The sharp clack of wood on wood rang through the clearing again.
Lucian stumbled back, breath sharp in his lungs, and adjusted his footing. His arms burned, but he refused to let the practice sword drop. Across from him, Malrik held his own with just one hand, moving lazily and seemingly unbothered.
"Be flexible " the older man muttered, stepping forward with casual grace. "Still too stiff in your shoulders."
Lucian lunged, swinging from the left—predictable. Malrik parried it without flinching, pivoted, and tapped Lucian's side with the flat of the blade.
"Sixth death today, lad."
Lucian hissed through his teeth, falling back onto the grass. "I can't...you're too fast."
"No, you're slow." Malrik smirked. "But you learn fast. Good footwork. You've trained before."
Lucian wiped sweat from his brow. "I didn't care much for it then… but I like the clarity now."
The wind rolled over the glade as the two of them sat on aa nearby log, swords across their laps.
"Hey, Malrik… how complex is the path of the sword?"
"Or the martial path in general."
Malrik chuckled. "You ask too many questions, kid. But yes, It is complex, and divided into ranks."
Lucian's eyes lit up despite the exhaustion. "Go on."
Malrik leaned towards him slightly. "Let us start with what both magic and martial paths share: mana. That is the only thing that binds mages and martial artists. Everything else is night and day."
"Then why do so many people take the martial path?" Lucian asked. Of course he had realised. House Valemire did not have even a parlour magician.
"Because magic is expensive," Malrik said bluntly. "Awakening mana is one thing—almost everyone can do that. But for magic, you need intelligence, studying runic language, access to books and tutors. That costs gold."
He held up a hand, ticking off with his fingers.
"Now. Martial ranks. First, Novice. That's you."
Lucian groaned. "You didn't have to say it with that much pity."
"Then, Warrior rank—your average soldier in the army. They can use mana to reinforce their bodies, clumsily. Some might emit weapon aura by accident."
"Sounds underwhelming."
"Next is Adept. That is when things get serious. These are academy cadets, elite soldiers, or good adventurers. They have weapon discipline. Some develop weapon aura intentionally, and a few get to weapon intent."
Lucian's eyes widened. "Like sword intent?" He had seen his father use it in the past as a child.
Malrik nodded. "Yeah. When you cross from using your weapon to becoming it."
"Then what comes after?"
"Master. They are often knights. Weapon intent refined. Will strong. Axiom developed. They don't fight—you lose to them."
Lucian let the words sink in. But before he could ask what even in the abyss an Axiom was, Malrik continued.
"Then come the Grandmasters. One in a hundred masters ever reach that stage. Their will is terrifying. Some can cut down a dozen men with a single swing."
Lucian whistled. "So… they're the strongest?"
"No." Malrik's voice dropped. "Above them… are the Saints. Only twelve on the entire continent. Living weapons. Each one tied to the Round Table, and answer directly to the King. If you meet one, pray they're not your enemy."
Lucian stared. "…Have you met one?"
Malrik grinned and turned his gaze to the creek. "One in a thousand chance, remember?"
Lucian narrowed his eyes. "You're avoiding the question."
The man stood up, stretching lazily. "I've told you enough for one day."
Lucian stood too. "So, you are a knight?"
"Was. Am. Depends who's asking."
"And your rank?"
Malrik smirked and tapped a finger to his lips. "Now that's a secret, lad."
Lucian sighed. "Figures."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nighttime.
The stew was rich. Surprisingly so.
They sat in front of the cabin. Lucian sat cross-legged on a low bench beside the fire, lazily scooping a chunk of mashed mushrooms into his mouth, completely oblivious to his surroundings. Malrik, across from him, ate in practiced silence—every motion deliberate, efficient, clean.
Malrik hesitated at first but after a while, the older man spoke.
"You thinking about your family?"
Lucian's lips curled into a half-smile. "What, those vultures? Pfft. Who'd miss that demoness of an aunt and her piglet of a son?"
But even as the words left his mouth, they rang hollow. He looked down at the half-empty bowl, the wooden spoon heavy in his fingers.
Malrik didn't press. He just stared somberly.
Lucian tried to shake it off, but the memory of his father—frozen in that bed like a statue, expression vacant—crept back in.
"I'll be at the creek," he muttered.
He pushed away from the fire and stepped into the moonlight, walking to the back of the cabin. The clearing was bathed in pale silver, the creek behind the cabin whispering softly under the night sky. Lucian took a breath, deep and cold, trying to straighten out the clutter in his chest.
His magic had returned.
He had run away.
And somewhere in that twisted manor, his father still slept in a bed of silence.
Lucian ran a hand through his curls, eyes locked on the sky.
So... this is what freedom feels like?
Footsteps padded softly behind him. Malrik joined him without a word, arms folded. The moonlight shone in his black eyes, complimenting his dark features. He looked like an unmovable force.
They stood like that for a while.
"I was raised by mercenaries," Malrik said suddenly, snapping Lucian out of his thoughts.
"Never knew my parents. Just hard men with harder hands."
Lucian glanced at him, surprised. The knight didn't look at him—he kept his eyes on the moon.
"One day, someone found me. Dragged me out of that life and handed me a sword. Told me to make something of myself."
"Did you?" Lucian asked.
"I'm trying," Malrik said simply.
Silence again.
Then Lucian chuckled. "What, was that your idea of cheering me up?"
Malrik finally looked at him, an eyebrow raised.
"It worked...at least I know I'm not alone."
"On second thought though, were you not moleste-".
Malrik cut him short and rolled his eyes. "You're lucky I didn't poison the stew."
A hearty laughter filled the night.
Suddenly, Malrik let out a sharp whistle. Lucian flinched—then blinked as something massive swooped down from the treetops.
It was huge—sleek brown feathers, wings broad and silent, talons like daggers.
"Is that—an eagle?"
Malrik caught the bird on his bracer with practiced ease. "That's she. Don't let her hear you say 'that'."
Lucian squinted. "...She's not gonna fly to the desert and look for oil, right?"
If Malrik heard that, he didn't show it.
"This is Kana", he said petting it's head with a finger.
"She looks like she drops democracy from thirty feet."
The hawk clicked her beak and tilted her head, as if offended.
"She's a carrier hawk," Malrik said dryly, pulling a small scroll of parchment from a pouch. "And she doesn't drop democr- whatever you were saying."
Lucian let out a laugh.
Malrik ignored him, tied a pre written parchment to the hawk's leg, and stepped forward.
"Go."
The bird flapped once—twice—then rose like a shadow through moonlight, soaring into the dark sky.
Lucian watched her disappear past the trees. He didn't ask where she was going. Not yet.
Instead he looked at Malrik.
This older man was definitively much more than he seemed...