“Remember, Anastasius Asi Archanbeau, as long as you are in this region, never let your guard down. Never show your soft ray of light to the mortals. The one second you left your guard down, multiple swords will have their way to your royal flesh,” a low, distinct voice advised the teen, who was in the training ground with his father, as ringing clashes of two steel blades filled the area, showing the strength both of the nobles possessed. Groans and pants were exchanged between them when the attack was received. The emperor chose to train his son rather than appoint a knight to avoid losing his only kin. The knights would step back and spectate the training in awe. How could their young lord match his father's swordsmanship? This placed most of the knights feeling so incompetent with their skills. The eighteen-year-old heir wielded the sword gracefully monstrously like his father. Two of the same shadow was what they were infamous for.

Once the session was over, they went their separate ways, the lord to this study room and the teen to his chamber. The young sir took off his blouse and stood in front of a standing mirror, gazing at his reflection. Regardless of being the wintry land’s precious crystal, Anastasius’ once princely, delicate white pallid form was now toned and covered in past-fresh, satisfyingly horrific, transversal scars. His usual smart, slick back hair became untidy. His amber hues came in contact with his palms that covered in calluses. The hard, worthwhile pieces of training produced hearty satisfaction to him as he clenched his hands into fists, heaving a sigh. There are more things needed to be done, he bethought.