Dust

The first rays of light flood the high, stone tower's sides, hugging the construction and slowly spilling onto the walled terrain. This would be an outpost like any other, villagers following their morning routine, if not for the occasion stealing their attention.

A curtain of light rises above the fenced meadow, little by little revealing the tip of a sword, followed by the firm grip of a confident young man. His short, brunette hair and stubble barely contrast against his tanned skin. His brown eyes are what truly stand out, showing pure conviction under his frown. He wears a woolen, beige long-sleeve, with a laced-adorned V neck, and dark brown pants. Thanks to his grandfather, he inherited a pair of leather boots he always wears, of a higher quality than all his other clothing.

His long, two-handed sword with a crude leather hilt, while not an artistic masterpiece, serves its purpose without complaints. Trying to divert any unnecessary thoughts, the young man reviews the Stinger Stance, forged into him with relentless training; left foot forward, right foot back, both hands stuck to the waist holding the sword downwards. Check. His small, meta breastplate, covering from his collarbone to the start of his abdomen, tightly fastened. Check. The cold sweat on his forehead. Check.

However, his concern isn't in vain, as his eyes are laid on his opponent's silhouette, the last obstacle in the way of his dream. When the sun finally reaches him, it exposes the six foot two, no, more than six foot five tall figure. His copper beard, reaching his chest, and his fine hair of the same color, brushed back, are the envy of any man his age. Even after decades of service in the Royal Army, his skin remains pale as snow, courtesy of his ancestors, natives from the distant and great mountains in Fjellrike. Thanks to his status as lower royalty, his garments are a myriad of expensive craftsmanship: a gray, cotton shirt, followed by a full chainmail, a red tunic with yellow details and a black surcoat, fastened thanks to a brown, leather belt with a gold buckle. From the waist down, he wears comfortable leggings, tall, black leather boots on top. 

A garnet cape hangs from his shoulders, rocking in the wind, completing his imposing poise, of great complexion and big arms, which rests on the pommel of a broadsword nailed to the ground.

Revered as the biggest sword in the entire Crysaphenius Kingdom, with almost his same height, it displays beautiful gold engravings from the guard all the way to the tip of the hilt, shaped like cross-winged eagle, his house's shield, made from the same material. Many believe he's the only person capable of wielding such a weapon.

There's no doubting the nervousness flowing through the feud's hearts, not many are able to dirty the lord's clothing, even less hogging so much of his time. This scene is once in a lifetime, no villager is crazy enough to do the same as this decided young man.

With the sun now above the tower's top, the improvised arena, a square enclosure, absorbs the crowd's attention. Both participants share sharp gazes.

The final test will begin.

"Seven years."

The giant's deep, rough voice breaks the silence.

"Seven years of hard work and training have passed, all for this very day."

The young man flinches, but manages to answer.

"I've done everything you've asked of me, Lord Everad. I'm ready."

"No, Markus. Only if my sword falls, only if you defeat me, you shall be truly ready."

The sweat on Markus' forehead flows all the way to his cheek, while the lord continues.

"Out there, no one will wait for you to be ready. You'll have to make decisions in the moment, you'll need to be fast and strong."

"I'm not hearing anything you haven't told me before, I know what I have to do." said Markus.

"Impatient as always, boy..."

Everad nails his gaze onto the villager while plucking the massive blade from the ground with apparent ease and placing himself in the Hunt Stance, with both knees well separated and hands close to the waist. His posture, as well as Markus', come from a style of the far Fjellrike, in a language the boy never bothered to learn, only knowing that in his, it's known as the Manticore Style. Everad throws his last taunts.

"Remember well what I've taught you, or have I wasted all my precious time with you?"

Even after countless self-motivating phrases echoing in his head, the lord's words send a chill throughout his bones. He knows how crucial the next moments are, Lord Everad was very clear, multiple times, that this is the only test and it won't be repeated, neither will he show mercy. There won't be another chance to fulfill his goal.

Without sparing time to clean his thoughts, the lord swaps postures, alerting Markus. He runs towards his opponent without thinking twice, making the first mistake of the encounter: getting carried away by instinct. Everad welcomes the charge with a heavy thrust, which Markus very luckily dodges.

The gap in skill is evident; Markus' movements are desperate and doubtful. The difference with Everad resides in speed, that broadsword takes a lot of time and energy to attack with, but it's incredibly powerful when it strikes. Markus' blade is lighter in comparison, which allows him to turn the difference into an advantage, if he can exploit it.

The momentum of the start makes a clear impact in the fight's flow, with the lord maintaining leadership in this deadly dance. None of his efforts are in vain nor to brag, his technique polished to perfection thanks to decades of experience. However, Markus has been keeping an ace up his sleeve for several years now, waiting precisely for this day.

The young man's objective is as established, his master's sword must fall to the ground to win, and the most efficient way to achieve it is to aim for the lord's wield. If he can force him to drop the weapon by attacking his hand, victory is served.

But they both know that, it was Everad himself who set the rules, after all. Markus focuses all of his attacks to the enormous blade's hilt, which are easily predicted by the nobleman. Although the villager is fast and slippery, the lord makes him step back with each clash they have.

Markus parries the strikes as cleanly as he can and uses the knockback time to analyze the situation. Lord Everad has the range advantage, maintaining a determined distance. By not having a shield, he can't get closer at just any given time, he must wait and seize the moment when the nobleman's defense is exposed. Blocking a two-handed sword is already difficult, getting it completely out of the way is crazy, but not impossible. If he manages to break his guard and restrict his already limited mobility, then he can turn the fight around.

Of course, Everad notices Markus' efforts to formulate a strategy and distracts him, putting emphasis on the offensive and forcing him to defend. The young man knows very well that if this keeps up, all his energy will be poured into defending and won't be able to execute any complex offensive...

