Chapter 9: The Shadow's Guidance

The announcement of the three-day reprieve echoed through the courtyard—a curious blend of relief and mounting tension. The semi-finals were over. Kael Dergovia, unsurprisingly, had dispatched his opponent with ruthless efficiency, barely breaking a sweat. Liam had watched the match, a cold knot of dread tightening in his stomach. While part of him welcomed the chance to rest and prepare, another part of him yearned for an end—to confront his fate and be done with it.

On the first day, Liam drifted in a haze of exhaustion and nervous energy. He wandered the keep, purposefully avoiding the jubilant feasts and raucous gatherings of the other families. The training yard, once a place of solace, now felt haunted by the specter of his impending match. He wasn't strong like his siblings, and in his father's eyes, he felt like a disappointment. What am I even doing here?, he wondered. Training? Resting? It all seemed pointless. Every step was laden with the fear that one wrong move might shatter everything. Only one clear, inner voice cut through the noise: "Train…". Clinging to that command, Liam set off into the night, determined to prepare himself.

Late that evening, while the keep slept, Liam found himself drawn back to a secluded, abandoned corner of the training yard, overshadowed by the crumbling remains of an old watchtower. He needed to practice, to move, to somehow burn off the restless energy churning inside him.

He drew his practice longsword. The steel felt cold, unfamiliar. He went through the forms, movements ingrained in him since childhood, but they felt stiff, mechanical, lacking the fluidity and power he needed. He tried to incorporate Van's advice, focusing on footwork, on using his opponent's momentum, but it felt futile. He was facing Kael Dergovia.

Frustration flared. In a burst of anger, he slammed his sword against a training dummy, splintering the wood. He knew he wasn't ready. He was sure he was going to lose.

"Troubled, young Volgunder?" a soft voice asked from the shadows.

Liam spun around, his hand instinctively going to his sword's hilt. At the edge of the darkness stood a man he had never seen before.

The stranger was tall and lean—almost as slight as Liam himself—but his presence exuded a coiled, wiry strength. A shock of red hair streaked with grey fell to his shoulders, framing a weathered face etched by years of experience. Yet it was his piercing blue eyes—intelligent and unerringly observant—that struck Liam most. The man wore no armor, no family crest, and his simple tunic bore no mark of loyalty nor a star rank.

Liam hesitated, his hand still on his hilt. "Who are you?" he demanded, his tone sharper than he intended.

A faint, melancholic smile played on the stranger's lips. "A friend," he replied quietly. "Or, at least, I hope to be." He stepped forward with silent, fluid grace—like a predator stalking its prey. "I have been watching you, Liam Volgunder, and I see… potential."

Liam's brow furrowed. "Potential? I'm the weakest swordsman in my family. I barely scraped through my last two matches."

"Strength isn't everything," the man said, his tone calm yet authoritative. "There are other ways to fight, other paths to victory."

"And you think you can teach me those ways—in three days?" Liam asked, skepticism lacing his words.

The stranger shrugged lightly. "I can offer guidance. Whether you accept it—and whether you can learn it—is up to you." He paused, studying Liam intently with those piercing blue eyes. "I see something in you, something… different. Something that reminds me of…" His gaze drifted toward the distant mountains.

Liam shifted uneasily. "Who are you, really? I've never seen you before."

With the same sad, knowing smile, the man replied, "Let's just say I'm a friend of the family. A distant relative, perhaps. My name is Brad."

Liam's mind raced. He knew of Van Volgunder, of course, but this Brad was entirely unknown. "Did my father send you?"

Brad hesitated, then shook his head. "Not… directly. Let's just say I work for someone very close to the Volgunders."

A flurry of doubts rose in Liam's mind. If Arthur hadn't sent this man, then who had? And why? Was this a test—or a trap?

"What do you want?" Liam asked, struggling to steady his voice.

"I want to help you," Brad replied simply. "I want to help you survive. And perhaps… even win."

Liam stared at him, doubt clashing with desperation. He did not trust this mysterious stranger, yet he had little choice. Outmatched and outclassed, he was running out of time.

"Why?" Liam pressed, his voice tight. "Are you from another family? A spy? Or…" he hesitated, "…an assassin, maybe?"

Brad's lips twitched in what almost resembled humor before his tone got deep and serious.

"Because," Brad said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "I see your mother in you."

The words struck Liam. "My… mother?"

Brad nodded. "She was… a remarkable woman. Strong, resourceful, courageous. She had a spirit that could not be broken. And I see that same spirit in you, Liam."

Liam was speechless. He had never known his mother; she had died giving birth to him. Only stories remained, whispered tales of her kindness and strength. To hear this stranger speak of her so intimately, so… knowingly… it was unnerving, yet strangely comforting.

"Alright," Liam said, taking a deep breath, his resolve hardening. "Teach me."

