"A sword breaks. A shield splinters. But the form, when shaped by breath and blood, remains. It is the storm before the strike, the silence before the warcry. We do not learn it. We become it."—Inscription on the Inner Wall of the Stormguard Hall
The day began before the sun cleared the ridgeline. A horn's hollow cry roused the ten recruits from their barracks. Boots hit stone. Belts fastened. Cloaks slung over shoulders stiff with sleep. No banners, no call to glory, just the rasp of motion and the burn of cold air.
In the yard, Stormguard instructors waited. Each wore scaled black armor etched with dull gray sigils and protective runes. Their armguards and shin guards bore the same markings. A falcata was strapped at every waist. The officers among them bore vertical gray stripes down their shoulder guards, simple, unmistakable identifiers of command.
"Fall in!" one barked. His voice cracked like a whip. He was lean, with a spear strapped to his back and a black-streaked beard clipped close to the jaw.
Connach moved first, followed by Eorlas, Aoan, and the others. The unit formed a crooked line until the instructor slammed the butt of his spear into the ground.
"Form by breath rhythm, not birth order. Element-affinitied, left side. Non-affinitied, right. You'll be trained in both forms, but you'll fight where you're strongest."
The line shifted. Tuarin and Firaen stepped left. Eorlas hesitated, then followed. Connach moved right with Aoan, Maelin, Gelnor, Bradan, Sira, and Urekh.
Day One "Serpent Wind Form" Tidecut spear discipline.
A second instructor, broader and older than the first, paced before them with slow, deliberate steps.
"You are not Stormguard. Not yet. You are Auxiliary. Shieldbound. That means you bleed for the wall and stand before the storm."
He held up a short, double-edged spear.
"This is a Tidecut. Equal-length blade and haft. It stabs like a fang, turns like a hook, breaks like a lever. Your first breath-form will shape around this."
They spent the next hour in the Serpent Wind Form. Forward step. Twist thrust. Backward sweep. Pivot. Again. Over and over. No shouts. No praise.
By midmorning, fingers bled. Aoan's spear clattered once on stone. He retrieved it without comment.
Gelnor grunted, shifting his grip.
"Feels light. Not sure I trust it."
The instructor's voice cut through.
"Then earn its trust. If it breaks, it breaks because your form is wrong."
The only answer was more repetition. Their arms burned. Shoulders locked. Sweat fell in quiet drops. Still, the form continued, carving itself into muscle and breath.
Day Two "Mirror Edge" Shield Doctrine
The next rotation began with the shield.
"Boeotian oval. Not round. Not square," said the bearded trainer. "It's shaped to lock, pivot, trap. You don't just block with this. You strike. You disarm. You break rhythm. Mirror Edge doctrine. Learn it or fall."
Connach braced the shield on his arm. It pulled differently than the round ones he knew. His first bash was too shallow. His second caught the rim of Bradan's and knocked them both off balance.
They learned to slam not just forward but across. To use the curve to slide in under another shield. To use the rim like a hook and the flat like a hammer. Shields rang with the thud of contact, followed by the hard bark of correction.
One recruit stumbled from a shoulder shove. Another bit his lip trying to brace against a pivot. The drills offered no time to recover. The instructors pushed them forward, line after line, until breath came ragged and legs began to fail.
There was no celebration when the day ended. Only silence and bruises.
Day Three "Leaf Saber Form" Falcata-based swordplay
By the third day, arms ached from shield drills and bruises bloomed like dark flowers. That morning, the racks held something new—short, curved blades with forward weight and single edges.
"This," the instructor said, holding one aloft, "is a falcata. It cuts where others glance. Its curve drives through armor. The old kingdoms feared this shape, and for good reason."
They began with Gravedigger Form. A downward arcing slash. A rising elbow cut. Sidestep. Reverse draw. Close work. Tight circles. Every move meant for crowded lines and killing in confined space.
"No wide swings," the older Stormguard barked. "This blade does not dance. It butchers."
Then came drills in pairs. Measured movements. Slow at first. Building to rhythm.
Falcata-based swordplay. Clean and efficient. Overhand slashes. Direct thrusts. Disabling cuts. Each strike designed to finish in one exchange. Paired well with shield defense or in dueling stances.
Connach adjusted his footing. Weight low. Blade high. His partner feinted left, and Connach turned the motion into a shoulder deflection and forward thrust. Too slow. The instructor clicked his tongue.
"Again. Cleaner. This sword will not wait for you."
Sparring was short and brutal. There were no points. Only moments where one fighter would have died if the blade were real.
By midday, no one spoke.
Then the instructor raised his hand.
"Every day, you will practice the forms. Until they're carved into your body and mind. Until they move when you move. Breathe when you breathe. You will not stop. Not even when your training here ends."
He stepped forward, drawing a dull-edged saber with care. His shield rose into position. Not high. Not low. Held in a way that spoke of readiness, not tension. His stance was still. Centered. Unshakable.
"This is your kata. Your form. Your creed. Our creed."
Then he moved.
Not like someone recalling a sequence. Not like a soldier repeating what was taught.
He moved as if the form had been born with him.
His steps traced lines across the earth, but not as a pattern to impress. They marked purpose. Pressure. Precision. He slipped into a forward lunge, hands shaping a phantom spear.
When he thrust, the air split with a sharp crack. A gust kicked dust from the stone. It sounded like a wind forced from the lungs of the world. Some swore they heard a thunderclap, though the sky above was clear.
Then came the twist, the catch, the hook around an imagined guard. His feet pivoted with perfect control. There was no pause. No excess.
He dropped lower. The shield shifted in front of him. It struck forward in a sudden lunge, hammering the empty space with enough force that the wind snapped past the recruits. The impact had no opponent, yet it disrupted the air like something had been broken.
Each motion chained into the next. The shield slammed left, feinted right, then locked into a twist and retraction, as if catching and binding another shield. His shoulders rolled through the force like he was sculpting space, not just moving through it.
Then the blade came alive.
The falcata snapped from his side in a fast upward slash. The wind parted as if cut. A second strike followed, this one low, driving forward in a rib-height thrust. The third came without warning, a flick of the elbow with such speed it cracked against the air like kindling splitting underweight.
Each strike made the recruits flinch. Not from fear, but from something deeper. Reverence. Instinct. The sense that if they stood any closer, they would bleed without knowing why.
He did not perform a kata.
He revealed a doctrine. The Stormguard way, not as idea, but as living form. A thing older than memory. Passed through blood. Written in the bones of those who had stood in the storm and not been moved.
When he stopped, he stood exactly where he had begun. Breathing slow. Eyes calm. No sign of strain. Not even a tremor in his hand.
"This is not a performance," he said, voice low. "It is memory passed through blood. It is what we are. You carry it. Or you break."
He turned to the recruits. His gaze passed over each of them, hard and quiet.
"Now. Do the forms."
His voice snapped like a command in a battlefield.
"Strike the wooden post like it is the Dazhum. No mercy. No sloppiness. Each blow should land as if it is your last. Or theirs."
The recruits hesitated for a breath. Then they moved.
Wooden posts stood at the edge of the yard, already scarred and dark with old cuts. The recruits formed lines, lifting their falcatas, shields, and spears.
Connach stepped forward first. His breath settled. He planted his feet. Then he struck.
Not with finesse. Not with grace.
But with purpose.
The crack of blade on wood rang out like a reply to thunder. Then came the second. Then the third. The yard filled with rhythm. Iron. Motion. Breath.
And behind them, the instructor watched in silence, arms crossed, like a man measuring a storm he knew too well.