Vane expected a sudden traumatic plunge into the Hydra's corridor. He braced himself for the smell of corrupted flesh and the agonizing pressure of holding a collapsing reality.

Instead, he woke up cold.

The air was sharp and thin, smelling of frost and old stone. He was standing in a castle courtyard at dawn. The light was a pale grey spilling over high battlements. He looked down at his hands. They were small and pale and calloused. The ash wood training spear he held was unadorned and rough. It felt impossibly heavy, its weight dragging on small underdeveloped shoulders.

He wasn't Vane the Usurper. He was Senna Valerius. She was eight years old and already stubborn enough to be out here before the sun.

The courtyard was filled with the rhythmic grunts of men training. Rows of House Valerius guards and squires moved in unison. Their silver-shod spears flashed in the early light. Their movements were elegant and rigid. They practiced the Iron Clad formation. It was a style built on static defense. On being a brick.

Leading them was Cassian. He was Senna's older brother. He was sixteen and already tall and broad-shouldered. His golden hair shone like a halo. He moved with a practiced arrogance, the spear an extension of his vanity as much as his arm.

Senna stood at the very edge of the formation behind a stone pillar. Vane felt her small body tremble not from cold, but from frustration. She tried to mimic them. She planted her feet. She locked her hips. She tried to be a brick.

But she was too small.

The drill ended. Cassian handed his spear to a squire and wiped sweat from his brow. He glanced toward the pillar, spotting her immediately. He walked over, not with a brother's warmth, but with the casual disdain of a prince noticing a stray dog.

"Lost again, little sister?" Cassian said, his voice smooth and patronizing. "The kitchens are that way. Try not to trip over your own feet getting there."

Senna didn't move. She held her spear tight, knuckles white. "I was practicing the Iron Clad."

Cassian laughed. "Iron? You are made of glass, Senna. Look at your stance. You are trying to stop the wind by shouting at it."

He reached out and thrust his spear butt towards her chest. It wasn't a lethal strike, but it was heavy. Senna tried to block it the way the guards did. She braced. She locked up.

Cassian's strength plowed right through her rigid guard. She was thrown backward, landing hard in the dirt with the breath knocked out of her.

"See?" Cassian sneered, towering over her. "The women of Valerius stand behind the wall, not in it. Walls have to be heavy, Senna. You are just... light."

Vane felt the sting of tears she refused to shed. But more than that, he felt the gears turning in her eight-year-old brain. She looked at Cassian. She realized something profound.

'He is right,' she thought bitterly. 'I am not heavy. If I try to be a wall, I will just break.'

She stood up, brushing the dirt from her knees. She didn't run. She walked back to her spot. She waited until Cassian left. Then she picked up the spear. She didn't plant her feet this time. She didn't lock her hips. When she imagined the attack coming, she didn't try to stop it. She twisted. She initiated a tiny, instinctive Spiral Circulation. She let the imaginary force slide past her, guiding it into the ground.

She wasn't a wall. She was a root.

The memories blurred and jumped forward. Senna was older now, maybe twelve. It was late night. She was drilling, but she wasn't drilling the House style.

Vane felt the flow of her mana. It wasn't stagnant. It didn't pool in her core to create mass. It vortexed. It cycled through her arms and into the spear shaft, creating the high-pitched Hum of Cyclic Resonance. She was initiating the early stages of the Frictionless Sleeve, stripping away the air resistance.

She wasn't trying to be immovable. She was trying to be untouchable.

Cassian found her. He watched her strange, fluid movements with a frown. "What is that? That isn't the Art. You are dancing, not fighting."

"I am adapting," Senna said, breathless.

"You are embarrassing the house," Cassian spat. "Father wants soldiers, Senna. Not dancers."

He grabbed her spear and threw her weapon into the dark. Vane felt the anger in her chest. It was the cold certainty of someone who knew a secret.

'You think strength is just weight,' she thought. 'You are going to die heavy, brother.'

