On that day nearing his fifth birthday, although the stones of the North Courtyard were illuminated by a pale sun, the air was still filled with that throat-burning smell of rust and ozone.
Aetherion was in the corner of the courtyard. The fur vest he wore made his porcelain-white skin inherited from his mother look even paler. However, when his hood fell, revealing his flame-orange hair, it was like a burning ember amidst this grey world.
The other children, Harlan and Torç, were hitting each other with sticks in their hands like they were splitting wood. Aetherion gritted his teeth. This noisy, rhythmless display of violence was an insult to the aesthetic sense of the old soul inside him. This isn't war, he thought, squeezing the hilt of his wooden sword. This is just a sweaty shove-match.
Harlan noticed him, grinned. His teeth were missing, but his voice was older than his years. "Hey, Little Commander! Come here, let's play with you a bit! Don't worry, we won't hurt you!"
Aetherion turned slowly. He calmly emptied the air in his lungs.
He fixed his eyes, turned a smoky grey by the Frostthorn Drop he took that morning, on the children. That old and dangerous calmness lying behind those eyes cut the grin on Harlan's face like a knife. These were the eyes of a veteran who had trampled over thousands of dead on the front lines.
The three formed a circle on the cold stones of the courtyard.
Harlan, trusting his size, roared like a bear and attacked. His sword was coming down from the air like a sledgehammer.
Time slowed for Aetherion. His mind saw how the boy across him lost his balance, how he put his weight on the wrong foot, as clearly as seeing a flaw in a painter's canvas. Strong but blind, he felt. Spitting against the wind. This child body's strength wouldn't be enough to stop Harlan. So he wouldn't stop him. He would flow.
Aetherion glided to the side like a single leaf. Harlan's wooden sword slashed the empty space, missing his pale shoulder by a millimeter. Aetherion made a light, elegant touch to Harlan's defenseless wrist with the back of his sword. This wasn't a strike, it was a redirection. Harlan's own brute force betrayed him. The massive boy crashed onto the stone floor with a loud noise like a felled tree.
Torç, angered by his friend's fall, charged like a bull. Aetherion didn't run. He bent his knees slightly, becoming one with the ground. Torç's sword whizzed over his orange hair. Aetherion straightened up, stretching like a bow from bottom to top. He pressed the hilt of his sword lightly into that sensitive gap between Torç's ribcage and stomach—that invisible knot holding a person's breath and balance. It was as if an invisible rope had been cut. Torç's legs gave way, and he collapsed where he stood. His eyes were wide open, trying to draw air into his lungs.
Both were lying on the ground, mouths agape, looking up at Aetherion. The dropped wooden swords were now just knobby pieces of wood.
Aetherion planted his wooden sword in the ground. He looked down at those two huge boys lying breathless.
"Arrogance," he said with a calm, icy voice. "Blinded you. You swing the sword as if breaking wood. The enemy is not a log; it is a predator waiting patiently for its prey."
He extended the hilt of his sword to Harlan.
"Don't lock your wrist. The sword is an extension of the arm, not its master."
Harlan looked at this puny, flame-haired boy who had just leveled him. There was no anger in his eyes anymore; there was pure, admiring fear.
"You..." Harlan said, spitting out dust. "How... how did you do that?"
Aetherion turned his back. While the wind blew his hood back over his face, a faint smile formed on his lips.
They are still raw, he thought, leaving the courtyard. But their iron is solid. If forged in a good fire... they would make good swords.