"Even in the predictable chaos of others' emotions, a vector can be found. If one knows where to look."
Rion-day
The morning arrived with its usual calm. However, when I awoke, I registered a deviation in Catherine's behavior. She was not asleep. She was sitting on her bed, hugging her knees, and watching the snow fall slowly outside the window. Her posture was not tense, but it was not relaxed either—it was the posture of deep, almost detached contemplation.
The consequences of her conversation with Ren and the doubts about the decision she had made were still causing echoes of structural instability within her, and it was obvious that she was analyzing the internal cost of her action.
At breakfast, she was quieter than usual. I noted that her gaze rested on me several times, but it was not a search for approval. It was a check. She looked at me, then at her own hands, as if trying to understand how much of her coldness from her private conversation with Ren was her own, and how much was borrowed from me. This was not a crisis, but a process of assimilating a new experience.
We left our room in silence and went to lunch together, where we, as usual, met with Ren and Nova. Although their behavior had not changed drastically, other changes had occurred that I could not help but notice, as the number of active observers at our lunch table had increased. In addition to the usual Isa, Leticia had begun to watch us. It was not yet possible to understand the logic of her actions, but her nervousness in her movements while observing was too conspicuous.
The first lesson today was fencing. It probably should not have brought anything special to my daily routine, even with the upcoming duel with Gloria Alrane. I did not tell Catherine about her, deciding not to undermine her already unstable state. However, Nova looked at me all morning with an unspoken question. Perhaps it was not about Gloria, but just an echo of our conversation yesterday, but I could not help but notice the changes in her behavior as well.
When we entered the fencing hall, I immediately saw a tall, aloof girl with dark hair braided into two plaits, green eyes, and an athletic build. She immediately cast an appraising glance at me, which indicated that she was indeed the Gloria in question.
Soon the lesson began: Lady Fiora first spoke briefly with Gloria, after which she divided us into pairs, but my name was not on the list of participants, probably to avoid the whispers of the students who were already talking nonstop: "That's the Gloria! They say she won the annual Valtheim women's fencing cup," "They say she fences like the twin queens, maybe even better!" For me, all this only indicated that I had not sufficiently masked my fencing skills, and Gloria's observation was merely her professional interest in the matter. It was ironic that perhaps I was not sufficiently considering the additional variables by which I was being judged.
Catherine looked intently first at Gloria, then at the other students who were fencing. And only when her pair was announced—Ren—did she stand up from the bench quickly and decisively, trying to pull herself together. Perhaps for Catherine, this was not just a fight, but an attempt to release the accumulated internal tension that, like an invisible thread, bound her and Ren in a formal battle.
Ren and Catherine entered the left circle along with three other pairs who occupied the remaining circles. Lady Fiora waved her hand, and the duels began.
Ren attacked first, intentionally lightly, as if testing how her opponent would respond, how the tension would be reflected in her gaze and in the movement of her blade. Catherine responded without any extra emotion, with the precision that had been building in her for weeks—not thanks to my instructions, but through her own efforts and internal work with the épée, which she still romanticized.
At first, Ren led the fight: her strikes were impulsive but not precise, and her technique was blurred, as if she were playing, not participating. Catherine, on the other hand, easily deflected all attacks, almost perfectly parrying any lunge. I understood that Catherine was waiting for the perfect moment when Ren would show weakness, and, as I had foreseen, it happened: Ren lost her tempo for a fraction of a second. Catherine changed the rhythm—not speeding it up, not sharpening it, but refining it, bringing her movements closer to her body. Her strikes became firm, her arm heavy. Ren began to give ground, scrambling to maintain her footing, but Catherine's relentless pressure forced her a step back—a single misplacement of her foot that put her outside the circle. A technical defeat.
Perhaps this was Ren's strategic calculation—to lose technically, not in fact. From her mysterious smile, it was clear that she was playing her invented role to the end, unlike Catherine, who respectfully nodded her head to her opponent as a sign of respect.
The remaining duels were of no interest. However, Nova was behaving extremely strangely today: her usual confidence, which had consistently brought her victories, had turned into uncertainty and nearly cost her a defeat. She looked at Gloria and me too often, as if expecting what would happen at the end of the classes.
