"You know, Claus, my mother used to tell me something about a home. That it's not about the thread out of your pillows, or how large your closet is, but the people that fill its walls, and the way you feel when you walk with them."
Cyrn made himself humble, running with the hermit persona, when in reality, my mother never said that shit, but if I can lift myself and make this ass hat look stupid, then I guess I can make a little fib here.
Claus sat, seemingly unaffected by Cyrn's retort; he didn't seem to press any further, trying to save himself the embarrassment.
Elyon's mother, Marcella, chimed in soon afterwards, "Well, Cyrn, it seems like you took a lot of your mother's teachings to heart? Perhaps this habit of yours could rub off on my son a little."
Elyon's discomfort and anger continued to rise, but Cyrn replied quickly.
"While my mother may have had many wise words, I still disagree with how they treated me like something they could control. Considering I was kept in a shack for 19 years."
An intentional dig while simultaneously supporting Elyon.
The dinner table once again fell into silence. However, Alric's eyes never left Cyrn, specifically his hands.
After the final course was served, Alric finally spoke up. "Cyrn, where did you learn noble table manners?"
A hush fell over the table, and Cyrn was incredibly confused about his question.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know noble table manners."
"That's not true, boy, you've been eating with perfect posture and technique, along with knowing which forks, spoons, and knives to use for each course. As if you've been practicing this for your whole life."
The question fell on the table, and Cyrn was incredibly confused as to where he could have possibly picked up this habit. Did I inherit something permanent from Elyon's blood? Does that mean certain things I can keep forever after feeding?
Cyrn wasn't sure if this was true; in fairness, just his most educated guess. "Well, my mother drilled into me the importance of table manners growing up. She always used to say, 'Just because we live in a shack doesn't mean we have to live like savages.'"
Cyrn came up with an excuse on the spot, fabricating line after line of things his mother never said.
"But I always thought that was common, sir; she never told me they were noble at all."
Alric stared at him with barely contained curiosity, "What was your mother's name, boy?"
"Merisa, sir".
"Interesting. Do you know anything about your parents' background?"
"No sire, my father was often out of the house; he never spoke much either. Mother usually did all the talking for him." Which was true, until the incident led to their divorce.
"And what was your father's name?"
"Roman, sir."
"Hmm," Alric responded, not pressing any further about Cyrn's parents.
The meal finished in silence, and Cyrn soon returned to his room to sleep. More maids came in to try to change his clothes again, but he once again refused, changed himself, and fell onto the first bed he'd seen in over a week.
Ahhh, this place may be a snake's den, but it sure is a plush one, Cyrn thought before drifting into sleep.
The next morning, Cyrn was woken up by a sharp knock, followed by a servant entering his room.
"Sir Cyrn, Young Master Elyon is requesting to see you in the sparring grounds right now. Please get dressed and meet him there. I will guide you."
Cyrn was a little disoriented from being woken up so abruptly, he crawled out of bed, put on some loose-fitting clothes, and headed to the sparing grounds.
Elyon was standing in the middle of an elevated platform. Looking off into the distance, wind blowing in his hair, with a melancholic look on his face.
Silas was not this attractive. 'Based on this character of myself,' my ass
While Cyrn was chiding Silas in his mind, Elyon looked over and smiled a small smirk before speaking, "You ready for a certified ass-whooping, blood licker?"
Cyrn laughed at the nickname, which Elyon created in the carriage ride here while he was bombarding Cyrn with questions about his abilities and why he licked his blood.
Cyrn never answered his questions, only ever telling Elyon, "I'm a vampire," which Elyon didn't understand at all, considering the fact that there are no vampires in this world, which Cyrn learned about in the same carriage ride.
Cyrn quipped back, "Didn't know you had a thing for beating up weak people, I'll tell all the women at the academy to keep their distance."
"Sadly, I don't think that'll stop them," Elyon said, a weak smile on his face and despair lining his voice.
Cyrn laughed at Elyon's mock plight and stepped onto the platform.
Elyon then began, "Ok, so I watched you perfectly mimic my self-created sword technique, The Last Dance of a Dying Flame, or just Flames Dance for short. So today we'll be practicing it till one of our bodies drops. Ready?"
"No, but I don't think that'll stop you."
"Nope, begin!"
Elyon darted towards Cyrn, a diagonal slash coming straight towards his chest.
Cyrn tried to start mimicking the Flames Dance defensive techniques, but failed midway through.
Elyon began speaking, "So it's only a perfect copy shortly after the skill or spell activation, interesting."
Elyon was effortlessly battering Cyrn, while Cyrn couldn't take the offensive at all.
"Your stance is awkward, your knees are locked, your shoulders are too tight, your hips are stiff…" Elyon began bombarding Cyrn with critiques about his stance, swing, and form.
They clashed and soon separated. Elyon chimed in quickly, "We're using up all that limitless stamina you have today until you look like you've held a sword before, ok?"
Cyrn was pissed about how terribly he was using Elyon's sword techniques. This is so much harder than Gregory's one move, makes sense though, this is much more refined.
"Fine," Cyrn said quickly, an undertone of frustration lining his voice.
Elyon smirked, and they began again.
5 hours of relentless training, teaching, and beatings came and went, and Cyrn was on the floor, bruises healing at a visible pace, panting and sweating like he just ran a marathon.
"Your stamina is incredible. It almost matches my own, and you learned the moves pretty quickly, too! You don't swing the sword like a total idiot anymore." Elyon said while standing over Cyrn, sweating and panting, but not nearly as much.
"Then why aren't you on the floor, huh?" Cyrn said, the frustration no longer hidden.
"Hey, calm down, man, I'm not the one who got his ass beat, hehe. When you're on the losing side of a duel, it takes more out of you."
"Whatever, so how much longer are we going to do this?"
Elyon smirked, "We'll train with my sword technique for about a week. Training in general, every day for the entire month till the academy."
"Just a week to your sword technique? I'm a quick learner, but not that quick." Cyrn was confused about the training schedule.
"The Last Dance of a Dying Flame is something I created specifically for me, my body structure, and my SoulCurrent affinity and spells. It's perfect for me, but just a stopgap for you."
Realization dawned on Cyrn, but Elyon continued
"The Flames Dance will work for now; it's a good enough technique that it will make you more useful in combat than 90% of other people, but true power comes from your own sword form. That's not something most people create, but I have a feeling you have the power to make one. So that's what the other 3 weeks will be dedicated to."
Cyrn realized that creating his own sword technique would most likely set him apart from the entire continent, and set it as his new goal for the time being.
But how do I create my own unique technique when all I can do is copy?
Elyon chimed in quickly, "I have an educated guess about your abilities. I've realized it's useless to keep begging for this information, so that leaves you with 2 options. A: You tell me what you can do, and we can work together to create a sword technique. The creation is up to you, but I'm a sword genius and can definitely give you a helping hand. Or B: You do this on your own, but chances are it'll take much, much longer to figure anything out."
Cyrn was trapped now. He could reveal a few secrets and become more powerful faster. Or do this on his own, and struggle for way longer.
This nosy bastard just wants the truth — not to help, but to scratch the itch in his genius little brain.