Auraborne: The Sun of Dorne

The scream of twisting metal hit before the pain.

Mors shot up in bed, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. The room around him was dim—stone walls, arched windows, the faint breeze of morning slipping through a cracked shutter. Sunspear. Not asphalt. Not steel. Not the hum of an engine right before it all went dark.

Just the silence of early light, and the soft sound of his breath slowing.

'The crash.'

He could still feel it sometimes. The g-force pulling sideways. The wheel turning too late. The hollow rush of adrenaline—then nothing. No pain, no panic, just… stillness. Like the universe hit pause right after impact.

His fingers curled against the blanket, grounding himself in the rough Dornish weave.

In that other life, he'd chased everything—money, women, adrenaline, reputation. Weekends blurred into deals and drinks and waking up in strange apartments with someone else's perfume on his collar. He had ruled in boardrooms and bedrooms and hadn't cared what came next. And yet…

'It was never enough.'

He didn't regret the rush. He regretted how empty it all felt afterward. Every accomplishment, every escape—it was all noise covering a kind of hunger he never understood until it was too late.

Now, he had time. A second chance. And this time, he wouldn't waste it.

Mors rose slowly, pulling on his training tunic and boots. His muscles still ached from the long ride back to Sunspear, but that was fine. He needed the ache. It reminded him that the body was his. That he was alive. That all of this was real.

Outside, the courtyard was already glowing with morning light.

The training yard was empty when he arrived—empty except for Maron, who stood near a rack of spears, arms crossed.

"You're early," Maron said without turning.

"I couldn't sleep," Mors replied, stepping onto the sand.

Maron nodded once. "Good. Then you'll have time to bleed before the others get here."

Mors gave a dry smile. "That sounds encouraging."

"It should be. The Spears aren't built on comfort."

Maron tossed him a wooden practice spear. Mors caught it, tested the weight. Lighter than expected. Balanced.

"First drill. Footwork and follow-through. You don't stop until I say."

The command came sharp. Mors moved.

Thrust. Twist. Step. Reset.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The sun climbed higher. Sweat clung to his skin, turned his tunic dark, stuck strands of silver hair to his face. Still, he moved. Maron said nothing, only watched, correcting with a grunt or a small shake of the head.

When the others arrived—Oberyn first, then Manfrey—they found Mors already soaked and winded, but still going.

Oberyn whistled. "Someone's trying to show us up."

Mors didn't answer, just struck again.

By midmorning, they moved to partner drills. Maron paired Oberyn with Manfrey and stepped in to spar with Mors himself.

"You hold back," Maron said as they circled. "You're faster than you show."

Mors didn't respond. He focused. Watched the shift of Maron's feet. The dip of his shoulder.

The blow came in a flash—too fast. Mors parried, barely. The shock ran through his arm.

'He's not going easy on me.'

Another strike. Mors sidestepped, swept low, drove the blunt end toward Maron's ribs.

It was batted away with the ease of a man who had done this his whole life.

Then pain bloomed in Mors's side as Maron spun, striking low and fast. Mors grunted and dropped to a knee.

"You fight like your body hasn't caught up to your instincts," Maron said, voice calm. "Like you're wearing training armor a size too small—and overcompensating for it. Stop forcing it. Let it grow naturally. Get up."

Mors rose. He didn't speak.

Again.

They clashed. Wood struck wood, then skin. Mors got in a clean jab to the shoulder, but it wasn't enough. Maron broke through again—this time knocking the spear from Mors's hands entirely.

The others had stopped to watch. Even Oberyn was quiet.

Maron stepped back, tossed the spear to Mors again. "You've got potential, boy. But you're still too clean."

He circled him slowly, then tapped his temple.

"Your body wants to react. But your head keeps getting in the way."

"Combat doesn't wait for you to think. Let it flow."

Mors caught his breath, his ribs aching. 'He's right.'

But even as the pain throbbed, even as he picked up the spear again, he felt something else pushing beneath the hurt. Not anger. Not pride.

Purpose.

A week passed in a blur of drills, bruises, and exhaustion.

By the end of it, Mors, Oberyn, and Manfrey lay sprawled across the training yard, drenched in sweat, panting like half-drowned hounds.

Blood freckled the sand from shallow cuts and split knuckles.

Their limbs twitched from overstretched muscles, chests heaving in tandem, as if the yard itself had wrung them dry.

Maron stood over them, arms crossed, a rare glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

"Although none of you look like you can stand," he said dryly, "I'm satisfied. You've made more progress in one week than some do in a month."

All three groaned in unison.

Manfrey muttered something unintelligible into the sand.

Oberyn rolled onto his side, clutching his ribs. "If this is what progress feels like, I'll settle for mediocrity."

Despite the protest, they forced themselves upright, groaning and gasping as they climbed to their feet.

Two and a half more weeks passed.

By the end of it, Mors could hold his own against Oberyn—and had begun to outpace Manfrey, who was starting to fall behind.

The fight was fluid and fast—more dance than duel. Sand flew as feet shifted and bodies twisted, spears clashing in tight, measured fury. It had become a free-for-all. Manfrey lunged, but Mors turned his momentum against him, sweeping low and sending him crashing onto his back.

Manfrey grunted and tapped out, chest heaving. "I yield. Again."

Without pause, Mors pivoted back to Oberyn. The tempo doubled. Their spar stretched on in a blur of jabs, counters, and parries—movements precise and intuitive. They moved like men far older than their years, blades of instinct rather than memory.

Maron watched from the edge of the yard, arms folded tight.

'Gods... the boy's growth is monstrous.' The thought came unbidden, but he didn't dismiss it. 'Quicker, stronger, faster recovery every day. He barely rests between sessions now. Is this what happens when Martell blood mixes with the dragon's?'

It wasn't just strength. It was adaptability. Focus. The way Mors read his opponents—how he anticipated movements before they finished forming.

Maron had trained prodigies before. Oberyn was one. But Mors? Mors was something else.

Then the sound came—hoofbeats, fast and urgent, pounding the sand outside Sunspear's gates.

They all paused. Even Oberyn lowered his spear and turned toward the noise.

Maron narrowed his eyes, then nodded toward the gate. "The Spears," he said simply. "They've returned."

The boys looked at each other. The unspoken truth hung between them: it was time.

Maron stepped back and signaled the end of the session. "That's enough. Clean yourselves up. You'll want to look like warriors when you meet Lewyn."

The three of them made their way toward the walls, already hearing the approach of riders through the lower court.

As they neared the gate, the Spears of the Sun came into view—one hundred mounted riders in formation, armor dark and sand-worn, weapons strapped but ready, banners trailing behind them like tongues of flame. Their faces were stone. Their movements precise. Every horse turned as one.

They looked like men carved from the desert.

Eleven riders broke off and continued toward the gate while the remainder veered toward the stables in perfect sync.

Mors slowed as he watched them ride in, the power and discipline unmistakable. The sheer presence of them.

'One day… if I want influence like Lewyn or Maron… I'll have to lead them.'

Not just match them. Command them. Earn them.

'And to do that, I'll have to be more than just promising. I'll have to be undeniable.'

As the dust settled and the Spears dismounted, Lewyn Martell appeared among them—taller than most in Dorne, a worn expression beneath his helm, his eyes already scanning the courtyard.

Mors straightened his posture.

The time for preparation was over.

The real testing had begun.