A Blade That Remembers

Lucian moved first. This time, not like a soldier.

His feet hit the ground hard as he lunged at Garran, but instead of a straightforward slash, he feinted. At the last second, he shifted his grip, angling his sword lower.

Garran reacted.

A flicker of amusement crossed his face as he sidestepped, his sword already coming down to parry—

That was what Lucian had been waiting for.

Instead of finishing his attack, he kicked a pile of dirt straight at Garran's face.

Garran cursed, flinching for a fraction of a second—but a second was all Lucian needed.

Lucian twisted his sword midair, aiming for Garran's exposed side—

CLANG!

A sharp force slammed into Lucian's wrist. His sword was ripped from his grasp, spinning through the air before burying itself in the dirt.

Before he could move, Garran's boot hooked behind his leg.

Lucian crashed onto his back with a heavy thud, the breath knocked out of him.

Garran loomed over him, arms crossed, his sword resting lazily against his shoulder. "Better," he admitted. "But you're still too damn slow."

Lucian groaned, rubbing his wrist. "I almost had you."

"Almost isn't good enough." Garran extended a hand. "Now get up."

Lucian hesitated, then grasped Garran's forearm, pulling himself to his feet. His body ached, but beneath the exhaustion, something burned.

Excitement.

He was learning. He was adapting. He was getting stronger.

For the first time since the fire, he felt something other than grief.

Garran picked up Lucian's sword, examining it. The old steel was chipped and worn, the hilt wrapped in faded leather. He ran his thumb along the edge, then handed it back.

"This blade has seen better days," he remarked.

Lucian took it carefully. "It was my father's."

Garran's gaze flickered. He didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, with a nod, he turned away. "A blade that remembers."

Lucian frowned. "What?"

Garran walked toward their makeshift camp. "A sword carries the weight of its wielder. Memories, victories, failures. When you fight, your blade remembers."

Lucian looked down at his sword. The last thing he had from his father.

Garran dropped onto a log near the firepit and stretched. "That being said, yours is a little pathetic."

Lucian's eye twitched. "You just said a blade carries memories."

"Yeah. That doesn't mean it shouldn't be sharp."

Lucian sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. His body ached, and his mind swam with everything he'd learned. Garran was brutal, but he was right.

He had spent his entire life thinking he knew how to fight. Now, he was realizing how wrong he had been.

Lucian sat down across from Garran, watching the fire crackle.

Silence stretched between them. The longest they had gone without an insult or a bruise.

Then Garran spoke. "You want revenge."

Lucian didn't answer immediately. He didn't need to.

Garran leaned forward, gaze sharp. "Tell me something, kid. When the time comes, when you stand face-to-face with that bastard in white armor—"

He tilted his head. "Are you going to hesitate?"

Lucian's fingers tightened around his sword.

I hesitated before. I lost everything because I wasn't strong enough.

"No," he said, his voice firm.

Garran watched him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smirked.

"Good," he said, tossing Lucian an apple from his pack. "Eat. You're useless to me if you drop dead before the real training begins."

Lucian caught it, scowling. "This wasn't real training?"

Garran grinned, teeth flashing in the firelight.

"Oh, kid," he said. "That was the warm-up."

Lucian swallowed hard.

Tomorrow, the real hell would begin.