CHAPTER 45: THE UNFINISHED PAGES

Pain had a voice, and it was laughing at him.

After his so-called training Soren staggered down the torchlit corridor, each step sending fresh waves of agony through his trembling legs.

The stone walls seemed to pulse and sway in the flickering light, or perhaps that was just his vision failing him after six hours under Kaelor’s merciless instruction.

Today, the swordmaster had introduced a new torment, forcing him to grip red-hot sword hilts until his palms blistered and wept.

’One more step,’ he told himself. ’Just one more.’

It became his mantra as he dragged himself forward, away from the training yard and the watchful eyes that seemed to follow his every movement these days.

His burned palms throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the raw flesh screaming with each involuntary flex of his fingers.

He kept his back straight through sheer force of will, refusing to hunch or limp even with no one there to witness it. Pride was all he had left.

The shard against his chest pulsed once, neither hot nor cold, just... present. Valenna had been strangely silent during today’s session, offering neither encouragement nor commentary as Kaelor pushed him beyond what he’d thought were his limits.

A crossroads approached in the corridor, left would take him back to the barracks, where curious eyes and whispered conversations awaited.

Right led deeper into the Velrane estate, into sections he’d never had cause to explore. The choice was hardly a choice at all.

He turned right.

This passage was less traveled, the torches spaced further apart, casting longer shadows across worn stone.

The air felt different here, stiller, undisturbed by the constant movement of servants and guards. It carried the faint scent of dust and forgotten things.

He’d gone perhaps fifty paces when he noticed it, a door standing slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling onto the corridor floor.

Something about that wedge of light called to him, promising if not safety, then at least solitude.

Soren glanced over his shoulder, confirming he was alone, then slipped through the narrow opening. His shoulders brushed the doorframe as he passed, sending a fresh spike of pain across his back where Kaelor’s training sword had found him repeatedly.

The room beyond stole what little breath he had left.

It was a library, but unlike any he’d seen before. The chamber was cavernous, its ceiling lost in shadows high above. Bookshelves stretched in every direction, towering like ancient trees in a primeval forest, their upper reaches disappearing into darkness.

The air hung heavy with the scent of old paper, leather bindings, and the distinctive metallic tang of ink. Only a handful of candles burned throughout the vast space, their small flames creating islands of light in an ocean of shadow.

’No one’s been here in ages,’ he thought, noting the fine layer of dust that covered most surfaces. His boots left clear prints on the floor as he ventured deeper into the forest of knowledge.

The silence enveloped him like a blanket, broken only by the soft creak of ancient wood as he moved between the shelves.

Here, finally, was a place free from watchful eyes and calculating minds. Here, he could lick his wounds in peace.

He trailed his fingers lightly along the spines of books, careful not to put pressure on his burned palms.

The titles were etched in gold or silver, some in languages he couldn’t read, others worn smooth by time until they were merely textured ridges beneath his fingertips.

Most seemed to be histories or ledgers, dull accounting of noble lineages and territorial disputes. He moved deeper into the library, drawn by some instinct he couldn’t name. The shard against his chest grew warmer, its pulse quickening slightly as if sensing something of interest.

In a section where the dust lay thickest, his fingers brushed against a spine that felt different from the others, not the smooth leather of noble bindings, but something rougher, more weathered. He paused, running his fingertips across it again.

The book was bound in leather that had once been dyed blue, now faded to a shade somewhere between midnight and ash. No title adorned its spine, only a simple embossed symbol, a circle containing nine curved lines radiating outward like the petals of a stylized flower.

Something about that symbol tugged at him. Without conscious decision, he pulled the tome from its resting place, a small cloud of dust rising as it came free.

The weight of it in his hands felt significant somehow, as if he held something more substantial than mere paper and ink.

He carried it to the nearest pool of candlelight, settling onto a worn reading bench. The cover bore the same symbol as the spine, but larger, more detailed. Beneath it, in faded silver lettering, were words in an elegant script: "The Nine Petals of the Blade."

The shard pulsed once, sharper than before, a flare of heat against his skin. Valenna’s presence sharpened in his mind, her attention focusing like sunlight through glass.

Soren opened the book carefully, mindful of his injured hands. The first page contained only a single line of text:

"To master the Nine Petals is to dance with death itself. Only those who understand that life and death are one may proceed."

He turned the page, and his breath caught.

Spread across the next two pages were intricate diagrams showing a swordsman moving through a series of positions.