When the class was over and the hall was cleared of most of the students hurrying about their business, and only those who guessed what was about to happen remained, Lady Fiora raised her hand and announced, "And now Artalis Nox will perform in a training duel against Gloria Alrane!" she paused. "Take your weapons and proceed to the training circle."
Gloria confidently and unhurriedly went to the weapon rack and took the first training épée she came across, as she was well aware that all the local weapons were of low quality. I followed her example, and soon we were standing opposite each other. There were no more than two meters between us. She did not speak, but her gaze said a lot—she was waiting for an interesting duel.
Lady Fiora did not give a signal to start the fight, as if understanding that it was not needed.
Contact occurred on the twelfth second. At that moment, I saw not just technique—I felt how in every movement, every touch, a multi-layered meaning was revealed: not a battle of two bodies, but the contact of two structures, two designs, each testing the other for stability. Gloria made a sharp lunge from below, almost invisible to the ordinary eye.
I leaned back, not breaking my vertical: my shoulders remained straight, my feet—in place. I only needed to turn my torso to avoid the blow. My response was not a counterattack. I just evened the distance and lightly touched her blade. A light, almost melodic clang of steel echoed through the hall.
We continued to spar: block—diagonal intercept—step—retreat—disengage. The dry clang of steel and the faint scent of chalk from Gloria's gloves.
Eight, nine, twelve touches—not a single full blow. We were playing on the edge of what was possible, but none of our lunges reached its target. She was truly an interesting person.
On the sixteenth blow, Gloria changed her rhythm: she lowered her stance and in the next moment made a sharp upward thrust of her center of gravity, switching to the northern style of Arzanir—too rare to see here in Valtheim, but too effective not to use in this battle.
The attack began with a springing leap. I managed to register the movement by the barely perceptible shift of her spine and stepped back exactly half a step, as no more was required. Our weapons met at the guard. The line of contact was perfect—even the experienced eyes of fencing masters would not have found a flaw.
We stopped. It was pointless to continue: further fighting would not bring Gloria the results she sought, and for me, it was of no interest.
She was the first to lower her weapon and, shaking her head in disappointment, said, "I didn't think I would have to surrender—without losing." Her voice was thoughtful, as if she had met a worthy opponent for the first time in a long time.
She bowed politely and then left the hall, not forgetting to put the épée back on the rack.
I just watched her go for a short while before returning the training weapon. The gazes of the few students who remained here were fixed on me. Even Lady Fiora, who usually commented on the outcome of a fight, decided to keep her comment to herself.
As I was leaving the hall, Catherine was the first to almost run up to me; it seemed the duel had completely eclipsed her morning worries.
"Arta…" She paused, as if something inside her had broken. "Do you know what that was?…" she said, as if whispering. "It was not just technique. It was… an absolute line."
I looked into her eyes. She held my gaze, but the depth of emotion in them indicated that her words were sincere.
"I know you don't like épées. But the way you moved…" her voice broke slightly. "It was so beautiful! Not functional, not calculated." She paused again. "It was… as if there was an order in this world that cannot be explained. It can only be seen."
I said nothing, only allowed a shadow of a smile to appear on my face. Her delight was pure and sincere. She was again romanticizing the image of the twin queens, and probably Gloria and I had reminded her of them.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, lowering her gaze. "I guess I was just impressed…" Catherine froze for a second, then straightened up, as if remembering our training, and simply added, "Thank you for the fight, Arta." She smiled sincerely, then nodded toward the exit, hinting that it was time for us to go to the next lesson.
『 🜁 』━━━⋆✶⋆━━━『 ⚶ 』
Catherine and I slowly made our way to the east wing of the academy, where the Water magic classes were held. The air was filled with a light humidity, and the stone slabs underfoot echoed coldly with every step. Nova was already waiting for us at the door. As we approached, she smiled welcomingly, "Arta, that was an excellent fight!"
"You also liked how Arta fences?" Catherine chimed in with a faint smile.
"Of course!" Nova's eyes sparkled with a lively interest. "Gloria Alrane is the best fencer in the academy, and I am genuinely surprised that Arta shows such a high level."
