The first true light of dawn bled across the sky, painting the dusty training yard in hues of gold and pale blue. The last embers of their fire hissed out as Quintus rose to his full, unassuming height. The easy camaraderie of the night before was gone, replaced by an air of grim purpose. He turned to Kaelen, and his gaze was that of a Centurion addressing a raw recruit.
"First, ground rules," Quintus's voice was a low, stern rasp, devoid of any warmth. It was the tone of a man who had drilled legions. "For this session, I am the teacher. You are the student. You will listen. You will not question. Is that understood?"
The command was so familiar, so rooted in Kaelen's past life, that his response was automatic. "Yes, sir!"
Quintus gave a single, sharp nod and began to pace a slow circle around him, his eyes missing nothing—the slight tremor of fatigue in Kaelen's hands, the unnatural silver sheen in his veins, the way he held himself like a weapon that didn't quite fit its scabbard.
"You have power," Quintus stated, not as a compliment, but as a diagnosis. "But it is a scream in the dark. It has no grammar. No precision. Today, you will learn the alphabet. You need not present ideas of your own, as you seem to have forgotten the fundamentals."
Kaelen, chastised, moved to pick up a training sword and dropped instinctively into the solid, squared-off stance of the Aethelian legionary—shoulders forward, weight balanced, a human wall.
"No," Quintus said, the word like a whip-crack. "Stand up. That stance is for a man in a shield wall, one cog in a great machine. You are no longer that. You fight like a lone wolf, so you will learn the stance of one."
He demonstrated. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Your dominant foot points forward at a forty-five-degree angle. The other, slightly back. Bend your knees. Now, move your weight forward—onto the balls of your feet. You are not a rock. You are a spring."
Kaelen shifted, the posture feeling alien and uncomfortably exposed. Yet, as he settled into it, he felt a potential for swift, explosive movement that the rigid legionary stance denied.
"Good," Quintus grunted. "If you need more agility, drop lower. This is not for holding a line. It is for deflecting a blow," he mimicked a soft, circular parry, "and striking upwards like a viper." His training sword licked out in a vicious, rising cut.
"But a stance is just a word. It means nothing without the sentence of the fight." Quintus moved closer, tapping the training sword against Kaelen's chest. "Your sword should live here, near your heart. It is your shield and your threat, a hair's breadth from both defense and attack. When you strike, it is not a grand swing. It is quick. Precise. A single, sharp word."
His eyes narrowed, recalling the meteor-blow from the night before. "As for that… that cataclysm you summoned… we will not be focusing on it. A sledgehammer has its uses, but it is not a dueling weapon. It leaves you undefended and, as we saw, unconscious. It is a last resort, for a single, definitive answer to a problem. Nothing more."
Kaelen processed the flood of information, his enhanced mind cataloging the angles and principles. It was a new language for violence, one of subtlety and efficiency.
"Enough theory," Quintus said, grabbing his own training sword. "Let us practice our conversation."
They faced each other in the circle. Quintus didn't wait. He flowed forward, his blade a grey streak aimed at Kaelen's head. Kaelen, remembering the new guard position, brought his sword up to block.
Thwack!
A sharp pain exploded in the back of his knees as Quintus's foot swept them out from under him. Kaelen stumbled, catching himself before he fell.
"Too high," Quintus stated calmly. "You defended the space where your head was, not where it would be. You protected the letter, but missed the meaning."
They reset. Quintus lunged again. Kaelen blocked, keeping his stance lower.
Shwick!
The training sword smacked hard against his outer arm.
"Too close to your body," Quintus critiqued. "You have caged your own weapon. You have no room to speak your reply. Your defense has become a prison."
As the sparring continued, the corrections became a running commentary, a blend of physical and philosophical wisdom.
"You are forcing the movement. Do not push the sword. Guide it. Let your will flow down your arm, not clench in your fist."
Kaelen adjusted, his parries becoming softer, more fluid.
"Good! See? You deflected. You did not meet force with force. You redirected it. That is the difference between a brawler and a bladesman."
A flicker of understanding sparked in Kaelen's eyes.
"Your footwork is your verb, boy!" Quintus said, easily sidestepping a thrust. "Is the action beginning? Ongoing? Complete? Your feet tell the story before your blade ever does. Right now, they are stuttering."
They fought as the sun climbed, the heat beginning to bake the dry earth. Sweat poured down Kaelen's face, his muscles burning with a honest, earned fatigue, so different from the corrosive exhaustion of using Ulos.
"Why?" Kaelen panted, deflecting a blow and managing a clumsy but correct riposte that Quintus had to acknowledge with a slight nod. "Why do this? For a stranger?"
Quintus didn't break rhythm. "A sword that does not know itself is a danger to everyone, especially its wielder. I am not teaching you for your sake. I am honing a dangerous, broken tool so it does not shatter and cut someone innocent."
The truth of it stung, but Kaelen respected its honesty. It was the first honest thing anyone had said to him in months.
Finally, as the sun reached its zenith, blazing directly overhead, Quintus stepped back and lowered his sword. Kaelen was heaving, his new white robes soaked through with sweat, but he stood firm in the new stance, his guard clean and ready.
"Enough," Quintus said, a faint note of approval in his gravelly voice. "We end here. Clean yourself up. We will go to see the smith when the sun touches the top of the church spire." He looked at Kaelen, truly looked at him, seeing the sweat and dirt and the faint, silver traces of the power that simmered beneath. "You learn quickly. But remember, a single morning of grammar does not make a poet. It simply keeps you from embarrassing yourself."
...
time passed the sun crept over the church spire.
...
He exited his small house. "Now, let us go and find you a question made of steel."