CHAPTER 38: THE SWORDMASTER’S EYE

The page arrived just before sunset, his face flushed from running.

"Lord Veyr commands your presence in the Old Yard," he said, not meeting Soren’s eyes. "Now."

Soren set aside the practice blade he’d been polishing and rose from his bunk. The other recruits pretended not to watch, but their sudden silence betrayed their interest. He felt their stares on his back as he followed the page through the door.

"Which way?" he asked when they reached the main corridor.

The page pointed toward the eastern wing. "Past the armory, down the stone steps. The master is waiting." He hesitated, then added in a lower voice, "He doesn’t like to be kept waiting."

Soren nodded his thanks and set off alone, his footsteps echoing against the cold stone. The eastern wing was older than the rest of the complex, its walls darkened by centuries of torch smoke. The air grew colder as he descended the narrow staircase, carrying the metallic scent of old blood and sweat that no amount of scrubbing could remove.

The Old Yard opened before him like a wound in the earth. Unlike the main training grounds, with their even flagstones and carefully maintained equipment, this place wore its age like a veteran displayed scars.

The stones were cracked and pitted, dark stains marking where countless men had bled and fallen. Iron rings jutted from the walls, their surfaces worn smooth by generations of chains and ropes.

No banners hung here, no audience benches lined the walls, just bare stone and the weight of history.

Soren’s boots scraped against the grit as he entered. The yard felt impossibly silent after the constant noise of the barracks. Even the wind seemed reluctant to enter this place.

"You’re late."

The voice cut through the silence like a blade. Soren turned to face its source.

A man stood in the shadow of the eastern wall, his figure half-hidden by the gathering dusk. He stepped forward, and Soren fought to keep his expression neutral.

The man was tall and whipcord lean, his body a map of old violence. White hair hung to his shoulders, though Soren guessed he wasn’t much past fifty.

A jagged scar ran from his left temple to his jaw, pulling the corner of his mouth into a permanent sneer. Where his right eye should have been was a leather patch, worn and darkened with age.

His remaining eye was the pale blue of winter ice, and it fixed on Soren with immediate, cutting assessment.

"Kaelor Varas," the man said, his voice a growl that seemed to scrape along the stones. "House Velrane’s Swordmaster." He circled Soren slowly, his gaze dissecting every detail. "You’re the gutter trash they want me to polish."

Soren kept his face carefully blank. "Soren Thorne."

Kaelor snorted. "I know your name, boy. I know everything about you that matters." He completed his circle, stopping directly in front of Soren. "Which isn’t much."

The man’s breath smelled of cloves and something stronger, brandy, perhaps. But his eye was clear and sharp, missing nothing.

"Draw your blade," Kaelor ordered, stepping back and drawing his own sword in one fluid motion. The steel caught the fading light, revealing nicks and scratches that spoke of real combat, not practice.

Soren drew his practice sword, settling into the opening stance he’d been taught. The familiar weight in his hand was reassuring after the uncertainty of the moment.

Kaelor’s laugh was a harsh bark. "Gods, that stance. Who taught you to stand like that? A drunken fishwife?" He moved forward without warning, his blade a silver blur.

The sword was knocked from Soren’s hand before he even registered the attack. Pain flared across his knuckles where Kaelor’s blade had struck them.

"Again," Kaelor said, stepping back. His face showed neither satisfaction nor disappointment, only cold assessment.

Soren retrieved his sword, flexing his stinging fingers. He set his stance again, this time adjusting his weight distribution, remembering Valenna’s lessons.

’He’s testing your edges,’

her voice whispered in his mind. ’Let him see just enough.’

Kaelor attacked again, this time with a low cut that should have swept Soren’s legs from under him. Soren jumped back, barely avoiding the strike, only to feel Kaelor’s boot connect solidly with his chest. He stumbled backward, struggling to maintain his balance.

"Pathetic," Kaelor spat. "You telegraph every move before you make it. Your eyes give you away." He tapped his own remaining eye. "Windows to the soul, boy. Learn to shutter them."