"Tell me about it…" Catherine paused briefly and laughed. "They were like Ildri and Aelind!"
"I absolutely agree," Nova nodded. "It was a magnificent fight. We all have something to learn from them."
Catherine smiled sincerely back at her. I, however, understanding that it was pointless to linger at the door any longer, just nodded to them and headed into the hall. Discussing a completed action was of no interest to me, unlike their impressions, which were disproportionately inflated.
The hall was a spacious room with a high vault. Cold, damp air flowed slowly between the columns, and the light of the winter day, penetrating through the arched windows, scattered on the marble slabs in silver reflections. In the center of the hall was a large pool—a place where Water magic met with physical practices.
Magister Weir—a woman with long silver hair and a voice as transparent as a cold stream—was already standing by the board, waiting for the students to take their seats on the tiers along the walls. Today was a lecture, and probably because of that, most of the students did not look too pleased.
Only a few minutes later, Catherine and Nova entered the hall, hurrying to take the remaining seats. Ironically, they had to sit next to each other, in the front rows, as all the seats next to me were already taken. From time to time, they would cast glances at me, watching as I portrayed the perfect student, feigning a deep interest in the lecture material.
The lesson passed without any particular surprises. Everything was too predictable. Even Isa Lern, who usually watched me with an almost painful trepidation, was of no interest to my attention today. When Magister Weir announced the end of the class, I, without wasting time, was one of the first to rise from my seat and head for the exit, leaving behind the rustle of discussions and unspoken impressions.
『 🜁 』━━━⋆✶⋆━━━『 ⚶ 』
In the evening, when the stars of the Astrarium had spread their cold, shimmering light over the academy, Catherine and I, according to our established habit, went to the snow-covered clearing—the place where our fencing classes were held. Her steps were light, her movements almost airy. Catherine was literally glowing after a busy day, full of events. Even Ren, who had tried to throw her off balance at lunch, had not been able to disturb her inner balance.
When we reached the familiar clearing, covered with an even carpet of sparkling snow, I stopped and turned to her. This evening felt like the right moment—not just for training, but for the next step in her education.
"Catherine," I said quietly, "I have been thinking for a long time about how we should properly continue our fencing classes so that they retain their effectiveness."
Catherine, who had just made a few warm-up swings with an imaginary sword, froze. A flicker of bewilderment crossed her eyes.
"You have achieved excellent results in mastering the basic technique," I continued, pausing. "But we are women. Further development through purely physical exercises, through building up the force of a blow, loses its meaning. We will hit natural limits."
"But why, Arta?…" Sincere incomprehension and a faint shadow of disappointment sounded in her voice. "Wasn't it you who said that the sword is a universal weapon? And that only with a sword can one reach true limits?"
"The universality of the sword does not negate the fundamental limitations of the human body, especially the female one," I explained calmly. "You have learned to feel the blade, to move with it as one. But to confront an opponent who physically surpasses you, technique alone is not enough. Further development of fencing for us is ineffective without its fusion with magic."
Catherine shook her head skeptically, her recent inspiration now clouded.
"So this is the limit? I will never be able to become truly strong? I will never be able to protect… you?" She looked at me in disappointment. A mixture of misunderstanding and inner turmoil seemed to completely fill her mind.
"Catherine," I tried to make my tone a little softer, but so that it did not lose the necessary firmness, "nothing was in vain. You have mastered the basics, learned the movements and techniques that will allow you to deal with any unprepared man who dares to challenge you. But this is just the foundation. The basic limitations remain, and that is why today I will teach you the 'dark blade' technique."
I saw her interest flare up again, displacing the disappointment.
"This is not an ordinary technique," I continued. "It is an interweaving of will and Darkness magic, embodied in a forbidden power. It will allow you to inflict damage without relying on brute physical force. A mere touch will be enough to leave a wound that rots from within—a pulsating corruption of darkness that will remind them of their place. But that's not all. We will also enhance your reflexes and the precision of your movements with the help of Order magic. You will perform perfect techniques, honed to perfection. Where your consciousness or body might fail, Order magic will ensure flawless execution. Your current skills in magic already allow you to achieve these results. And now I will show you the 'dark blade' technique."
