"So the young master has already practiced in secret" I heard someone comment, and soon I could feel the baron's gaze resting on me, surprised. I knew he was proud, even trying to disguise it.
"Look at the baron's face by surprise, he must be proud" another voice added.
"I wish my son had this talent, our leader must be like this" I heard from afar, and despite everything, it was not just empty flattery.
I had barely made mistakes when performing footwork; Unlike what happened to me when my father corrected me to exhaustion, I moved fluidly, precisely.
Inside me, I could hear the baron's voice, even if to himself:
(It's okay, it's my son, my little boy. I love him for who he is. He's not to blame, he's not to blame)
Those words warmed me in a strange way, a mixture of relief and heaviness.
"Let's go back to practice, a hundred times!" the baron ordered, and so our morning training was organized.
It was there that he taught me the basics of fencing, starting with the structure of the épée, its three bases: weak, medium and strong. He patiently explained the grip — from firm to light, passing through medium.
My father started by showing me the guards. Every position, every posture, every transition between them had a clear purpose—it was not just a matter of form, but of survival. He corrected me patiently, adjusting my feet, repositioning my shoulders, observing every detail with that trained eye that always made me a little tense.
"This is the posture of the Low Warrior. It's good for when I'm facing someone taller" he explained, putting my left leg a little further forward. "But she is fragile in lateral defense. Never forget that"
We spent hours practicing. Guards. Postures. The defensive bases and the offensive transitions. Only later, when he thought that my column already understood the basics, did we move on to the cuts. We start with the simplest movements: upper front cut, lower front cut, and then direct thrusts. Accuracy was more important than strength. It was no use swinging the blade like a woodcutter with an axe.
It was during one of these lunges that I noticed. He—the creature—was not as before. Something had changed.
The creature that I was.
It had improved.
It had been a month since we started. I could see it in the way my father watched me, standing in the training plaza with his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes said nothing, but the respectful silence revealed more than any words.
I took a deep breath. The morning sun was still cold on my skin, but the heat of the tension warmed my skin. In front of me was Rammal, a veteran swordsman, known for his absurd control with his sword. He positioned himself on the same basis as me — or rather, the one I tried to replicate.
My right hand held the blade, pointed downward at an angle of attack. My left hand rested behind my back, forcing me to rely on a single arm, on a single line of motion. His legs, firm, were anchored to the ground like roots.
I strode forward with a long, direct step, tracing a thrust that aimed at Rammal's neck. A clean, fast, efficient movement.
But he was more experienced.
With a cross step, Rammal deflected his body, tilting his head away from the line of my attack. Almost at the same moment, his sword responded with a mirrored thrust, aimed at my neck.
I didn't think about it. My body just reacted.
I retreat with a reverse step, rotating my hips and raising my sword. An upper front cut was drawn in an elegant arc in the air. Our blades clashed with a dry sound, steel against steel, mid-base against mid-base.
Rammal's eyes narrowed. And mine too.
We both moved like shadows dueling in the evening light, each step an attempt to break the other's defense. I felt the sweat running down the side of my face, but I wouldn't allow myself to blink. Every slip could be a blow. Our feet glided with precision across the dirt floor, and the dry sound of wooden swords filled the courtyard.
In the first week, Rammal knocked me down with two moves. Two. He didn't even sweat. I felt ridiculous, panting, and covered in dust before I even understood what had happened. In the second week, he took twenty movements. I counted each one. It was as if, little by little, my body began to understand the rhythm of combat.
Now... Now it seemed that we had struck a tense balance. None of us gave in.
Dang! Dang! Dang! Dang! Dang!
The wooden swords clashed violently, a rhythmic, frenzied sound, as if announcing something about to break.
My arms hurt. My muscles screamed. But my eyes didn't leave his for a second.
Rammal forced a spin, trying to find a gap in my posture.
I locked his blade with mine and pushed it hard.
He took a step back. Only one. But that filled me with pride.
Around us, a few observers whispered. I heard them, even if I didn't want to.
"Incredible improvement..." commented one of them, perhaps one of the instructors.
"Yes. Is he really human?" murmured another, in amazement.
Rammal didn't take his eyes off me, but he smiled from the side, almost imperceptibly.
"It took me years to memorize this in my body" he said, between one attack and another. "And you make it look easy. It seems that we have a good seedling between us"
There were no more smiles on the training ground—just tense, frightened looks. The warriors around seemed uncomfortable, restless, as if something had changed in the air. My father... He trembled. I realized that. His hand could no longer remain firm at his sides. His eyes were wide, lost at some point in the past, and his breath was becoming shorter and shorter.
"It's okay... It's okay... He is not to blame... He is not to blame..." He repeated these words to himself, as if each syllable was an anchor trying to keep him from sinking into his own pain. But it wasn't enough. A high-pitched sound, like a shrill whistle, grew inside his ears—I saw it in his countenance. His face contracted, his jaw tense, his eyes teary. The sound of my mother's howls... it still haunted him. They were alive, vibrating with cruelty in their minds, more real than the present before us.
And then, in that moment, as if something had fit inside me, I understood.
My body reacted even before my mind processed everything. A single vein shone in my wrist—a red, living line, as if carrying the essence of what burned inside me. The light of life condensed around my body, and as I stepped forward, I realized the soft trail I had left behind. It wasn't just speed. Era... flow. It was as if the world around me was in slow motion for a moment, and I could finally keep up with it.