Mordhun, the Unstoppable

The Krastas College of War. January 7, 1435.

Piercers clashed with high-pitched rings. Eralia watched as the second trial proceeded. It was cutthroat, a competitor would claw out a victory, only to be eliminated by their very next opponent. That was, until Mordhun.

“Another victory for Mordhun Rustes!” The loser’s piercer clattered to the gravel.

A drop of blood fell from their lips and froze before it even touched the floor.

From the sidelines, Eralia had been studying Mordhun’s matches. As much as she despised the young noble, he was undoubtedly skilled. Every single movement felt intentional, as though he had practised it a thousand times over. He very well might have. The instructors of House Rustes had likely drilled those same techniques into him since he could walk.

“Next, Eralia Adeus!” Instructor Pruatt raised his piercer.

Of course. Eralia stuffed down a sigh. I had hoped another disciple would eliminate him first.

She approached the duelling arena. The pit’s frozen gravel crunched under her feet. Mordhun already waited in the centre, perfectly poised. His breath came out in steady clouds.

The next trial… So it comes down to this.

“Adeus.” Mordhun gave his piercer a twirl. “To an honourable match.”

She accepted her own weapon from their instructor. The alloy felt as heavy as lead in her hand, and its hilt was cold to the touch.

“We’ll see.” She settled and raised the blade to her waist.

“Begin!” Pruatt’s arm shot up.

Mordhun advanced with steady footsteps. First, a probe at her right arm. It was fast. Unbelievably so. His blade disappeared and became a blur. A crackling shield of manra flared to meet it. Before it had even dissipated, he had already struck again.

She deflected a high blow with another instantaneous barrier. In a straight-on duel, I lose. This isn’t pessimism, it’s a mathematical certainty.

He prodded the edges of her defense like a sheet of ice, searching for a crack.

Eralia squinted against the low sun. She kept her footwork nimble and unpredictable, kicking up gravel as she danced one end of the pit to the other.

Mordhun’s probes quickened into a barrage of strikes. He attacked high, and she immediately parried. He attacked low. Her barriers appeared a fraction of a second later, just for him to flow right into another swing.

He’s denying my distance with constant pressure. He’s paying attention.

Mordhun was no fool, he wouldn’t be lulled into a battle of attrition so easily. Not that I was trying to, though.

He feinted low, a swift jab at her legs. Eralia sidestepped, letting the attack whistle past. Her piercing sword swayed ever-so-slightly, and his eyes flashed. Perfect.

I’ll bait the low strike… Mordhun lunged, tossing dust as he dropped his body to the ground.

There.

She channelled manra down her leg, forming a small barrier directly in his path. It wasn’t to defend, it was to trip him. Her sword arm tensed for the finishing blow.

His boot met the trap, just as she’d planned.

But his momentum continued forward. His left hand slammed into the gravel, skittering pebbles as his right foot pivoted against her barrier. He’d turned her trap into a foothold, swinging his entire body around to land behind her side.

“Clever.” His sword’s pommel flew towards her stomach.

Damn it. She twisted her torso, only narrowly catching the blow. The pommel crashed into her guard. Metal clanged on metal with a jolt that shot straight up her arm, sending her staggering back.

Her entire arm was left buzzing. The grip on her weapon loosened as her fingers turned numb. This isn’t about skill anymore.

Before her balance could even recover, he swung again. His piercer hissed past her ear, its icy steel slicing into her cheek.

Her free hand found her face and traced the cut, blood smearing her fingertips.

It’s just a contest of strength.

She lowered her blade, still pristine, not a single scratch on it. “I yield.”

Across the pit, Mordhun panted, his piercer still raised. The crowd’s roars trailed off into confused murmurs.

“Eralia Adeus, eliminated!” Pruatt’s voice rang out.

She met Mordhun’s gaze as he lowered his sword. His chest heaved, sweat glueing dark hair to his forehead.

“Why!?” His voice was strained. “You’d yield so soon?”

“The fight was over.” Eralia gave a thin smile. “I’d rather save my strength for the next trial.”

“That’s—” His face tightened. “Hmph. A charming excuse.”

“A practical decision, Rustes.” She turned away. “Enjoy your victory.”

