Swing high, then low. What don't you understand, boy? It's a very simple process."
Manes was a horrible teacher. Either that, or Cassian possessed not a single drop of martial talent. As the sweat stung his eyes and his forearms burned with a dull, throbbing ache, Cassian was rapidly coming to the conclusion that both statements were entirely true.
He had been standing in the dry dirt of the courtyard for the entire afternoon, the harsh sun baking the back of his neck, and he still wasn't getting it right. How could he? All he had to work with was the single, lazy demonstration Manes had deigned to give hours ago before slumping into a chair under the shade of a tree. The old man had claimed, with a dismissive wave of a calloused hand, that he was far too old to be swinging a wooden practice sword more than twice a day.
You're swinging wrong, or swing harder. Those were all the directions he had to work with.
"Okay, let's actually stop. This is hopeless." Manes sounded disappointed, as if it were Cassian's fault the old man's ancient body was incapable of giving proper instruction.
In the quiet that followed, a distinct voice echoed in Cassian's mind.
"Be patient, Cassian."
"That's easy for you to say," he thought back sharply. "You don't have an entire state hounding you."
Materdea hadn't told him a single thing about the book. She insisted she would only explain his Mark once he proved competent with a blade. It was absurd. At a moment when every scrap of knowledge and power meant the difference between life and death, she was withholding the one leverage he had.
When he finally retreated inside, Cassian scooped up the grimoire and collapsed into a wooden chair. His muscles throbbed as he stared at the binding. Just like the day he found it—and every attempt since—the pages remained a blur of indecipherable script.
It was pointless, but with his only source of answers refusing to speak, staring at the text was all he had left.
"Why won't you tell me about my mark?" he demanded silently.
"Because you're not ready."
"Is that so? I was ready back in Eveldor. You had me journey all the way here just to tell me I'm not ready now?"
Dea hesitated. "Yes."
"You encouraged me to learn about my mark," Cassian pressed. "Now I have something useful, and you pull back? What is this really about?"
"Nothing. You're simply not ready. Master the sword first, then we talk."
"I could learn both."
Silence. It was becoming a habit. She would engage just long enough to push him, then retreat into the back of his mind whenever it suited her. No sharp quips, no sarcastic jabs. He had spent the weeks they'd known each other wishing she would stop commenting on his every move, but now that she had actually gone quiet, the silence was annoying. Agonizing even.
She'd been different since the revelation at Oakhaven—as if waking up to that truth had burdened her with problems she hadn't seen coming. He wanted to push, but he knew better. She wouldn't open up about Oakhaven, or anything else, until he learnt to swing a wooden sword.
Copy a single demonstration to nigh perfection, endure a grumpy old man's nagging, then learn the grimoire.
Simple.
Tomorrow arrived, looking identical to yesterday. He mirrored every movement, followed every instruction to the letter, and still managed to mess it up.
"Is this really the best you can do?" Manes muttered.
Cassian blew out a breath, his shoulders aching.
"I'm doing exactly what you tell me, old man. So unless you're going to get up and show me again, yes. This is the best I can do."
"Don't get smart with me, boy. This style is delicate. It isn't rigid, and if you don't master the foundations now, you'll end up dead the first time a real blade comes at you."
Cassian wiped sweat from his brow and reset his stance.
"Just keep swinging," Manes grumbled. "We're not leaving until you hit the arc."
"And how long will that take?"
"I don't know. Maybe when your talentless body finally decides to listen."
Cassian's grip tightened on the hilt. He wanted to shove the wooden sword straight down the gaffer's throat.
"Stop being so stiff," Dea chimed in.
"Not you too, Dea. Neither of you is actually telling me what that means"
Stiff. It was the same vague critique Manes kept throwing at him. It wasn't an instruction; it was just a label. Did he need to start dancing to make them happy?
"It's in your head," Dea said softly.
"What is?"
"The stiffness. You're in too much of a rush."
"In a rush?"
"Yes. You want to conquer the Archon and make him pay as fast as humanly possible. But you can't—not yet. You need to accept where you are before you try again."
Cassian let out a bitter, silent laugh.
"You talk like you haven't seen how hopeless I am. The Archon sent his thugs twice, and both times I barely survived by running. Men who barely even register as standard foot soldiers in his legion. I'm weak, Dea. Painfully weak. And the clock is ticking."
She didn't answer immediately. The silence stretched until her tone shifted, dropping its usual detachment.
"You are in a rush, and you have every right to be. The people hunting you won't pause to let you catch up. But you have to calm down. The old man thinks you lack talent, but he's wrong. You're just too impatient for your own good."
"So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying you need to breathe. Give yourself the space to feel what he's trying to show you. I told you to make haste before, but I take it back. I want the Archon dead just as much as you do. Perhaps even more.
But fury won't fix your form. Take your time, and when you finish this, you have my word—I will teach you the Mark."
It all seemed so simple, but Cassian was a man of reason now, of logic.
In every future he could imagine, the sword that found him did so because he had wasted time. Because he had been patient when he should have been moving.