Recently, though, there was something different too which was rising from beneath the surface of his deeply disciplined practice.
It was hardly perceptible at first, a flicker, the ghost of a feeling that was so faint that he had discarded it as a trick of fatigue or the sun's warmth on his skin.
It was a pocket of heat which was deeply buried in his belly, and it seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. Initially, it was nothing.
But, with every day that passed, it continued to grow. A small, stubborn ember that kept on refusing to go out.
He would experience it when he was drawing the breath for a strike an abrupt, internal warmth that quickly spread to his limbs, thus making the wooden sword less like a dead weight and more like a living extension of his arm.
What used to be simply the wind, started to feel like a force against which he could almost… push.
Then it was the very morning when it all became clear.
The air had its freshness and it was smelling of wet earth and the distant, piney scent of the forests which lay beyond the walls. Leonel was in a position, feet firmly placed in the well-known stance, the world to him being only the post, the sword, and the arc of the swing.
He took a deep breath and for a very short moment, that inner heat he usually felt as a pulse, he now perceived it as a wave. It came from his core, went down his arm and into the wood.
He swung.
The sound which it produced was of another kind more defined, clearer, a crack with a hint of finality. The extent of the impact ran through his arm, but it was a clean jolt, not a rapid shaking.
The powerhouse behind it was… beyond the realm of possibilities. It was beyond his little strength, beyond his body weight. For one stunning moment, the sword was not wood in his hand; it was a straight line of sheer will, a vehicle for something he didn't comprehend.
He stood motionless, almost choking on his breath. His heart was beating very fast and loudly against his ribs like a trapped bird. Looking down at his hands, he even thought that they must be glowing, crackling with lightning that he had stolen.
But there they were just his hands: small, dirty, the knuckles scraped, the new calluses very noticeable against his skin. The sword was just a sword.
However, the memory of that power was still there, a phantom vibration in his veins. What on earth, out of the Seven Realms, could that possibly be?
"Leonel."
The duchess-like soft yet very composed voice broke the trance. He looked at his mother, Lady Seraphina, standing in the arched doorway that led back to the main house.
She was calm and collected like silver, her hair a smooth fall over her shoulders, her gown a simple, elegant gray. Her face, which was usually a combination of her gentle love and a mask, was unreadable, her features turned into serene neutrality which he recognized as her 'official' face.
"Come inside, my heart," she said, her tone not leaving the slightest room for a question. "Your Father wants to see you."
The strange force which was still thrumming inside of him was immediately overpowered by a cold wave of fear. Being 'required' by the head of the family - even if that head was his own father - was never a very casual kind of occasion.
Had he done something wrong? Had someone seen the… the whatever-it-was? He put his sword down, his thoughts were like a whirlwind as he followed her across the neatly trimmed grounds.
The main chamber, decorated with its arched ceilings and flags with the Graythorn hawk, smelled of beeswax and old stone and was cool and still.
Waiting for him was Old Man Hemlock, the family steward, whose spine was as straight and unwavering as his loyalty. In his liver-spotted hands, he held a single piece of parchment, sealed with a splash of scarlet wax impressed with the family crest.
"Master Leonel," Hemlock intoned, his voice a dry rustle of leaves. He offered a shallow, precise bow. "The Duke has issued the Decree. It has been recognized and announced, and it is a great honor for you to be promoted to the rank of Apprentice of the Graythorn Sword Line."
Leonel looked at the steward like a complete idiot, and his anxiety was temporarily overtaken by his confusion. "A Sword Apprentice? But… the trials aren't for another season. I haven't… I didn't do anything to earn this."
Hemlock's lips moved slightly as if he were smiling. "Your obvious progress and unique discipline speak for themselves, young master.
Even though you have not yet been granted access to the family's cultivation techniques, you have shown a... clarity of form... which the head of the family considers worthy of recognition."
The acknowledgment weighed heavily and silenced the room. Being named a Sword Apprentice was the first, most significant formal step.
It was a recognition that you were no longer a child playing with a sword but a candidate for the family's legacy. Most of his cousins had trained for years before being considered.
To get it now, before the time and without the basic cultivation that every other Apprentice had, was a first. It was an honor that felt, to Leonel, terrifyingly like a spotlight.
"I understand," he whispered with great effort.
The weight of the announcement was barely felt, when a new voice broke through the formality. It was Elara's teasing voice.
"Well, well. Look who's decided to join the rest of us mere mortals in the ranks of the officially sanctioned."
His elder sister Elara was standing at the doorframe, arms folded, and watching him. At the age of 23, she was known as the one of the best swordsman in the family, only their eldest brother, Darian, being better than her.
Her pitch-black hair was tied up in a very tight, very practical bun, which made the sharp, graceful features of her face more visible.
Usually, her dark eyes would be sparkling with mockery or impatience, but this time they were sparkling with something else real approval mixed with her usual mischief
The suddenness of it all made Leonel lose his power of speech and he could only utter "Elara? Did you know about this?"
Her cat-like movements fluid and graceful, she left the doorframe and came walking into the room. "I may not be spying from the bushes while you are beating a post, little brother, but it is very difficult to overlook the determination.
You've been hitting that stick more than half of the Father-paid-to-train-boys have done, and yet you put more soul into it than the most of them." She looked him up and down. "Apparently, it was somebody important that noticed."
Leonel felt his cheeks getting hot. "I was just practicing. I didn't think— "
"Obviously," she cut him off, her smile getting broader. "And since our famous father is now off somewhere teaching the border lords the reason they should be afraid of the Graythorn hawk, and Darian is... well, being Darian, it means that only you and I are left here. Your training will be under my supervision."
Leonel's face was now entirely reddened as the heat that started from his neck had spread to his cheeks. "You? Training me?"
"Unless you would rather have Hemlock?" she said, raising one of her beautifully shaped eyebrows. "I promise you that he is not the one who is very… forgiving… when he points out your mistakes.
And frankly, " she added as her stare got intense, "I can't let my only little brother embarrass the family name with bad footwork. It doesn't look good for me."
He was about to argue with her but the expression in her eyes—an intertwining of fun and absolute, unwavering seriousness in matters concerning the sword—forced him to shut his mouth right away.
Elara endlessly joked about everything, but she never joked about this.
"Moreover," she went on after a short pause, her voice sounding like a lecturer's one, "you are prepared for the following stage. You have got through the falling sky. At present, you have to be taught to dance with the wind. I will be your teacher so i will be teaching you another technique: the Gale Shadow Strike."
Leonel, as a reflex, tried to stand more upright and the very idea of the technique sent a thrill through him. "The Gale Shadow Strike? Sounds... fast, doesn't it?"
"That, indeed, is the case," Elara replied and her face was radiant with satisfaction. "Though speed is the least of the parts. The Gale Shadow Strike is about rhythm.
It is about listening. It is the strike that is not there until it is. You do not dominate your opponent; you defeat him by being one step ahead of time. You act when the wind requires it, and you hit in the time interval between two heartbeats."
Leonel frowned, his father's lessons coming back to him. "But Father always says that strength is the foundation. That power is the source of control."