Eralia half-expected a retort, but none came. She felt his eyes burning into her back, alongside those of the entire audience. She stepped out from the arena and into the crowd of disciples.

“...Without a single attack?”

Their whispers were indistinct murmurs behind her. Wool brushed against her sleeve as the onlookers parted, some faces pitiful, others satisfied.

Her shoulder still ached from the impact. She flexed her sword hand. Mordhun… You’re anything but a slouch.

Her gaze climbed the stands, towards the noble spectators. Above, the College’s Grand Master, Ochist Vellen, studied the duelling arena. And beside him, decorated in half-plate armour and heavy furs, sat the Warden of the Marches, Mordhun’s father. His attention was fixed entirely on his son.

A stout captain beside Warden Rustes chuckled. “An Adeus through and through.”

The Warden shook his head slowly. “Lady Adeus was a respectable woman.” His voice was deep and proud. “Though her mother’s talents were in the market squares and assembly halls, not the arena. A pity.”

Vellen breathed on his signet, polishing it with the corner of his cape. “A pity,” he murmured. “I’m not sure.”

She turned her attention back to the pit, where Mordhun was conversing with Pruatt. Mordhun’s gaze darted towards the disciples before the two men separated, though she didn’t have to follow it to know who he had been looking for. The same disciple had become the object of her attention as well, though not in the same way.

Mordhun was a fool, after all. A competent one, sure, but a fool nonetheless, just as every highborn noble was. To Mordhun, that disciple must’ve been something of an imbalance.

Close, but it’d be more accurate to say she had the power to tear down the scales entirely. And in the aftermath, Eralia would be the one to finally walk free.

She pushed through the crowd towards a flash of auburn.

* * *

The Krastas College of War. January 7, 1435.

Laufa clutched the ice-cold stena in her palm.

Her eyes dropped to the scuffed leather of her boots. A shudder ran through the disciple next to her. On second thought, it might’ve actually been her.

Mordhun whispered to their instructor from the duelling arena. That pit felt like it was miles away. For a second, she thought he’d glanced at her. But she’d probably imagined it.

Instructor Pruatt turned, leaning on his piercer braced against the ground, and scanned the disciples from across the amphitheatre.

Pruatt’s eyes locked onto hers. “Laufa, to the arena!”

Okay, so I hadn’t imagined it.

I’m done for. Eralia had seemed so graceful out there, and she still lost. Laufa would get completely demolished. There was no chance.

The air felt thin. Her fingers had gone numb. They tightened around the gemstone, her feet refusing to budge.

Everyone’s watching. Everyone’s going to see me lose. What if he hurts me? I can’t—

Laufa was trembling when a firm hand pressed down on her shoulder.

“Ack!” She jumped.

It was Eralia.

“Follow me.”

Before Laufa could respond, Eralia seized her wrist and dragged her aside.

Eralia’s grip was tight, her fingers uncomfortably cold. Threatening. It should’ve felt threatening… Why doesn’t it?

Laufa’s boots scraped against the tiled stone as she stumbled after her. “Wh—What are you doing!?”

Eralia pulled her into a weapons rack. The smells of steel and grease filled Laufa’s lungs. Dozens of swords lined the varnished shelves, some rusted, others gleaming and spotless.

“Do you believe you can win?” Eralia finally released Laufa.

“Huh!?” Laufa tore her hand free.

Eralia took a half-step forward, pinning her against the rack. “I said, do you believe you can win?”

The row of swords rattled behind Laufa. “No. No way!” The chill of the blades bit into her back.

Laufa shook her head wildly. “He’s way stronger, he’s better trained, he’s—“

“I agree.” Eralia brought her face an inch from hers, her eyes creepily still.

Eralia’s breath, strangely warm, brushed Laufa’s cheek. For a moment, Laufa noticed something different about Eralia’s eyes. Like her usual sharp, calculating gaze had been replaced by something closer to curiosity.

Then, Laufa registered what the noble girl had actually said.

“—He’s… What!?” Metal clanged as she shoved herself from the rack. “Then why’d you drag me here!?”

“I agree he’s stronger.” The corners of Eralia’s mouth lifted. “But there are other ways you can win.”