Scarred hands

The phantom tingle of manipulated energy still danced along Adam’s nerves as he followed the tide of students out of the rune-lit chamber and into the echoing chaos of the combat arena. The shift was jarring from hushed concentration to the sharp clang of steel, shouted commands, and the gritty scent of sand churned by dozens of feet. Storm pressed tightly against Adam's calf, feathers ruffled, letting out a low, displeased caw at the sudden assault on his senses.
The arena was vast, its floor covered in packed, pale sand, lit by high windows streaming dusty sunlight. Weapons racks lined the stone walls, bristling with practice swords, spears, daggers, and stranger implements. Instructor Garrick, a man whose thick neck seemed fused to broad shoulders, stood at the center, his voice a gravelly boom cutting through the din."Form up! Swords east quadrant! Spears north! Daggers and short blades west! Move!"
Students flowed into their groups with familiar ease. Adam hesitated, his hand instinctively touching the worn hilt of his short sword at his hip. Lira appeared beside him, already securing the buckles on her heavy, rune-etched leather gauntlets. Scorch marks marred the leather, and faint silver sigils pulsed dimly along the knuckles. "Sword-bearers for you, new blood," she said, nudging him towards a group where blades were already circling. "Try not to look too lost. Garrick prefers competence over casualties." She flashed a grin before heading towards the west quadrant where students with daggers and punching daggers were pairing off.
Adam joined the sword group, his movements stiff and deliberate compared to the fluid exchanges around him. Across the sand, he saw Lira square up against a stocky girl wielding weighted cestus. Lira's style was a blur she didn't block a heavy punch,she flowed around it, her left gauntlet flaring blue as it deflected the blow while her right shot forward in a piston-straight jab that stopped a hair's breadth from the girl's nose. The girl stumbled back, eyes wide. Lira bounced lightly, beckoning. "Again, Mara!"
Adam's own sparring partner a wiry boy with a practiced smirk lunged. Adam parried, the impact jarring his wrist. Storm cawed sharply from the sidelines.
Focus, Adam chided himself. Watch the hips, not the blade. He managed a better block, then a clumsy thrust that forced his opponent back a step. Surprise flickered across the boy’s face.
As Adam reset his stance, his gaze drifted past the flashing swords, past Lira’s whirling defense, to the very back corner of the arena, near the heavy doors.
There, leaning against the sun-warmed stone, was a boy. He wasn't paired with anyone. He held no weapon. Instead, he moved through a series of slow, deliberate forms pure hand-to-hand combat. Punches extended with controlled power. Kicks snapped out with precise balance. Sweat darkened the simple sleeveless tunic stretched over lean muscle. He looked their age, maybe fifteen, but possessed a stillness that felt unnerving, older.
It was the scar that truly caught Adam's eye, though it wasn't dramatic from a distance. A faint, pale line started just below his right ear. It traced a thin, deliberate path down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his tunic. You had to be looking closely to see it, a whisper of violence etched onto otherwise unmarked skin. It gave his quiet presence an edge, a hidden story.
He moved with the economical grace of someone utterly comfortable in their body, yet completely apart from the bustling class. Other students instinctively gave his corner a wide berth. No one spoke to him. Few even glanced his way. He was an island of quiet intensity in the noisy sea of training.
Adam's distraction was costly. His opponents wooden practice sword cracked hard against his shoulder. Pain flared. Adam grunted, stumbling back.
"Pay attention, village boy," the wiry student sneered.
Storm let out another sharp, warning caw.
Before Adam could recover, Instructor Garrick's whistle shredded the air – one piercing blast.
"HOLD!"
Instantly, the clash of weapons ceased. Students froze, lowering their arms. Even the boy in the back corner stopped his movements, straightening from his lean against the wall. Standing fully upright, he was tall, leanly muscled rather than bulky, radiating a contained readiness. His dark eyes, previously distant, fixed intently on Garrick.
