CHAPTER 29: THE SHAPE OF A KNIGHT

The Hall of Arms smelled of ancient steel and human effort, sweat ground into the wood, oil rubbed into leather, and the mineral tang of blades handled by a thousand different palms.

Soren breathed it in, letting the scent tell him what his eyes already knew: this place had been forming warriors since before anyone in this room drew breath.

The vaulted stone chamber loomed above them, its ceiling lost in shadow. Weapon racks lined the walls like sentinels, holding steel of every shape and purpose.

Banners hung between them, some so faded their house colors had bled into a uniform murk.

The training dummies stood in silent judgment, their wooden bodies scarred by decades of strikes, splinters held together by the stubbornness of old oak and dried sweat.

Soren’s boots made no sound on the polished floor. He noted the worn paths where countless feet had traced the same patterns, day after day, year after year.

In some spots, the stone had been rubbed so smooth it almost gleamed, catching the light from the brazier that burned at the center of the room.

The brazier’s flames cast dancing shadows across the ceremonial armor of a full Knight standing guard in the corner.

The steel caught the light and threw it back, a wink of fire against polished metal. Soren wondered how many had stood where he stood now, looking at that armor and wondering if they would ever earn the right to wear it.

"Form up!" The command cracked through the air like a whip.

Master Durnach, the Velrane arms instructor, stood at the center of the hall, his scarred face set in lines of permanent disapproval. His voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel, then beaten with a hammer for good measure.

Despite his age, at least sixty winters, Soren guessed, Durnach’s posture remained unbending, spine straight as a sword blade.

"Half-circle, now. Don’t waste my time."

Soren moved with the others, forming a half-moon around the instructor. He felt rather than saw the presence behind them all, Veyr Velrane, arms folded across his chest, watching the proceedings with that calculating gaze Soren had come to recognize.

The young noble said nothing, but his attention hummed in the air like a drawn bowstring.

Master Durnach surveyed them, his eyes lingering on each face just long enough to make them uncomfortable. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a rumble.

"Bladecraft is more than skill with a sword. It is the discipline of turning one’s entire body, mind, and will into a weapon. It is a path, and like all paths worth walking, it is marked by trials."

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Soren kept his face carefully blank, though his mind raced behind the mask.

"The path of Bladecraft is divided into ranks," Durnach continued, pacing slowly before them. "Each rank represents not just skill, but understanding. Commitment. Sacrifice."

He stopped, eyes narrowing. "You are all trainees. The lowest rank. Barely worth the steel you’re permitted to touch."

A boy to Soren’s right shifted uncomfortably. Durnach’s gaze snapped to him like a striking snake.

"Something to say, boy?"

"No, Master Durnach."

"Good. Because the first lesson of Bladecraft is knowing when to hold your tongue."

Durnach resumed his pacing.

"Above trainee comes squire. A squire has proven basic competence with a blade and begun to understand the discipline required. Initiates serve the higher ranks, maintain the armory, and train daily under supervision."

Soren calculated silently. ’Squire. Three months of drills, maybe four if I’m unlucky.’

"After squire comes the basic knight. A knight has mastered the basic forms, can fight with multiple weapons, and understands tactical discipline. Knights may be assigned to guard duties within the grounds and may participate in formal competitions."

’Six months as a Knight, minimum,’ Soren thought. ’Unless there’s a way to accelerate.’

"Above Knight is a Knight-Commander. Commanders have begun to develop their own style within the framework of traditional forms. They assist in training lower ranks and sometimes are assigned to escort nobles outside the grounds."

That caught Soren’s attention. Escort duties meant proximity to Veyr. Proximity meant opportunity.

"Then comes Swordmaster. These are candidates who have proven themselves worthy of consideration for full weapon mastery. They undergo special trials, serve directly under high ranking officials, and may be claimed by a noble house for personal service."

The air in the room seemed to thin. Soren felt his pulse quicken slightly. ’Claimed by a noble house.’ That was the gate he needed to pass through.

"Finally for you guys, there is Warden of the Code. They are the True Knights who have passed all trials, sworn the oaths, and been accepted into the Order. They serve the realm, uphold the Code, and carry the honor of their house until death."

Durnach paused, letting the weight of the final rank settle over them.

"Each rank has its privileges. Each has its duties. Each has its price." His eyes swept over them again. "The Code binds us all. A Knight who breaks it is worse than a trainee who never took the oath at all."

’The Code,’ Soren thought. ’Another set of rules to navigate. Another game board to learn.’

"A Knight serves their lord with absolute loyalty," Durnach continued. "They protect the innocent, uphold justice, and defend the realm. They do not use their skills for personal gain or vengeance. They do not act without honor. They do not refuse a lawful command from their sworn lord."

The instructor’s voice had taken on an almost ritualistic cadence, as if reciting from memory words he had spoken a thousand times before.

"A Knight may be claimed by a noble as personal sword. This bond is sacred, second only to the Knight’s oath to the Code itself. Once claimed, a Knight serves at their lord’s pleasure, until death or formal release."

Soren kept his breathing steady, his face impassive. But behind that mask, his mind was calculating with cold precision. ’Trainee to Squire to Knight to Commander to Swordmaster to Warden. Five promotions. Each with its own timeline, its own challenges, its own opportunities to fail.’

Or to succeed.

He was already mapping the fastest route, identifying the chokepoints, the places where he could gain advantage. The others around him shifted restlessly, hearing only rules and requirements, burdens and expectations.

Soren heard opportunity.

Valenna’s voice remained silent, unusually so. But he didn’t need her commentary for this.

Deep in his chest, where the shard rested against his heart, he felt that quiet, coiled readiness she had been sharpening in him since they first met. It was a tension, like a bowstring drawn but not yet released.

Master Durnach finished his explanation with a final warning about the consequences of failure, then dismissed them with a curt nod.

The half-circle broke apart, recruits drifting toward the door in twos and threes, already muttering about the impossibility of it all.

Soren turned to leave, and as he did, his eyes met Veyr’s across the hall. The young noble hadn’t moved from his position, arms still folded, expression unreadable. For a moment, they simply looked at each other.

No words passed between them. None were needed. They both knew the same thing now, the title they were waiting for had a name, and Soren had just learned exactly how to reach it.

Swordmaster. The rank at which Veyr could claim him.

Soren nodded, once, almost imperceptibly. Veyr’s mouth curved in the ghost of a smile.

Then Soren turned and followed the others out, his steps measured and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.

He didn’t. But he had a map now. And Soren Thorne had always been good at finding his way, even in the dark.