the number of times Virion had swiftly and decisively put him on the ground. The right short sword had a superbly polished handle that only showed signs of an ever tightening grip. This handle represented all the times he had successfully felled his father. None.
Donning his leather armour rather than usual sparring gear and shoving some straw down his pants and behind his cuirass meant he was ready. Cyran was confident but not delusional, he held no illusions of finally knocking his smug Father to the ground during training so it couldn't hurt to at least soften the blow.
Being the son of Virion put a lot of eyes on his performance. Eyes that both wanted to see the son of a common hero thrive and those that want the peasantry to learn their place. So at least being able to touch the sentinel of the Sylvan woods with his blades would do wonders to raise the fires of both ideals to a roaring inferno.
Grabbing his twin blades, Cyran had an exceedingly tight grip before letting out a deep breath and sheathing them. He could hear his fathers voice and being early was always better than being on time in his eyes.
Cyran, upon opening the door to his room, saw Virion stood at the door talking with someone who he abruptly ended his conversation with when he heard that he was not the only one awake. After closing the door, he moved with a strength and fluid like grace that proved his muscles were not all for show. Putting a calloused hand to stroke his fiery stubble, he feigned astonishment to see Cyran.
"By the Sage! Who are you and what have you done with my son, foul trickster?!"
"Oh come on Dad, I am early. Hardly the strangest thing I have ever done." Cyran sat down at the table, tearing off some bread from the platter of food just sitting there.
Virion was silently musing to himself, seemingly thinking of some past mysteries that have surrounded Cyran during his upbringing. There have been times where he has been somehow able to predict natural phenomenon before it actually occurred. He had pointed at the equipment bag of a hunter that was setting out before it had burst into flames. He had come outside on a sunny day in oiled skins when the heavens opened and soaked everything and everyone, yet no one had the answer for why Cyran could foretell such things.
Having no resident mage born into the Sylvan woods for the past 400 years meant that no magical speculation could happen either. Magical knowledge was diminishing and all but forgotten except for few elders that remember seeing such elemental marvels in their youth.
"True. I hope you pay attention during training today because what I am going to show you could mean victory or defeat depending on your mastery of it during your selection tomorrow," Virion proclaimed whilst tearing off some bread for himself.
Cyran's pointed ears perked up at after hearing this. It made todays training sound more intense than anything he had endured so far yet the reward was so promising. There had to be a catch. It was too good to be true. Whatever it was though, Cyran was determined to to make his Dad accept his ability.
The two left the house quietly, not disturbing Eleanor or Arlen, and started making their way to the clearing Galaeron hobbled off to the previous day.
"When I learn what you're going to teach, Dad, do you think I will be ready to go on adventures just like you did?"
Virion whirled, his face frozen in an expression etched with a fear that Cyran had never seen before. To him, his Father was the strongest warrior he had ever known. Regaining control over his emotions came as quickly to Virion as it was to lose it, replacing his face with a mask with the fatherly warmth that Cyran was embraced with his whole life.
"I would like to think that you would have adventures all your own, son. Completely different from mine. Unique, exciting... but different."
After reaching the clearing, they were greeted by an oak the size of which could not be described. The roots anchored the tree into the earth that looked as though even a cataclysmic event could not uproot it. Looking up into the canopy, Cyran could see its leaves riding the wind to the ground below, passing by his gaze in a serpentine fashion. It exuded a strange aura that made him feel calm. Safe. It wasn't the usual place they trained.
"Why are we here?" Cyran asked.
Virion stopped. His polished leather armour shining in the sunlight whilst the emerald green battle robe he wore settled against his muscular form. The aura around him suddenly changed. The warm, jovial father figured melted away and the man who stood in his place seemed to radiate danger.
"This tree, as you know, is the Oak of the Sage. It is a sacred tree to us. The elders of our race would tell of an elf who was the pinnacle of Elven martial prowess and wisdom. He was a master of magic and a being who lead us to achieve great things. Times were peaceful and our people prosperous. Yet one day, he vanished. To where no living soul can say. Yet there are such tales that say he came here, to this forest. To this spot where you and I now stand." Virion slowly turns to face Cyran, shrugging one shoulder free from his robe.
"It is said that he planted this oak and nurtured it using his life. Becoming this mighty tree, he would keep watch over our race for millennia to come. The calmness some supposedly feel standing here is testament to his vigil." Virion slowly drew his long katana from his side filling the forest with a ringing as it cleared its scabbard.
"This calmness is a tool I am going to use to teach you a skill I discovered during my adventuring days."
Watching his Father settle his weapon into a ready stance, every fiber of his being screamed danger yet Cyran could not move. His body simply would not listen. The visage of Virion flickered before vanishing completely.
His father was nowhere to be found. All traces of his aura has dissipated. Once his limbs finally obeyed, he took a hesitant step back until he felt cold steel surround his neck. Taking small steps to turn, he saw Virion poised at his rear with his blade readied at his throat. His parental warmth and giant grin had returned.
"I am going to teach you to wisp walk."