Chapter 8 - Training pt.2

  The courtyard was quiet when I arrived that morning, the kind of quiet that only winter can create. Snow softened every surface in a muted white glow, and the cold air held itself with an almost reverent stillness. I sat beneath the largest evergreen tree on the estate grounds, settled cross legged on a flat stone, attempting once again to sink into meditation. I had been doing this almost every day since awakening my mana, and although I had grown more familiar with the strange internal shift required to sense it, true progress continued to slip through my fingers.

  I tried to let my breathing fall into the same steady rhythm that Margo had taught me during my reading lessons. She always said breath was the start of everything. I wondered if she had meant mana too. With my eyes closed, I focused on the sensation of cold air entering my lungs and warm air leaving them. Somewhere within that small cycle, my awareness dipped inward. I reached toward that faint pulse of energy that felt like a thread behind my ribs. It flickered at my attention but never grew stronger.

  Then I heard footsteps approaching through the snow. They were heavy, purposeful steps, neither hesitant nor rushed. Metal clinked softly with each stride. My focus fractured instantly. I opened my eyes and saw Sir Darvish walking toward me.

  The man looked like a figure carved out of winter itself. He wore the silver armor of our territory, the plates etched with old crest lines and faint marks from too many battles to count. A dark, heavy cape hung from his shoulders and dragged lightly along the snow. His beard was trimmed and touched with more white than I remembered, and his breath came out in slow clouds that disappeared into the frozen air.

  Sir Darvish was a veteran who had fought in the Royal army with my father, Dungeon breaks, border skirmishes, ancientmonsters across the territory alike, before I was born. The estate guards still whispered about the day he cut down an entire band of raiders to protect my father’s traveling convoy when mother was pregnant with me. The idea of training under someone like him stirred equal parts excitement and dread in my stomach.

  He stopped beside me, arms crossed, the faint scent of frost and steel surrounding him.

  “On your feet, Lance,” he said. His voice was gravel pulled across stone. “Today is not a day for sitting.”

  I rose quickly, brushing the snow from my trousers. “Yes, sir.”

  He studied me for a quiet moment, as if measuring something unseen. Then he nodded once.

  “You have sensed mana. That is a start, but sensing is not strength. Sensing is only the door.” He looked to the side and motioned toward the open expanse of the courtyard. “Come. We begin your foundation.”

  My heart beat a little faster. I followed him into the center of the courtyard where the snow had been cleared earlier by the groundskeepers. The stone beneath was damp and glistening in the pale sun. Sir Darvish positioned himself across from me, feet shoulder width apart, back straight, arms hanging relaxed but ready.

  “Before a knight draws a blade,” he said, “he must first command his body. A weak body makes a weak technique. A wandering mind makes a lost fighter. Today, we build the base.”

  I nodded even though the idea of my mind wandering felt uncomfortably accurate.

  Sir Darvish placed his hands behind his back. “Begin with footwork. Step to your right, then forward, then left, then back to center. Keep the motion smooth. Do not stomp the ground.”

  I obeyed. At first the movement felt simple, almost too simple, but Sir Darvish’s expression told me simplicity did not excuse sloppiness. I stepped right, forward, left, center. He watched everything. The way my heel touched the ground first. The small sway of my shoulders. The moment I breathed too sharply.

  Again, he ordered. And again.

  Within minutes, the cold no longer felt cold. Heat bloomed across my back and forehead. My breath grew faster. My legs began to ache.

  “Good,” Sir Darvish said. “Now again, but lighter. You move as if the earth owns your feet. That is not how a warrior moves. A warrior moves as if he claims the ground.”

  I tried again. I imagined lightning. Not the bolt itself, but the instant before it strikes, the tension in the air, the coiled readiness. I imagined that feeling rising from my ankles through my knees and into my chest.

  Step. Step. Step. Center.

  Sir Darvish’s eyes narrowed. “Better. Follow that instinct.”

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  For the next hour he pushed me through footwork patterns. Forward, diagonal, retreating, circling. It felt endless. It felt like something meant to grind me into dust. My lungs burned. My fingers tingled from the cold. I wanted to stop, but each time my movement faltered Sir Darvish corrected me sharply.

  “Straighten your spine.”

  “Do not look down. Your enemy is never under your feet.”

  “Your breathing is scattered. Fix it.”

  By the time he finally raised his hand for me to stop, my legs shook beneath me. I inhaled deeply, trying to settle the trembling in my shoulders.

  Sir Darvish walked closer. His shadow stretched long across the courtyard. “Tell me,” he said, “when you moved, did you feel anything?”

  I swallowed, unsure. “I tried imagining lightning, sir. Not real lightning. Just the tension it has before it strikes.”

  He studied my expression, as if deciding whether my answer was childish or genuine. Then he gave a slow nod.

