The morning breeze rustled through the vineyard as Klein and Lucien stood near the entrance, each holding a wooden sword. Dew still clung to the grass, sparkling faintly in the sunlight.
Lucien's posture was relaxed, one hand resting lightly on the hilt, his expression unreadable. Klein, on the other hand, gripped his sword tightly, trying to mirror Lucien's stance but looking more like a coiled spring than a composed fighter.
"Remember," Lucien said calmly, "a sword isn't just swung with muscle. It's guided by balance. Control your center, and you control the fight."
Klein nodded, though his brow furrowed. "Got it. Don't fall over. Pretty simple."
Lucien smirked. "You'll see."
Without warning, the commander moved.
Klein barely saw the first strike coming—Lucien's wooden blade tapped his wrist, then his shoulder, then stopped just shy of his neck before Klein could even raise his guard. The impact wasn't painful, but the message was clear: he was hopelessly outmatched.
"Too rigid," Lucien said, stepping back. "Your stance leaks power. You focus on attacking, not on staying upright."
Klein exhaled sharply and reset his position. This time, he circled, trying to use his speed. He darted in low, feinting left, then slashed right.
Lucien parried effortlessly, shifting his weight like a leaf on the wind. Each movement was measured, graceful—completely unhurried. Klein's next strike was swatted aside, his footing thrown off balance.
"See?" Lucien said, flicking his wrist. "You attack, but you don't flow."
"I'm flowing just fine," Klein muttered, lunging again.
Lucien ducked the blow and lightly tapped Klein's back with the tip of his sword. "If you were, I wouldn't be able to do that."
Klein stumbled forward and turned, glaring in frustration. "You're not even trying."
Lucien chuckled. "Exactly. That's what balance gives you—the freedom to move without effort."
Klein clenched his teeth but didn't argue. He took a slow breath and tried again, this time focusing on his footing. He adjusted his stance, kept his weight centered, and swung.
Lucien parried, but the strike had more stability this time. His eyes flickered with mild approval.
"Better," he said. "Now again."
They exchanged blows for a few more rounds. Each time Klein grew steadier, his strikes less wild, his defense more deliberate. Sweat trickled down his temple, and though Lucien continued to dominate, the boy's persistence earned him a nod of respect.
At last, Lucien raised a hand, signaling the end of the spar. "That's enough for today."
Klein lowered his sword, panting lightly. Despite the bruises and fatigue, there was a faint spark of satisfaction in his eyes.
Lucien smiled. "You learn quickly. You're rough around the edges, but the instinct is there."
Klein shrugged, trying not to grin. "You're saying I've got potential."
"I'm saying you've got a lot to learn," Lucien replied, his tone both teasing and warm. Then he straightened, sheathed the wooden blade at his side, and gave Klein a small, formal bow.
"Klein," he said, his voice carrying quiet authority, "from this day onward, you are my apprentice."
Klein blinked, caught off guard, then quickly bowed back. "I… understand, Commander."
Lucien's eyes softened. "Good. You'll curse me before you thank me, but by the time I'm done with you, you'll stand tall—even against the wind."
The vineyard wind brushed between them, carrying the scent of grapes and soil. Two figures—master and apprentice—stood at the threshold of something new.