The morning yard smelled of oil and damp straw. The sun was barely up, but Kaelen was already sweating.
He tightened the bindings around his wrists as the squires gathered in loose knots. They didn't laugh anymore. Since the fight with Rhel, the laughter had been replaced by a watchful, prickly silence.
"Adequate no longer?" one muttered near the fence. "He beat Rhel," another answered, voice low. "Luck." "Test his luck, then." "No… I think I'll wait."
Kaelen ignored them. He stood before the center post, his body tighter than it had been a month ago.
Deyric stood by the rack. He didn't offer a lesson on form today. He offered a lesson on the mind.
"Cognitive Overload," Deyric barked.
He picked up two stones. "Your enemy expects a rhythm. One-Two-One. Attack, Recover, Guard. It is how the brain tracks danger. If you fight with two blades in the same rhythm, you are just one loud sword."
Deyric tossed the stones. One high, one low. Kaelen had to catch them simultaneously.
"Desynchronize," Deyric commanded. "Your left hand is a ghost. Your right hand is a hammer. They do not know each other."
Kaelen sets his feet. He began to drill on the post.
He forced his left hand to move in a slow, weaving circle (The Trap) while his right hand snapped in rapid, staccato strikes (The Kill).
It was agonizing. His brain wanted to sync them. He frowned, sweat stinging his eyes, forcing his mind to split. To the watching squires, it looked maddening 'like watching a man pat his head and rub his stomach, but with lethal steel.
…..
After training, Kael went to the hall to eat with his family. The dining hall was cold, despite the fire. Winter was bleeding away, leaving the damp chill of early spring.
"Three months," Alaric said, slicing a pear with surgical precision. "The Marrow champion arrives next week to begin acclimatization. They say he's a giant. A border-lander."
King Aldrick didn't look up from his map. "Size is a factor. Not a verdict."
"I'll chop him down like a tree," Alaric said, smiling. He looked at Kaelen. "And you? Who have they found for the junior lists?"
Kaelen paused, his spoon hovering over his stew. "I don't know."
"Probably a Veythar cousin," Alaric mused. "Fast. Wiry. Like you." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "If he uses a shield, aim for the feet. Thorne boys hate looking down."
Kaelen blinked. It was the first piece of genuine advice Alaric had given him in years.
"Thank you," Kaelen said.
"Don't thank me," Alaric said, leaning back. "Just win. Father is right. If we both lose, the court will eat us alive. I intend to be the one doing the eating."
Aldrick looked up then. His eyes found Kaelen.
"Deyric tells me you are breaking the practice blades," the King said. "Because you are hitting with the intent to kill, not to score."
Silence stretched.
"Good," Aldrick said. He went back to his map. "Wood is cheap. Defeat is expensive."
….
After Dinner, Kaelen found Alaric standing in the Gallery of Banners, staring up at the black silk of House Veylor.
The banner was stitched with silver names. Aldrick Veylor. Valerius Veylor. The winners of the Festival.
"See that?" Alaric pointed to a blank space below their father's name. "I'll carve my name there. Twice. Once this year, once before graduation."
Kaelen looked at the empty space.
"And if you lose?" Kaelen asked.
Alaric turned, his face genuinely confused. "Lose? To a Marrow giant? Kael, look at me."
Alaric spread his arms. He was magnificent. Tall, broad-shouldered, golden-haired. He looked like the god Veylor come to earth.
"I am the sun," Alaric said, not boasting, just stating a fact. "Shadows burn away when I step onto the sand."
Alaric walked away, humming a victory tune.
Kaelen stayed. He looked at the banner.
"I am not the sun," Kaelen whispered to the silk. "I am not the Shadow."
….
2 months swiftly passed and Kael continued his training with Dreyric, much to the astonishment of the onlookers. He was making progress and most of the chatter had ceased at this point.
The armory smelled of hot iron. Deyric threw a bundle onto the table.
"Live steel," Deyric said. "Blunted. But heavy."
Kaelen unwrapped the oilcloth. Inside lay two steel swords. Short but brutal.