Garrick's gaze swept the arena like a hawk's. "Sword group less flailing, more control! Spears, tighten up! Wordin!" His eyes snapped to Lira. "Stop showing off. If Mara can't counter that jab, drill it until she can. Stop wasting time."
Mara flushed red. Lira just shrugged, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "Understood, sir."
Garrick’s eyes then found the boy at the back. A flicker of appraisal crossed his stern features. "Kael."
Kael took a silent step forward, acknowledging the summons.
Garrick jerked his thumb towards Adam. "Newcomer. Adam. Show him the basics of stance and footwork. Sparring partner." His tone left no room for discussion. "Rest of you, pair up again! Go!"
A ripple of surprise went through the nearby students. Adam saw his previous opponent’s smirk widen slightly. Lira shot Adam a quick, unreadable look before turning back to Mara.
Kael walked forward. His steps on the sand were utterly silent. He stopped before Adam, perhaps a head taller, his dark eyes sweeping over him with unnerving focus, lingering for a fraction of a second on the sword at Adam’s hip, then on Storm, still ruffled near Adam's feet. Adam felt scrutinized, assessed down to his bones. Kael's gaze was intense but devoid of malice or curiosity purely observational. Up close, the scar was indeed faint, a thin, pale line like a thread sewn into his skin, running down his neck and vanishing beneath his collar. It spoke of a healed wound, not a fresh one, but its presence on someone so young was jarring.
"Position," Kael said, his voice low and quiet, yet cutting through the renewed sounds of sparring around them. It wasn't a request.
Adam shifted his feet into the basic guard stance left foot forward, knees slightly bent, weight balanced.
Kael circled him slowly, once. "Too wide. Feet closer. You're rooted, not spread." He tapped Adam's forward ankle lightly with his own foot. "Here." Adam adjusted. "Better. Shoulders down. Blade tip higher." Kael's instructions were clipped, efficient. He didn't touch Adam, but his presence was an undeniable pressure. "Move. Forward step. Back step. Pivot."
Adam complied, mimicking the steps under Kael's watchful gaze. It was strangely intense, this silent instruction. Kael offered no praise, only precise corrections. "Left foot drags. Smooth. Weight shift."
Storm watched Kael warily, letting out a soft, questioning chirp. Kael's eyes flickered to the drake, but his expression didn't change.
"Now," Kael said, settling into a loose, ready stance himself, empty hands held loosely at his sides. His focus was entirely on Adam. "Attack. Basic thrust."
Adam hesitated for only a second, then lunged forward, aiming the wooden blade at Kael's chest.
Kael moved. Not with blinding speed, but with impossible economy. He shifted his weight subtly, his torso twisting just enough that the blade tip passed harmlessly by his ribs. His left hand snapped out, not striking Adam, but lightly tapping the inside of Adam's sword wrist. "Open."
Adam pulled back, reset.
"Again."
Adam thrust. Kael flowed aside, his movement minimal, his foot sliding silently in the sand. His hand tapped Adam’s elbow this time. "Extended. Vulnerable."
Again. And again. Each time, Kael avoided the blade with infuriating ease, his counter-touch landing on a vulnerable point shoulder, ribs, knee always light, always precise, always accompanied by a single word diagnosing the flaw: "Telegraphed." "Off-balance." "Eyes down."
It was humbling. Adam's own training felt rough and untutored compared to this silent, effortless precision. Kael wasn't just teaching stance and footwork; he was demonstrating how to see an opponent, how to read intention in the shift of weight, the angle of a shoulder. And he saw everything.
Adam flexed his stinging shoulder, sweat trickling down his temple, meeting Kael's unwavering gaze. The faint scar seemed like a pale question mark against his skin. Who was this quiet, scarred boy who moved like shadow and saw like a hawk? And why did Garrick pair them?
Storm nudged Adam's leg, pulling his focus back. Kael was already resetting, waiting. The lesson wasn't over. Adam tightened his grip on the practice sword, pushing down his frustration. He had much to learn, and his new teacher, this silent, scarred observer, wasn't going to make it easy.