The illustrations were unlike any training manual he’d seen before, not stiff, formal sketches, but fluid lines that somehow conveyed movement despite being static on the page.

Beneath each diagram, notes in a cramped hand detailed foot positioning, weight distribution, blade angle.

This was a sword style, but unlike any taught in the training yards. Where Kaelor’s methods were brutal and direct, these movements spoke of elegance and deadly precision.

Each stance flowed into the next like water, the blade an extension of the body rather than a tool forced to obey.

Soren turned page after page, absorbing the detailed instructions for the first form..."The Seed Awakens"...then the second..."Root Seeking Earth"...and the third..."Stem Rising." The fourth form, "Bud Unfurling," involved a complex spiral movement that seemed to create openings while simultaneously defending against them.

The fifth, "First Petal Opens," showed a strike so precisely angled that it would slip between ribs with minimal resistance.

And then... nothing.

The diagrams stopped abruptly mid-page. The remainder of the book, nearly half its thickness, contained only blank pages, as if the scribe had abandoned his work without warning. Soren flipped through them, searching for any continuation, any hint of the remaining forms, but found only emptiness.

’Crude. Incomplete,’ Valenna’s voice whispered in his mind, startling him after her long silence. ’He died blind before the final flower opened.’

The shard against his chest flared hot, pulsing in a rhythm that matched his quickened heartbeat. He felt her presence expand within him, sharper and more defined than ever before.

’You know this style,’ he thought back at her, not a question but a realization.

’I know what it became,’ she replied, her voice carrying an edge of satisfaction he’d rarely heard. ’What it was meant to be.’

The shard pulsed harder, each beat sending a wave of warmth through his chest. It felt almost as if it wanted to move his hands, to guide his fingers to trace patterns in the air.

"Show me," he whispered aloud, the words barely disturbing the library’s silence.

The world shifted.

He was still sitting on the bench, the book open before him, but now Valenna’s presence filled his mind completely. Through his eyes, she looked down at the diagrams, and he felt her disdain for their limitations.

Then, like water flowing into a parched riverbed, knowledge poured into him. Not as diagrams or written instructions, but as living movement.

In his mind’s eye, he saw a warrior moving through forms that existed beyond the fifth petal, the blade weaving patterns that seemed impossible yet inevitable, like wind made visible, like water given purpose.

The sixth form, "Second Petal Unfolds", showed a feint so subtle it was nearly invisible, drawing the opponent’s guard high while preparing a low strike.

The seventh, "Third Petal Reveals", involved a pivot that placed the swordsman at his enemy’s blind spot, blade perfectly positioned to sever spine from skull.

The eighth, "Garden in Bloom", was a defensive form that turned an opponent’s momentum against them, creating openings where none should exist.

And the ninth, "Final Petal Falls", was a killing stroke of such perfect geometry that it could not be parried, could not be evaded, could only be accepted as one accepts the inevitability of winter after autumn.

Soren’s breath quickened as the knowledge settled into him, his muscles tensing and relaxing as if rehearsing the movements without actually performing them. The shard pulsed harder, faster, until it seemed to beat in perfect synchrony with his heart.

’This is what they hide from common blades,’ Valenna whispered, satisfaction dripping from each word. ’This is what nobles hoard for themselves, doling out scraps of knowledge to keep the masses weak.’

Soren looked down at the book again, seeing now how incomplete it truly was. The diagrams were shadows of the true forms, pale imitations of the deadly art Valenna had just revealed.

’The man who wrote this never mastered beyond the fifth form,’ she continued. ’He recorded what he knew, but died before learning the true heart of the style.’

"And you’re giving it to me," Soren thought, still stunned by the download of knowledge. "All of it."

’I give you what is rightfully yours,’ she replied, her voice cooling to its usual measured tone. ’A blade that knows its purpose is far more useful than one that does not.’

He closed the book carefully, his burned palms forgotten in the wake of this revelation. As he slid it back into its place on the shelf, he felt the weight of what had just happened settle over him.

The book had given him fragments. Valenna had given him wholeness.

He stood alone in the library’s dim glow, fists clenched at his sides despite the pain. The shard still burned faintly in his chest, but differently now, not with the heat of activation, but with the steady warmth of knowledge transferred, of secrets shared.

In the shadows between the towering shelves, Soren Thorne stood perfectly still, the realization washing over him like cold water: he now carried a weapon that no noble tutor would ever teach, a sword style that had died centuries ago.

A style that could kill even those who thought themselves untouchable.