My father was motionless. His eyes fixed on nothing, as if looking into his own abyss. I have never seen him like this—not when he lost his arm, not when we were ambushed in that damned ravine. But now... He looked broken inside.
It was at that moment that I understood: everything changed.
He finally understood what I was already beginning to see—that without a wizard, our family is doomed. It doesn't matter how many warriors we form, how many armors we reinforce or castles we build. When we become a real obstacle... We will be wiped off the map like dust.
My father murmured, as if talking to himself:
"Plans need to change... I need to start writing my biography..."
The Udrak house would change forever from that day on. It was no longer a matter of honor or glory—it was survival. Or we would change... or we would disappear.
Suddenly, everything made sense:
Why did the emperor never change, even after three hundred years?
Why did royalty never mix with the common nobility?
How did all the revolts that threatened the empire end in a year or two?
The answer was before us all along:
"There is a greater power" he muttered, as if finally accepting it. "This power can be ours"
Hope.
But also... fear.
I saw my father's chest rise and fall with force, as if something crushed him inside. His eyes were no longer looking at me—they were lost somewhere far away in the past.
And then I realized: he was remembering her. From my mother.
Of blood.
Of the screams.
That night.
I knew that look. A look of pain that time has never erased. And for a moment, he looked at me... and faltered.
It was subtle.
But I saw it.
My father... he feared me.
—•—
The next day, I woke up early to the rhythmic sound of the wind hitting the windows. The house was still silent, the sky covered in a pale gray. I found my father already on his feet, wearing simple workout clothes. Without saying a word, we headed to the courtyard.
We picked up the wooden swords—crossed, one-handed—that were leaning against the wall of the house. I held mine tightly, feeling the familiar weight of the cable. It was lighter than I remembered. Or maybe my arms were heavier than before.
"The fencing," he began, his voice firm and restrained. "It is an art based on distance control and the choice of movements. A gentle art. It requires precision, control and coordination"
He positioned his feet. The one in front pointed straight at me, the other slightly backwards. The waist rotated slightly to the side, like a spring about to come off. Knees bent, body lowered. It was a relaxed but cohesive posture, like a rope stretched at the edge of tension.
"This is the fundamental stance. It never changes" he said firmly, adjusting his feet to the ground. "Through it, your balance is strengthened, and you will have an advantage in movements"
I nodded silently. I observed each gesture, each body positioning, as if it were the first time — but it wasn't.
He stepped forward, still with his wooden sword sheathed.
"This is called the Front Step" he said, with his usual firm, precise tone. "Serves to break the distance in an attack, increasing the range of the sword"
Then he shifted his footrest and slid his body sideways.
I watched his feet move with precision, as if every inch of ground had been marked by centuries of repetition.
"This is the Reverse Step... this is the Cross Step..." He continued, demonstrating, patiently. The words came out almost automatically, as if echoing from a very old memory. As if he were teaching not me, but a ghost.
He continued to demonstrate, speaking as if teaching someone who was seeing everything for the first time. But I knew every word. Every step. Every fix. He was just repeating what his father had said one day. Like a sacred ritual passed from generation to generation, even if the heirs did not ask for it.
I stood motionless, like a statue in the middle of the courtyard. His words resounded in the air, but they didn't reach anything inside me. I remembered when I was thirteen, vibrating every class, smiling at every poorly executed blow, asking stupid things like 'will she get heavier if it rains?' or 'what if I swing the sword like that, is it cooler?'.
Now... None of this was present. I remained silent. My gaze caught on his movement, without shine, without reaction. Just observing. Evaluating. As if I were a stranger watching everything happen from the outside. The wood of the sword felt cold in my hands, despite the heat of the day.
After performing the basic movements of the technique, my father stopped and gave me a break. He looked at me with that calm expression, as if he was allowing me to absorb what I had just done. I realized that he was waiting for a question from me — a request for an explanation, a question, anything.
"Footwork is the foundation, right?" I asked, breaking the silence.
"Exactly" he nodded firmly. "Without balance, you lose everything. We cannot cross our legs. Each step needs to be aligned with the movement of the hands, breathing, and looking. Balance is everything"
He began to demonstrate, with almost ceremonial precision. He stepped forward, firmly, and tilted his arm as if holding an invisible sword in a straight thrust, in the center of his chest. Then he made a side step, cutting horizontally with his arm as if he were splitting the air. Pulling back with a reverse step, he completed the cycle with a vertical cut, from top to bottom. Each movement was fluid, as if her body knew how to dance with the wind.
I tried to imitate.
I focused on the ground beneath my feet, on the way the weight was transferred from side to side. The front step, lunge. The full-back, cut. The reverse, vertical. My muscles obeyed naturally. There was no hesitation—just the crude and exact execution of what he had just seen.
My father watched me in silence, his eyes slightly narrowed. I noticed a slight frown, as if something was troubling him.
All around, the warriors who watched us began to clap their hands, surprised. Some smiled, others just murmured among themselves. It was not common for an apprentice to capture so much so quickly.
My father, however, did not smile. There was something in his eyes... A nuisance, perhaps? It seemed to be reviewing something old.
"It's the same look" he muttered, almost to himself.
I frowned, confused.
"What look?"
"The one from when you first learned to use the bow, years ago," he replied, without looking at me directly. "At that time, I thought it was just enthusiasm. But now... I see that there is something deeper"
He took a deep breath, looking away from the field in front of us.
"There's an abyss in your eyes, Zaatar" he said at last. "I just didn't want to see it before"
As soon as my father said those words, I was silent—and that allowed me to hear the applause of those watching us, even though I didn't see them. For a brief moment, I realized the fear my father was trying to hide to come back. Like a shrill whistle that won't cease, my mother's screams echoed in his mind, disturbing his breathing, quickening his heartbeat as he tried to compose himself.