"Rhel is waiting in the yard. He wants a rematch. With steel."
Kaelen picked them up. They felt heavy.
"Go," Deyric commanded. "Use the Edge."
…
The yard was full. Rhel stood in the center, wearing chainmail, holding a tournament longsword.
"Begin!"
Rhel didn't charge. He circled. He used his reach.
Kaelen moved. He used Desynchronization.
He baited Rhel with a slow movement of his left hand. Rhel's eyes tracked it.
Snap.
Kaelen's right hand struck Rhel's wrist before Rhel realized the attack had started.
Rhel froze, his brain lagging behind reality.
Kaelen stepped in. Three strikes to the ribs, shoulder, and helm. Rhel stumbled back, overwhelmed by the noise, the speed, the sheer volume of steel hitting him.
Kaelen swept his leg and put the blades to Rhel's throat.
"Yield."
Rhel yielded. The yard clapped respectfully. Kaelen felt invincible.
The applause died as Alaric walked down the stairs.
"Cute," Alaric said, his voice cutting through the celebration. He drew his tournament longsword. "But Rhel is slow. Let's see if your math works on me."
Kaelen turned, adrenaline still high. He felt fast. He felt ready.
"Begin," Deyric said, his voice flat.
Kaelen charged. He tried to flood Alaric with the same rapid-fire strikes. He tried to overload him.
Alaric didn't freeze. He didn't try to track the two blades. He simply used Physics.
He thrust his longsword straight out.
Kaelen tried to block it with his short sword.
The leverage was impossible. Alaric's two-handed grip on a long lever blew right through Kaelen's one-handed block. The sword was knocked aside like a toy.
Alaric's blade stopped an inch from Kaelen's chest.
"Reach," Alaric said calmly. "I have it. You don't."
Kaelen gritted his teeth. He reset. He tried to get inside, to slip the point. But Alaric simply took a step back, maintaining the distance, and picked Kaelen apart with long, stinging thrusts. Every time Kaelen tried to close the gap, he ran into a wall of steel.
It wasn't a fight. It was a geometry lesson.
Alaric disarmed him effortlessly 'a twist of the wrist, a bind 'and dumped him into the sand.
Kaelen lay there, dust in his mouth.
Alaric stood over him, the sun catching his hair. He hadn't even broken a sweat.
"You're fighting a sphere against a line, Kael," Alaric said, sheathing his sword. "But my line is four feet long. Your sphere is two feet wide. You die before you ever touch me."
Alaric offered a hand. Kaelen took it.
"Good workout," Alaric said, patting Kaelen's cheek. "Keep practicing. You're almost dangerous."
….
That night, Kaelen stood on the ramparts. His body ached, but his ego hurt worse.
Alaric was right. The physics were broken. Two short swords were fast, yes, but against a master with a longsword, he couldn't close the gap. It was a simple equation of distance: Alaric could kill him from four feet away. Kaelen could only kill from two.
I am fighting a mathematician with a longer ruler, Kaelen thought bitterly. I am Veylor blood. I should have the Reach. I should have the Line.
Below, the gates groaned open.
A carriage arrived, flanked by riders in black. House Marrow.
Kaelen watched. They didn't ride like Veylor knights stiff and proud in the saddle. They rode fluidly, bodies moving with the horses, absorbing the motion rather than commanding it.
A man stepped out of the carriage. The Champion. He was lean, coiled like a whip. He didn't carry a shield. He didn't carry a greatsword. At his belt sat two hooked blades.
Kaelen watched the man move. He didn't march. He flowed.
But then he saw the man's guard—a heavy, armored escort with a massive Zweihänder.
As they walked, the guard slipped on a patch of mud. The heavy sword dipped, opening a hole in his defense. In the blink of an eye, the Champion had stepped inside the guard's personal space to steady him.
Kaelen gripped the cold stone of the rampart.
He didn't back away, Kaelen realized. When the heavy blade moved, he moved into the void it left behind.
A thought struck him.