I drew my training sword from its scabbard and slowly ran my palm along the blade. The steel under my hand began to change: it darkened, absorbing the magic of Darkness, and soon the blade became absolutely black, as if it had been in the very abyss. A light, barely perceptible smoke swirled around it as I fixed the effect of the spell with golden threads of order.
"This is a very dangerous spell, Catherine," I warned.
I went to the nearest pine tree; its trunk was thick and covered in frozen resin. With a light, almost weightless movement, I touched the bark with the dark blade. A deep, charred-edged cut was instantly left on the trunk. It did not bleed, like living flesh, but darkness oozed from it, and the air was filled with the smell of ozone and the primordial essence of Darkness.
Catherine's mouth fell open in surprise, her eyes widening.
"Arta… is that… is that dangerous? For me?"
"It is extremely dangerous, Catherine. For you, and for those against whom you use it. This is forbidden Darkness magic, the kind that is not taught within the walls of academies. It is a power that erases the line between protection and destruction."
"Not taught?" her voice trembled. "Arta… Then tell me, where did you… you learn this?"
I allowed myself a long, almost theatrical sigh.
"The methods of the closed practices of Tarvarian magic. My family has access to them," I had to lie again, but this lie was necessary for her protection from a knowledge that could destroy her.
"You and your homeland again!" a familiar sarcasm slipped into her voice, but without its former resentment, with notes of curiosity and something else. "To listen to you, one would think that Order magic seeps from every stone there, and Darkness magic hides around every corner."
"Catherine, my parents are very closely connected with the true manifestations of both Darkness and Order. Perhaps you would have fewer questions if you knew them personally," I replied sharply, trying to end further speculation on this matter.
Catherine smiled slyly, her eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "So you want me to meet your parents? To introduce me as… your most successful student?"
"I don't know," I looked at her seriously. "And do you really want to go to the capital of Tarvar instead of the summer holidays, when the meadows are in bloom here, where it's cold even in summer, and where the passersby will not appreciate your antics, even if you try very hard."
Catherine wrinkled her nose slightly.
"I get it, I get it. I'll think about it," she smiled again, as if nothing were wrong. "But to be honest, I'm not against it. It's practically a challenge."
I shook my head skeptically.
"We will see the results of your training. And your ability to control what you awaken."
I ran my hand over the blade of the sword to return it to its normal state and, approaching her, stood opposite her.
"And now, extend your sword forward. Close your eyes. Imagine that you are a conduit of Darkness. This is almost identical to how you create a shield from the magic of darkness and order, but this time you need to call upon a different Darkness—deeper, more ancient, sinister. The Darkness that the ignorant and fools call evil. You will need to descend to the very depths, not into a well, as usual. Imagine a world where only darkness exists. You need to take energy from there," I paused so she could realize what was required of her. "As soon as you find this energy, feel its touch—remember that it is not evil. It is an enveloping primordial matter, soft and trusting to one who seeks in it not destruction, but peace and absolute tranquility."
Catherine squeezed her eyes shut, her face becoming concentrated. She took a deep breath, and her body froze, as if listening to something inside herself, something that had always been there but had remained unrecognized. A minute, another, a third. Her outstretched arm with the sword began to tremble almost imperceptibly—not from fear, but from the colossal internal tension, from the attempt to maintain balance on the verge of two worlds. And then, from the tips of her fingers, and then along the entire blade of the sword, a velvety, living darkness began to ooze, like a night cloak woven from the very essence of the universe.
"Excellent," I whispered, not breaking her concentration. "And now just remember about Order magic. About the structure. About the golden threads that hold the universe. And direct this structure into what is flowing through you, into the very blade of the sword. Give Darkness a form. Give it a purpose."
Catherine slowly opened her eyes. Her pupils were dilated, the iris almost completely hidden behind the blackness, in which tiny golden sparks danced—a reflection of the magic that was now passing through her. She did not look frightened. Rather… mesmerized by the primordial power.
She made a light swing of her arm. The prosthesis under her clothes resonated almost imperceptibly, responding to the surge of energy, and in that same instant, the magic of Darkness tightly enveloped the blade, turning it into a weapon woven from matter. She had managed to do it on the first try, which meant my training had not been in vain. I had no right not to congratulate her on this.
