Chapter 8: Blades and Bonds
Chapter 8: Blades and Bonds
The rhythmic clang of blades echoed through the private sparring hall of House Agares. Torches lined the stone walls, casting flickering light upon the polished obsidian floors.
The sharp scent of steel filled the air as Volundr parried another strike, sweat beading on his brow. This was his fourth duel of the day—none for show.
"Again," he commanded, stepping back and resetting his stance.
His opponent, a seasoned devil knight named Vardel, grunted in acknowledgment and lunged forward. Their weapons met with a metallic crash, sparks flying.
Volundr moved with fluid control—every motion a dance of intent and calculation.
He was only nine, but moved with the presence of someone thrice his age.
His eyes saw angles and vulnerabilities. His muscles, still developing, moved as if sculpted for battle.
"Your instincts are unnatural for your age,"
Vardel muttered after the final bout ended with Volundr's spear at his throat.
"They're earned," Volundr said, breathing hard. "Not gifted."
Vardel bowed. "Then you're earning them faster than most."
Volundr nodded once and turned to leave, muscles aching but heart calm. Every lesson, every bruise, was a brick in the fortress he was building.
And while others his age still clung to childhood comforts, he wielded weapons and wielded will.
That evening, Seekvaira approached him in the library, where the scent of old parchment mingled with the soft crackle of fireplace embers.
"Brother, can you help me with this?" she asked, holding up a tome on spatial folding techniques.
He smiled gently and took the book. "You're trying to reach second-tier theory already?"
"I want to catch up," she said proudly.
"You're doing more than well. You're five years ahead of most. Remember, magic is more than force—it's rhythm and comprehension."
She beamed at the praise and settled beside him to study. The flickering firelight danced across their pages as they whispered over runes and glyphs.
Volundr found moments like these grounding. With Seekvaira, he didn't have to be the tactician or the warrior. He could be her brother—the one she leaned on, not because of his strength, but because of their bond.
Their bond had grown stronger since his Aura began influencing her. Unlike others, their connection wasn't just proximity—it was purpose. A unity of vision.
He noticed how Seekvaira, though three years younger than him, now held a confidence rarely seen in noble children. Not arrogance, but certainty.
In a secluded chamber beneath the estate, Volundr met with Claudius and Lirien. A new topic had risen—ancient devil combat styles lost after the Great War.
"We've gathered fragments," Lirien said, spreading scrolls across the table. "Mostly ceremonial or referenced in poetry."
Volundr scanned the texts. "We don't need the complete styles. We need the intent behind them. Recreate the purpose, and we rebuild the form."
Claudius raised a brow. "You think like a general."
"I think like a survivor," Volundr replied. "The Underworld will face change. Those who adapt—will rule."
They spent hours reconstructing movements, imagining how long-dead ancestors fought in shadowed wars. Volundr experimented, melding old principles with modern devil martial arts and even Senjutsu meditation techniques he was learning.
His hands, already calloused from constant training, now moved with an artistry born of fusion—not mimicry.
Through sweat and study, he was beginning to shape something uniquely his.
That week, he received a letter—a formal invitation to a gathering hosted by Lord Bael. It would be attended by the heirs of several noble families.
Volundr read the letter twice, mind ticking.
"A test," he said to himself. "And a game."
The event would place him in the same room as Sairaorg for the first time.
He folded the letter and tucked it away.
He had heard the stories—of how Sairaorg Bael, despite being the rightful heir, had no magic. Yet the young Bael carved his path through sheer grit and relentless training.
A year younger than Volundr, but already earning whispers of respect.
When the day came, Volundr stood tall in ceremonial robes trimmed with midnight blue and silver.
Seekvaira watched with wide eyes as he adjusted the clasp of his cloak.
"Will you make allies?" she asked.
"I'll make observations," he replied. "And if allies appear, I'll earn them."
The gathering was held in a grand marble hall beneath a glass dome where magic-enhanced starlight shimmered above.
Young nobles mingled—some already bearing the arrogance of their lineage, others wearing the anxiety of unproven heirs.
Volundr spotted Sairaorg from across the room—taller, broad-shouldered, his eyes burning with determination. The two hadn't met in person, but their Aura threads had pulsed in tandem for weeks.
Later, Volundr also crossed paths with a young Sona Sitri—sharp-eyed, already dissecting conversations around her. She gave Volundr a measured glance, clearly calculating.
"I've heard of you," she said.
"Then you know not to underestimate me," he replied.
She smiled slightly. "I never underestimate variables."
Their exchange was brief but left both with impressions.
Volundr noted the age difference—Sona, barely seven, yet already absorbing political nuance like a sponge.
It was impressive.
He also glimpsed Rias Gremory, toddling behind her mother—also seven year old, but already a symbol of legacy. The age gaps between them were like chapters of a book yet to be written.
That night, back at the Agares estate, Volundr meditated beneath the moon. Threads of Limitless Aura connected him to Seekvaira, to Sairaorg, and even a faint spark now to Sona.
Each bond was not just a tether—it was a vow.
"I will forge a future," he whispered. "Not just for me, but for all who believe."
His hands rested on his knees, but his will stretched beyond.
The blades he wielded were more than steel. They were resolve.
And his bonds were his armor.
He had no evil pieces yet. No peerage. No special training grounds. But he had allies. And that was the foundation upon which kings were born.
End of Chapter 8