Another jump. Senna was fifteen. The Valerius estate was hosting a delegation from Zenith Academy, including the formidable Headmistress Evangeline. The house put on a demonstration. Cassian and the squires performed the Iron Clad drills. They were impressive. Solid. Unshakeable.

Then the accident happened.

A low-level training golem, a massive construct of stone, malfunctioned. It broke its containment rune. It ignored Cassian and lumbered toward the viewing dais where the Headmistress sat. The guards froze. They were in formation. Breaking formation was against the drill. Cassian hesitated. He didn't want to step out of the secure line.

Senna didn't hesitate.

Vane felt the rush of wind as she vaulted the spectator railing. She grabbed a spear from a rack. She initiated the Spiral Circulation to its absolute limit, her mana stripping the air away as she sprinted. She didn't run in front of the golem to catch it. She ran at it.

The golem swung a stone fist that would have pulverized a shield. Senna didn't block. She lunged. She stepped inside the arc of the swing. Her spear tip didn't aim for the stone chest. It aimed for the joint of the arm.

She executed a Quicksilver Thrust.

She applied a raw, unrefined pulse of the Silver Fang.

The spear tip didn't smash the stone. It ignored the density of the rock entirely. It sank into the joint like a hot knife through butter. She twisted, and the absolute severance shattered the mana crystal powering the arm. The golem's arm fell off mid-swing. The construct unbalanced and crashed to the ground, its momentum wasted.

Senna stood over it, breathing hard. She hadn't taken a single hit. She hadn't been a wall that took damage. She had been a spike that broke the hammer.

Silence fell over the courtyard. Cassian looked furious. But up on the dais, Headmistress Evangeline stood up.

"That wasn't the Valerius Art," the Headmistress observed, her eyes sharp.

"No," Lord Valerius stammered, mortified. "She is untrained. Wild."

"It was better," Evangeline murmured. "She didn't wait for the siege. She broke the siege engine."

The next day the offer came. Not a program. Just a letter. Special Admission granted to Senna Valerius. Rank 1.

Zenith Academy was where the Art truly formed. The memories flashed by in a blur of motion. It was never about standing still.

First year. Dueling class. A large Earth-mage tried to crush her with a rock slide. Senna didn't brace. She used the Lunar Deflection. She spun her spear, creating a vortex of mana that drilled a hole through the center of the slide, allowing her to walk through the debris untouched.

Second year. The Tournament. She stood perfectly still, vibrating her mana into the air around her, creating the Frictionless Sleeve not just around her weapon, but around her body. She turned the air into a field of Cyclic Resonance.

And then the Authority fully manifested. It was during her graduation assessment. She was facing a Rank 5 instructor who launched a massive wave of fire. Senna stepped forward. She didn't block the fire. She refused it.

She thrust the spear into the center of the inferno. The Silver Fang flared. It wasn't a shield. It was a declaration that 'this space belongs to me.' The fire split. It washed around her, leaving her standing in a cone of safety. She hadn't stopped the fire. She had forced the fire to acknowledge she was sharper than it was.

The final memory. The War Room. Senna was twenty-one. A Rank 6 Expert.

The news of the Hydra arrived. The High Commander looked at the map. "The Hydra's corridor is collapsing. If we send a standard shield wall, the pressure will crush them."

He looked at Cassian, who was polished and heavy. Then he looked at Senna, who was vibrating with barely contained energy.

"We don't need a shield," the Commander said. "We need a wedge. Someone to stand in the throat of the beast and keep it open so the rest can retreat."

Cassian stepped back, pale. He knew his weight meant nothing against a collapsing dimension. Senna stepped forward.

"I will take the narrow path," she said.

Vane felt her thoughts in that moment. 'I spent my whole life being told I was too light to be a wall,' she thought. 'So I became the thing that cuts the wall.'

She looked at the portal.

"I am not the wall," she whispered to herself. "I am the Silver Fang."

The gate activated. The world dissolved into white. And then the screaming started.

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