I have been trying to fence Alaric. I have been trying to parry a sledgehammer with a knife.
Kaelen ran to the armory. It was midnight. The fire was dead, the coals sleeping in gray ash.
He went straight to the wall where the Longswords hung.
He reached out and grabbed the hilt of a "Bastard Sword"—lighter than a Greatsword, but long enough to demand respect. A true Veylor blade.
He held it in his right hand. It felt good. It felt heavy. It felt... safe. With this, he could match Alaric. He could block. He could keep the distance. He could be the Knight his father wanted.
He looked at the rack of Short Swords.
He looked back at the Longsword.
This is the weapon of a man who wants to survive, he thought.
Slowly, Kaelen put the Longsword back on the rack.
But I don't want to survive. I want to win.
He walked over to the short swords. He didn't pick different ones. He picked the same pair he had used earlier. The ones that had failed him.
You didn't fail, he whispered to the steel. I failed you.
He walked out into the center of the dark yard.
He assumed his stance. But this time, he didn't stand tall. He didn't extend his arms to mimic a longsword's guard.
He crouched. He pulled his elbows in tight to his ribs, the blades pointing forward like the fangs of a coiled snake. He made himself small.
He closed his eyes. He summoned the memory of Alaric.
The Thrust.
In his mind, the long steel tip flew toward his throat.
In the past, Kaelen would have tried to beat the blade aside—force against force.
Now, Kaelen didn't resist. He surrendered the ground. He pivoted his hips, letting the imaginary blade pass inches from his ear.
And then, he exploded.
Step.
He was inside the guard.
Trap.
He brought his left blade down over the imaginary longsword, pinning it toward the ground.
Strike.
His right blade snapped forward into the empty air where Alaric's throat would be.
The physics weren't broken. They were just different. A longsword was a lever; it was strongest at the tip and weakest at the handle. Kaelen had been fighting the tip.
Don't fight the tip, he told himself, sweat breaking on his forehead. Run up the beam.
He began to move.
He stopped trying to block. He started to deflect and collapse. He visualized the heavy swings of a knight. He slipped under them. He flowed around them. He became a thing of proximity.
If he was far away, he was dead. So he practiced living in the breath of his enemy.
He spun, using the momentum of a dodge to drive a backhand strike. He realized that with two swords, he never had to reset. If the right hand missed, the left was already there. It wasn't a duel; it was a barrage.
He wasn't the Sword and the Shield. He was the Teeth.
He stopped, chest heaving, the moonlight gleaming off the twin blades. He felt the balance of them now. Not a lopsided weight, but a perfect, deadly symmetry.
"I do not need Reach," he whispered to the silence.
He slashed the air, a sound like tearing silk.
"I am the Speed."
...
The King's Solar was quiet. Aldrick stood by the window, looking down into the yard.
"He is awake late," Elyndra murmured from the hearth.
"He is making a choice," Aldrick said. "I watched him go to the armory. I thought he would take a Bastard Sword. I thought he would admit defeat and pick up the weapon of his ancestors."
Aldrick leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. He saw Kaelen in the yard below. The boy was a blur of motion, tucking and rolling, rising with both blades stabbing in unison.
"He put the longsword back," Aldrick whispered.
"Is that wise?" Elyndra asked. "Can he beat Alaric with daggers?"
"He isn't fighting with daggers, Elyndra. And he isn't fighting like a Veylor anymore."
Aldrick watched the strange, terrifying dance. Kaelen wasn't holding ground. He was consuming it. He was practicing the art of the suicidal charge—inviting death so close that he could slip under its guard.
"A man with a longsword feels safe behind his reach," the King said softly, a mix of fear and pride in his voice. "He feels safe because his enemy is far away."
He watched Kaelen drive both blades into the phantom chest of his enemy.
"Kaelen is going to take that safety away. He is going to turn every fight into a phone booth brawl."
"Will it work?"
Aldrick turned from the window.
"If he has the nerve to step into the fire without burning?" Aldrick smiled grimly. "It will be a slaughter."