"Catherine," my voice sounded even, but with a note of acknowledgment, "an excellent result. Keep it up. You have surpassed my expectations."
Catherine slowly lowered her sword. The darkness on the blade reluctantly dissipated, leaving behind only a faint smell of ozone. She smiled—tiredly, but with deep satisfaction.
"Arta…" her voice was slightly hoarse, but it held new notes, "I think I understand what you really are." She looked at me with a gaze full of not prophecy, but of a piercing, absolute understanding. "You are not light. You are Shadow. Deep, all-encompassing, preserving order. And I… I will be the spark of Order within your Shadow—the golden thread that reveals its pattern.
A shadow preserving order. Surprising. After her previous, borrowed-from-novels mistake with the metaphor of "light," this formulation was strikingly accurate. She had correctly identified my nature. However, her further words were just another noise that she was still unable to overcome within herself. I said nothing in response to her phrase, only watched her eyes, which after a few moments returned to normal, regaining their usual blue color, but in their depths now forever remained that small golden spark of order.
She smiled at me—sincerely, openly, as never before. I allowed myself to smile back at her. Not because of the warmth of her words, but because of their flawless precision.
We spent the rest of the evening, until curfew, practicing strikes using Order magic techniques. The air was saturated with bursts of magic, and the snow underfoot was trampled with the tracks of many maneuvers.
『 🜁 』━━━⋆✶⋆━━━『 ⚶ 』
After the training, we returned to the room. Catherine quickly changed, but did not go to bed and did not sit down with her books. She went to the window and stood in the place where I usually stand to observe the night landscapes of the academy.
"Arta," she finally said, without turning around. Her voice was even, but it lacked its usual energy. "I didn't want to tell you this, but today… After the duel with Gloria and our training, I decided to say it after all." She paused briefly. "Yesterday, when I spoke with Ren… I told her everything I think of her. Perhaps I was impulsive, but I didn't know how to act otherwise." She sighed. "And now I look at you again and I don't understand whether I did the right thing or not." She crossed her arms over her chest and bit her lower lip.
I came closer to her, so I could also see the landscape outside the window, after which I placed a hand on her shoulder. A gesture that, I believed, would be aimed at her internal stabilization.
"As I have always said—impulsiveness is like a disease that corrodes the soul. Decisions should come from logic, not emotions," I said calmly.
Catherine turned her head and looked at my hand, which was resting on her shoulder.
"You know, Arta… It's all so strange. You speak very logically, but this Ren! She…" Catherine ground her teeth from her overwhelming anger.
"She is impulsive, chaotic. But you are not like that, are you? Or do you want to be like her?" I said calmly, looking her in the eye.
Catherine swallowed and lowered her arms.
"I do not want to be like her," she answered firmly. "I want to understand if I am on the right path. I still don't understand how I lost the debate with Beatrice…" she shook her head slightly.
"You lost not because your logic was weak," I replied, my voice a statement of fact. "You lost because you accepted the fight on her terms. She threw mud at you, and you tried to block it with a shield." I paused briefly. "You made a mistake, because one does not engage in such fights; one bypasses them and strikes at another, unprotected point."
Catherine opened her mouth to say something, but I continued.
"Tell me, are you afraid that by following me, you will lose yourself? Become as cold as I am?" this was not a question, but a diagnosis of her deep state. "My father taught me that anger, fear, even your bitterness today—are weapons. And this blade must be cold in your hand, because as soon as it heats up from your own emotions, it burns you, not the enemy." This non-existent legend, according to my calculations, should have stabilized her internal vector, but to reinforce it, I added, "Ren offers you to grab a red-hot blade with your bare hands. I offer you to learn to hold it by the hilt."
"Arta… You…" She froze. I watched as she processed the information. How in her eyes, anxiety was replaced by a deep understanding. She was not looking for comfort. She was looking for a working formula. And I had provided it to her. "So I shouldn't accept a fight on the enemy's terms…" she whispered, and a calm smile appeared on her lips. "Thank you, I think I understand how I should act."
We stood by the window for another half an hour before going to bed, and this sleep was primarily necessary for her to fully absorb the information she had received from me.