They continued for what felt like hours. Kaelor would attack, Soren would try to defend, and inevitably find himself disarmed or struck or thrown to the ground. Each time, Kaelor’s criticism grew more cutting, more precise.

"Your rhythm is off."

"Your grip is too tight."

"You’re fighting the blade instead of using it."

"Stop thinking so much and feel the steel."

Sweat soaked through Soren’s shirt despite the cold air. His muscles burned, and fresh bruises bloomed across his ribs and shoulders. Blood trickled from a split lip where he’d caught the flat of Kaelor’s blade. Yet the swordmaster showed no sign of tiring, no hint of mercy.

’He’s looking for your breaking point,’ Valenna murmured. ’Don’t give him one.’

After a particularly brutal sequence that left Soren gasping on his knees, Kaelor paused, his single eye narrowed in contemplation.

"You’re still fighting like you’re in the gutter," he said, his voice oddly quiet now. "Street fighting keeps you alive, but it won’t make you a knight. Stop trying to survive each strike. Start thinking three moves ahead."

Soren pushed himself to his feet, every muscle screaming in protest. He wiped blood from his lip with the back of his hand and readied his stance once more.

Something shifted in Kaelor’s expression, not approval, exactly, but acknowledgment. "Again," he said. "This time, forget everything you think you know. Feel the rhythm."

Soren exhaled slowly, letting his awareness expand. The weight of the sword in his hand, the texture of the grip against his palm, the subtle shifts in Kaelor’s weight that telegraphed his next move. He stopped trying to predict or plan, instead surrendering to the flow of combat.

When Kaelor attacked this time, Soren moved with the strike rather than against it, letting the force carry him into his next position. Their blades met with a clean ring of steel, the impact jarring his arm but not breaking his grip.

For the first time, he lasted more than five moves before Kaelor found an opening. The swordmaster’s blade stopped a hair’s breadth from Soren’s throat.

"Better," Kaelor said, stepping back. "Again."

They continued as darkness fell completely over the yard. Servants lit torches along the walls, their flickering light casting long shadows across the scarred stones.

Soren lost count of how many times he’d been struck, disarmed, or knocked down. But slowly, imperceptibly, something changed. He began to anticipate Kaelor’s patterns, to feel the rhythm of combat rather than just reacting to it.

He still lost every exchange, but now he lasted longer. Ten moves. Fifteen. Once, nearly twenty before Kaelor’s blade found its mark.

Finally, after what might have been hours, Kaelor stepped back and sheathed his sword. His white hair was damp with sweat, the only sign that the session had required any effort from him at all.

"Enough," he said. "You’ll do."

Soren lowered his blade, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. Every inch of his body throbbed with pain, but beneath it was a strange, quiet satisfaction. He hadn’t won, hadn’t come close, but he had endured.

Kaelor approached, stopping just close enough that Soren could see the web of fine scars that crossed his face like a map of old battles.

"Listen carefully, boy, because I won’t say this twice," the swordmaster said, his voice low and rough. "A knight isn’t armor or vows. He’s a weapon. Your only choice is to stay sharp..." He tapped Soren’s chest with a callused finger, directly over the hidden shard. "...or rust."

Something in his tone made Soren wonder if Kaelor somehow knew about the shard, about Valenna. But the moment passed, and the swordmaster stepped back.

"Same time tomorrow," Kaelor said, turning away. "Don’t be late again."

He walked into the shadows at the edge of the yard, his footsteps fading until Soren stood alone among the torchlight and scarred stones.

Soren sheathed his sword, wincing as his battered muscles protested the movement. Blood and sweat mingled on his skin, and tomorrow would bring fresh bruises to join today’s collection. Yet beneath the pain was a clarity he hadn’t felt before.

The Velranes were shaping him, each in their own way. Veyr with his ambition, Ayren with his masks and whispers, and now Kaelor with his brutal, efficient steel. They were forging him into something new, not just a recruit, not just a knight, but a weapon calibrated to their specific needs.

The question that remained, as he limped back toward the barracks, was whether he would be the blade that served them or the one that eventually cut their hands.