  “Mana responds to images that match the intent of the soul, intent of the user. If lightning speaks to you, listen to it, mold it. But do not chase fantasy. Focus on that feeling again.”

  He stepped back. “Now fists up. We work on hands and body.”

  I raised my fists in an awkward guard I had only seen in books. Sir Darvish sighed.

  “Your stance is wide and unbalanced. Narrow it. Yes. Shoulders relaxed. Do not clench your fists too tightly. A hand that cannot feel the strike cannot learn to give one.”

  He guided me through basic punches. Straight strikes. Short hooks. Small turning motions of the hips. At first his corrections came every few seconds. Eventually the rhythm settled. My fists cut the air in steady patterns, each one sharper than the last.

  Then he added footwork back into the mix.

  That was when the real challenge began.

  My feet moved one way and my fists moved another. My balance slipped. My weight shifted late or too soon. I punched when I should have stepped and stepped when I should have braced. The courtyard seemed to tilt beneath me.

  Sir Darvish watched without mercy.

  “Again.”

  “Again.”

  “Again.”

  My arms felt heavier than iron. A dull ache pulsed in my wrists. I pushed through it. I had to. I wanted to. Somewhere deep inside me, a small flame of stubborn pride refused to quit.

  After what felt like hours, he finally stopped me with a raised palm.

  “You are exhausted,” he said. “But your movement has begun to shape itself. That is enough for the first part of the day.”

  I nearly collapsed with relief. Then he added, “We are not done.”

  I groaned quietly, which earned a faint smirk from him, small but real.

  He reached behind the nearby training rack and retrieved a long wooden staff. He handed it to me and stepped back.

  “Your body is warmed. Now we teach it discipline.”

  He demonstrated the first sequence. A forward step, staff held diagonally, a thrust toward an imagined opponent, then a sweeping retreat. The sequence was fluid, almost beautiful. When I attempted it, mine resembled the miserable flailing of a half frozen farm rooster.

  He made me repeat it until it no longer resembled panic.

  Once my movements smoothed out, he added a second sequence, then a third. At one point the staff stung my knuckles when it bounced wrong off my palm, and I hissed through my teeth. Sir Darvish pretended not to hear but slowed the pace slightly, which I appreciated more than I expected.

  As the sun climbed higher and melted parts of the courtyard snow, something began to shift inside me. During one sequence, while striking forward with the staff, I felt a faint pulse in my chest. The same pulse I had reached for in meditation earlier. Except this time it answered.

  A trickle of energy slid down my arm and into the wood. It was barely noticeable, like the whisper of a spark. But I felt it. Clear and certain.

  My next strike came sharper. My next retreat came lighter. The world seemed a fraction brighter, as if a veil had lifted.

  Sir Darvish’s eyes sharpened. “There,” he said quietly. “You felt it.”

  “Yes,” I replied, breathless.

  “Good. That is the first touch. Mana follows the discipline of the body. Build that discipline and your power will no longer hide.”

  He gave a rare, small nod of approval. “We stop here for today. Tomorrow we build more.”

  I lowered the staff, panting hard, sweat chilling against the winter air. My muscles throbbed with exhaustion, but beneath it was something warm and exhilarating. Something alive.

  Sir Darvish rested a hand on my shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding.

  “You have potential, Lance,” he said softly. “But potential is nothing without devotion. If you wish to master both blade and mana, you must be ready to bleed for it. Every day.”

  “I am,” I said. I meant it.

  He released my shoulder. “Then I will teach you.”

  We bowed to each other and ended the session.

  But even when he left the courtyard, I remained still for a moment, staring at the staff in my hands, replaying the tiny surge of energy I had felt. It was so small. So fragile. But it was real. And it was mine.

  The path ahead no longer felt distant. It felt like something I could reach, one disciplined step at a time.

  From the balcony overlooking the courtyard, Lars stood with his arms folded, watching the last glimpse of his son through the drifting curtain of snow. Lafiel stood beside him, wrapped in a thick winter cloak, her hands clasped tightly at her front.

  “He is pushing himself again,” she said, concern softening her voice. “He never stops to rest.”

  Lars smiled faintly. “He reminds me of you when you were young.”

  She elbowed him gently.

  Below them, Lance trudged toward the estate entrance, staff across his shoulders, posture heavy with exhaustion but steady with purpose.

  “He grew today,” Lars murmured. “I could see it from the first sequence. Darvish is shaping him fast.”

  Lafiel’s eyes glistened with pride. “I fear how hard this path will be for him. But watching him now, I know he will not break.”

  Lars placed a hand over hers. “He is our son. And he carries more fire in him than either of us did at his age.”

  They watched Lance disappear inside the estate.

  Lafiel exhaled softly. “He is becoming someone strong, Lars.”

  “No,” Lars replied, gaze warm. “He is becoming someone remarkable.”

  Together they stood there in the fading winter light, two parents watching the beginning of the journey that would one day shape the world.