Chapter 31: Whispered Blades (Part I)

The academy grounds shimmered under the gold kiss of a late autumn sun. Marble statues of nameless heroes lined the colonnades, and sparring students shouted, blades clashing against practice armor. Clive stood among them, just another initiate of the Swordbearer's Academy—muscles taut, back straight, his fingers wrapped around a dulled training blade. His black hair was longer then, tied at the base of his neck, and the sharpness in his gaze was yet untempered by grief.

He had come from the southern edge of Darswich, from a fishing village that had no name beyond the one locals gave it. The kind of place that the world forgot, where even the roads refused to stay paved. His father had been a blacksmith. Not a renowned one, just a tired man with big hands and a strong back, who'd spent more years shaping horseshoes than swords. But Clive had seen what his father could do when he thought no one was watching—those brief moments when he pulled raw beauty from steel.

Clive had no dreams of nobility or fame. He wanted only to understand the blade. Not just how to use it, but how to live by it.

The day he was chosen for the Academy had been like any other until the messenger came.

It was during the Festival of Falling Leaves. He'd entered the village dueling ring—a patch of dirt surrounded by crates, with the prize being an old longsword that once belonged to a traveling knight. He won the bout with stubborn footwork and a single lucky sweep that caught his opponent off balance.

The man watching from the shadows wore a dull grey cloak and bore no sigils. But his eyes were like sharpened glass. He approached Clive after the fight, ignoring the cheers.

"Where did you learn to hold your breath between parries?"

Clive blinked. "I... didn't know I was."

"Instinct like that doesn't come from nowhere. What's your name?"

"Clive." He hesitated. "Just Clive."

"Not anymore. Pack your things. You're coming with me."

His name was Rael Fenrick, and he was one of the instructors at the Swordbearer's Academy. A former knight of the Old Flame. And, as Clive would come to learn, a man both feared and loved within the Academy's quiet halls.

The journey took them over two weeks. Along the way, Rael did not ask about Clive's family or his reasons. He asked only about his stance, his rhythm, the first time he ever touched steel. Clive answered as best he could. Rael never smiled, but he nodded a lot. That was something.

When they arrived, the Academy was not what Clive had expected.

It was no shining citadel or tower. Instead, it sprawled along a windswept cliffside, a series of stone buildings wrapped in ivy and firelight. Wind howled through its open courtyards, and every wall seemed to carry the weight of history. There were students everywhere, most older, some younger. All dressed in muted blues and greys, all moving with the calculated grace of those who had been taught to bleed properly.

His first test was simple: stand for one hour without moving while holding a practice sword above his head.

By minute thirty, his arms were on fire. By minute fifty, he'd bitten his own tongue in pain. By the end, his knees were trembling, and his vision had started to tunnel. But he hadn't fallen.

Rael had stood nearby, watching.

"You don't know how to fight yet," Rael said after. "But you know how to suffer. That's rarer."

Clive's days became a blur of drills, cold baths, early mornings, and sleepless nights. He learned footwork on stone paths, balance on rope bridges, and control by swinging wooden blades until his fingers bled. The Academy did not tolerate complaint. There were no leniencies, no coddling. Every mistake was punished not cruelly, but precisely. Clive found comfort in the clarity of its expectations.

But even in that ruthless crucible, he was not alone.

His first and only real friend at the Academy was Tarsen Vo, a boy from the capital with a noble bearing and a wry sense of humor. Where Clive was quiet and methodical, Tarsen was loud and clever. He fought like a dancer, spinning through duels with a grin and a wink, and he never passed up an opportunity to tease Clive for his seriousness.

"You know you're allowed to blink during training, right? Gods, Clive, if you keep scowling like that, the stone will start to copy your face."

Despite their differences, they shared one thing: neither had been born into privilege. And they both burned with the need to prove they belonged.

"You're going to make Swordhand one day," Tarsen told him during their third winter. They were lying beneath the stars, blades resting nearby after a particularly brutal night session.

Clive stared up at the constellations, muscles aching. "I don't want rank. I want to understand the sword. I want to be... right."

Tarsen chuckled. "You and your impossible standards. Maybe that's why Rael likes you."

Clive turned to him. "He doesn't like anyone."

"Exactly. That makes you special."

Rael, for his part, remained a distant figure. But every now and then, when no one else was watching, he offered guidance.

"Your strikes are clean," he once said after watching Clive defeat three students in a mock melee. "But you hold back. You fight like you're asking for permission."

"I don't want to hurt them."

"Then don't draw a sword."

Rael's mentorship was not tender, but it was consistent. When others dismissed Clive as too quiet or too focused, Rael pushed him harder. By Clive's second year, he was studying advanced techniques meant for fourth-years. He learned about pressure points, the physics of armor, and the history of blade resonance—a subject that fascinated him more than anything else.

It was during one of these late-night sessions in the academy's Echo Hall—a library built inside a hollowed-out cliff—that Clive first encountered an ancient text about Veil trials and sword spirits. He read until his vision blurred.

Rael found him there.

"You're looking in places most fear to tread."

"I want to understand what makes a sword more than metal."

Rael nodded. "Then be prepared to pay in more than blood."

Clive never forgot that.

By the end of his third year, Clive had earned his place. Students who once overlooked him now watched him warily. He had a quiet reputation: not the fastest, not the strongest—but the most unyielding.

And it was in that final season—when the cherry trees near the main hall began to shed their pink leaves like soft rain—that a new student arrived.

She would change everything.

But that was another story.

For now, Clive remained focused. His sword, dull from practice, rested across his back. Tarsen had just challenged him to another round, and Rael was watching from the edge of the yard.

The wind picked up.

And the boy who would one day become a weapon, stepped forward to meet the blade.