"Very well. Let's begin," Brad said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. Stepping closer, his gaze unwavering, he gestured toward Liam's longsword. "First, your weapon. This longsword is not yet suited for you—you lack the strength and reach it demands. You need something faster, more agile."

Liam frowned. "What are you suggesting?"

"Something different—unconventional," Brad continued, holding out a short sword and a small shield he'd apparently retrieved from somewhere nearby. "Your father and your siblings are masters of the longsword. They have the training, the physicality, the years of experience. You… you do not, at least not yet." He paused, letting his words sink in.

"A longsword demands a presence—a confidence to stand your ground. But you possess other strengths, Liam. You're quick, observant, and you have…" he trailed off, his gaze flickering towards Liam's hidden mark for the briefest of moments, "... a certain adaptability."

He gestured with the short sword. "This is faster, lighter. It demands agility, precision. And this…" he tapped the shield, "...this will give you the protection you need. It will allow you to close the distance, to disrupt your opponent's rhythm, to create openings."

Liam looked at the weapons. The idea seemed so wrong, so unorthodox.

"I understand your hesitation," Brad said softly. "This style is not embraced by our keep's traditions. But with your build, it may suit you better—as a close combatant. Just remember what I said to you."

Liam remembered and repeated under his breath, "The greatest swords shatter first before the storm; only those who have bent can survive, what was once ridged must find new and unexpected ways."

Brad offered a small, bittersweet smile. "It won't do any good if you can't even defend yourself."

They worked throughout the rest of the night and into the early morning. Brad was a relentless yet patient instructor. He drilled Liam in the fundamentals, emphasizing speed, agility, and the importance of coordinated attacks and defenses. He corrected Liam's stance, adjusted his footwork, and refined his grip. With every demonstration, Brad showed him how to deflect blows, create openings, and seize opportunities.

Liam struggled at first. The movements felt unnatural; the weight of the new weapons was unfamiliar. He missed parries, stumbled, and left himself open to Brad's (blunted) practice sword far too often. But slowly, he began to improve.

"Better," Brad observed, his voice neutral yet hinting at approval. "But still too slow—too predictable. You need to be like water, Liam. Flow around your opponent's defenses, slip through their gaps, and strike when they least expect it."

Liam nodded, his breath ragged. He was exhausted, but a flicker of hope had been kindled. He was learning.

As the first day wore on, Liam began to grasp the fundamentals, though true mastery was still distant.

Brad stopped him suddenly. "Is there anything else you need, Brad?"

"No," Brad said quietly, "and remember this: if you want to win, you will know when the time comes to use all that I have taught you." He turned his focus from Liam, his eyes to the darkening sky. "If your father, or anyone loyal to his traditions, discovers what you are… they won't approve." He paused, as if considering his words carefully. Then with a sigh. "Now, go. Rest. Prepare your equipment and yourself. I can no longer help you with what comes." He gave a nod and was gone.

Liam watched as Brad disappeared into the growing shadows.

Alone now, Liam continued his practice, determined more.

"That 'frost-step' style… and this chance to do something new… maybe, just maybe…" He muttered as he, once again, took up the short sword and shield. He was alone now. It was time to truly practice.

Afterward, Liam snuck back to a secluded area. Away from judging eyes, he experimented.

"If I can time it right and harness this new power," he whispered, focusing on a precise and well controlled wave "Cold. Steps in action, now… the sword. Two points of contact—a weapon in each hand...now to take something. What to see here for all… let all get together as with just imagine I may have change it!"

Liam continued this intensive training regimen throughout the remaining two days. He worked with Brad whenever the mysterious swordsman appeared, honing his skills, learning silent movement, anticipation, cunning, and strategy. Brad's clipped advice, precise demonstrations, and unwavering expectations pushed him. Despite the gruff exterior, there was an underlying kindness, a true belief in Liam's potential.

And, when he was alone, Liam practiced with the ice.

He focused on applying thin layers of frost to his new weapon and even to the shield's edges. If I time this right... my cold sword might gain an edge—transforming from a one-star weapon into something… more.

The shield posed another challenge entirely. Could he strengthen it with cold? Make it large but lighter, to wield its effects as some may use… Could he use it to freeze an opponent's weapon on contact, even for a split second? He needed power— he'd call it "Ice Gaze". Each attempt, however, left him more drained.

As the final morning dawned, painting the sky in pale grey and icy blue, Liam felt a strange mixture of terror and grim determination. Physically and mentally exhausted, he was also transformed. He had learned new skills, embraced an unconventional style, and taken the first, tentative steps toward wielding a power he scarcely understood. His sword was ready to cut and pierce, his shield a solid bulwark.

He was still Liam Volgunder, harboring secret doubts. But he was more than that now—he was a warrior forging his own path, a survivor carrying hidden strengths.

With newfound, determination blazing. No, "Not as a hero, not as another one of Volgunder's greatest or for anyone but" to change from them he now whisper and walks "It's all for me." His resolve was clear. He knew his fate. What he wanted. For it's only to show himself as Liam.