The courtyard was drenched in the soft afterglow of dawn, wet from last night's rain. The polished stone gleamed faintly, puddles reflecting the early sun like tiny mirrors. Droplets clung stubbornly to blades of grass, falling intermittently with a quiet drip… drip… drip…. The air smelled clean, earthy, and sharp, carrying the faint tang of wet stone and jasmine from the palace gardens.
Rudura stepped onto the wet ground barefoot, feeling the slick grass beneath his tiny feet. Tap… tap… tap… His steps were careful at first, adjusting to the moisture, then gradually more confident. His small hands gripped the sword's hilt, its cold metal comforting against his palms. Shhhk! A swing cut through the mist rising from the ground, scattering droplets into the air. He raised the blade again, pivoting: swish-whshhh! Footwork precise, tap-tap-tap… dodge… clang!
Today was all about the body. Not attacks, not enemies, not lessons from Malavatas—today was about adapting this one-year-old body to the demands of swordsmanship. He had decided long ago that mastering base movements—the foundation—was more important than flashy strikes or quick kills. Every swing, every pivot, every step needed to become second nature.
Shhhk! Clang! Another swing met the dummy's wooden frame. The impact vibrated through his arms and chest. He adjusted his grip, recalibrated his stance, and shifted his weight. Tap… tap-tap… pivot… whsshh! Each movement deliberate, a quiet rhythm forming between body and blade.
And yet, his mind wandered.
Should I ask Malavatas about the "échecs humains"? The question burned quietly in the back of his mind. Curiosity tugged at him like a persistent itch. He had read the black book, understood fragments of its purpose, but the next step—speaking to Malavatas—felt dangerous.
Tomorrow… maybe tomorrow. But what if he knows already? What if he suspects I've read it?
A slight miscalculation in his footing, a wet patch hidden beneath the morning mist, and his small body slipped. Slip… thud! He fell sideways, landing hard on the cold, wet stone. The sword tumbled from his hands, clattering across the courtyard: clang… clink-clink! Water splashed around his palms as he caught himself, the dampness soaking through his tunic.
Malavatas's voice cut across the courtyard, calm but sharp: "What happened?"
Rudura shook his head quickly, forcing a casual expression. "Nothing happened."
Malavatas's eyes narrowed subtly, catching the tiny flicker of unease in Rudura's gaze. He stepped closer, sandals making a soft tap-tap… sound against the wet stone. "Are you certain?"
"Yes," Rudura replied, letting his voice sound light, almost careless. "Just… lost my footing."
Malavatas's lips pressed into a thin line. He studied Rudura for a heartbeat, and though his tone remained neutral, Rudura felt the weight of suspicion pressing down. Good. Let him wonder. Let him think I'm distracted or careless. That's exactly what I want.
"Go and change your clothes," Rudura asked smoothly, masking the tension in his voice. "They're soaked."
Malavatas paused, then nodded. "Very well. But be mindful—accidents happen when the mind drifts." His eyes lingered, sharp, hinting he had noticed the real distraction.
Rudura gathered the sword, lifting it from the wet stone with a quiet clang, and retreated toward his room. His feet left soft squish… squish… prints on the wet courtyard tiles, the sound small but satisfying. The slip had been a minor setback, a reminder of the unpredictability of the world—but also an opportunity to observe Malavatas's reactions.
As he walked, the sun climbed higher, sending golden rays across the courtyard and turning each water droplet into a prism of light. Tap… tap… tap… His thoughts wandered back to the black book. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will ask. I will ask and learn. I must.
Once inside his chamber, Rudura peeled off his damp tunic, wringing it carefully. The fabric clung to his skin, still cold from the morning rain. He set it aside, breathing deeply, and stretched his arms and legs, feeling the muscles relax and the body adapt.
Shhhk! He lifted the sword again, practicing slow swings in the room. Swish… clang! Each motion deliberate, methodical, embedding the rhythm of attack and defense into his memory. Footwork: tap-tap… pivot… dodge… tap… whsshh! He repeated sequences, imagining an invisible opponent and perfecting every movement.
While his body trained, his mind wrestled with the lingering question. Should I ask about "échecs humains" now, or wait? He pictured Malavatas's face, calm and unreadable, yet hinting at judgment.
Tomorrow. I will ask tomorrow.
Rudura's inner debate was interrupted by a subtle creak of the wooden training dummy in his room. He pivoted quickly, swish… shhhk!, imagining a strike that could exploit the tiniest opening. Each motion sharpened his reflexes, and with each swing, he felt his young body adapting, becoming more comfortable with the blade's weight and movement.
The black book is a puzzle, he thought. I need the answers, but timing matters. Malavatas… he's cautious. He'll see right through me if I push too soon.
He practiced again, slower this time, focusing on dodging imaginary attacks. Step back… pivot… shift left… swish-whshhh! Each movement carefully calculated. He could feel the small muscles in his arms and legs learning to compensate for his young body's limitations.
A brief pause, a breath in through his nose, hissss…, and he lowered the sword. His eyes drifted to the small window, sunlight reflecting off the floor in patterns like shattered glass. His thoughts returned to the courtyard, to the wet stone, to the slip, to Malavatas's silent suspicion.
He knows something happened this morning. He suspects I'm hiding something. But he doesn't know what.
Rudura smiled faintly to himself, silent and small, almost imperceptible. And he never will—until I decide.
He returned to the sword, lifting it again for slow, controlled swings. Shhhk… clang… whsshh! Footwork: tap-tap… pivot… step… swish! Each sequence became smoother, the young body learning, absorbing, adapting.
Minutes passed, then hours. Sweat dampened his forehead, running down his cheeks, mixing with the lingering chill of the morning. The room smelled faintly of wet stone, wood, and the metallic tang of the sword. Rudura paused once more, lowering the blade carefully, resting the tip on the floor.
Tomorrow… I will ask Malavatas about "échecs humains." He repeated the thought silently, letting it embed itself in his mind like a seed. Every preparation, every swing, every step this morning had been for that moment—not just physical mastery, but mental readiness.
The courtyard outside was now bathed in full sunlight. Drip… tap… drip… The sounds of the morning were faint but alive—the distant clatter of the palace servants, the occasional flap of birds' wings, the soft breeze through the trees. Yet inside his chamber, Rudura was alone with his sword, his body, and the persistent question.
He sheathed the weapon finally, the soft click echoing in the room. He took a deep breath, letting his body relax fully, muscles still humming with effort.
I am ready, he told himself, quietly, almost like a prayer. Tomorrow I will ask. Tomorrow I will know. And when I do…
He left the sword carefully in its place, walked to the small window, and watched the courtyard. His tap-tap… tap…footsteps were soft but confident. The wet prints from earlier were gone, the stone dried by the rising sun, but the lesson remained.
Every motion mattered. Every slip mattered. Every question mattered.
And tomorrow… the answers would begin.
(Continued In Chapter 21)