It's time to put all the cards on the table.

Markus never had any natural-born talent for the art of combat, he doesn't have an enviable physique nor exceptional handwork. But what he is, is attentive. He was already familiar with the lord's reputation when he arrived to his lands seven years ago, and he obtained a true grasp for swordmanship, he realized the immense breach between them. How could he ever match real experience? Much less overcome it and be ready for any kind of situation out there.

That is why he never intended to. Everad had impressed upon him the importance of turning the difference with his opponents into advantages, exploiting any aspect to his favor, and that's exactly what he did. Since he understood this fact, he analyzed every movement of every limb, weight distribution, balance, stance structure, attack's direction and speed, any type of parameter that influences the rhyme and reason of his actions during combat. All this time, Markus wasn't training to defeat his enemies out there; he was training to defeat him. Years of analysis gave him the knowledge of the only crack in Everad Constantine's technique.

The young man breaks his defensive stance and charges at the lord, launching fast, short-distance strikes, but with all his might behind them. The master parries each and every one of them, however, the strength of the last attack was enough to generate a loud vibration between both blades, destabilizing his stance. Everad back-steps slightly to recover, predicting that Markus will take the chance and attack at that instant. To his surprise, his pupil executed exactly the same evasive maneuver as him. Disappointed, the lord was ready to finish the duel once and for all. He raises his sword well above his left shoulder, readying one of his flagship movements, which will send the young man flying back several feet.

Where Everad expected a desperate expression, however, resided only a smug smile. Markus knows that the lord's diagonal slashes have a specific tempo; when he raises the sword to the highest point, there's a small window of time where he lacks enough momentum to quickly lower the weapon, leaving his guard exposed. His plan was always to create a situation in which his master would use this movement.

Instead of guarding and bracing for impact, Markus rushes in and rapidly halves the distance. Everad is sure his student is merely deceiving him, that he will pull away at the last second... but Markus doesn't stop.

Here goes nothing.

Instead of attacking, Markus slides underneath the giant, nailing his sword in the dirt and propelling backwards, launching a powerful kick to the back of Everad's knee. The lord kneels on the wounded leg and pushes his right elbow back, expecting the young one to go for his wield from behind, but Markus surprised him by going around the left side and attacking horizontally with his sword.

But the distance falls short and the blade only manages to cut the straps of the armor, which falls to the ground with a metallic thud. Markus lunges with a knee strike to Everad's unprotected chest, who manages to catch the hit with his free hand and pushes him back, making the young one lose balance and begin to fall.

In a blink, Markus takes his sword by the pummel and throws it with all his strength. It flies in an almost straight line all the way to Everad's right hand, hitting the broadsword's hilt and forcing him to drop it.

The young man falls with his back to the ground, exhausted, while the nobleman catches his breath.

"You've lost" Everad says while he stands up.

Still on the ground, leaning on one arm, Markus asks.

"Did I?"

The lord remains still while he remembers the events that just occurred. His expression completely shifts, high brow and mouth partially open.

"If I remember correctly, the rule was that the first sword to touch the ground loses..." Markus declares with a smile.

Everad glances at his weapon; even though the young man had dropped his sword first, the broadsword is much heavier, adding that the pupil's blade had bounced upwards...

"...and mine was the first to do it" Everad agrees, upsettingly exhaling through his nose. "It seems you're not as useless as you look, boy."

"I had a good teacher."

The lord offers his hand to Markus and raises him with a bit too much force, his stern gaze placed on him once more.

"Congratulations, Markus Grymhart."

The young man's eyes light up, bottling up the impulse to cheer screaming to the winds, while some neighboring villagers clap and whistle. They're rapidly halted thanks to a lethal glance from the land's owner.

A great weight lifts from Markus' shoulders, after all these years, he's finally ready to begin the next stage of the oath he made to himself. However, that's precisely the step that now floods his heart with conflict. Noticing the tension remaining in his pupil's muscles, Everad inquires.

"I assume Arthur still maintains his stance, eh?"

Those words take him to earlier that same morning, a few hours before the test...

"Can't spare a farewell to this old sack of bones?" The silence in the cabin broke thanks to the throaty, sandy voice, coming from the elder sitting on the edge of his bed. His wrinkled and pale skin sat on his face's somber expression, along a few gray hairs.

"Didn't mean to wake you..." the young man answered, who stopped just before reaching the wooden door's frame when hearing the voice. Sweat ran through his forehead and moistened his right hand, which held a sheathed sword so firmly his knuckles turned white. "I won't take long."

Having said this, he takes a couple of steps towards the exit.

"Seems stubbornness runs in the family."

Markus stopped in his tracks once more after hearing Arthur.

"Wonder who it came from" the young man replied, without looking at his grandfather.

"From someone wiser than you, Markus. Someone you should listen to."

"I've heard enough from you, it's you who doesn't. This way they can rest in peace."

The young man fastened his belt and swallowed.

"Is that the excuse you keep telling yourself?"

The old man's words shook him. They had this same argument so many times that it was just another routine, but it was the first time in a long time that his conviction was directly attacked. Just before the moment of truth, no less.

"Do you think this is what they would've wanted? Your parents, your sister" the grandfather continued, tongue sharp as steel. "For you to carry out your death wish?"

"I'm doing this for them!" Markus turned in the opposite direction to scream at Arthur. His blood froze with every sentence from the elder; he was familiar with doubts regarding his path, which he had used as loose, temporary supports until seeing the end of his efforts.

"What you're doing is looking for the easy way out. You must learn to live with the pain, not let it consume you."

"And what do you want me to do?! Go back to... living the same day over and over again, while the culprits are still out there?!"

"You go back to a safe life—!" the old man tried to stand, but his knees failed and he collapsed onto the wooden floor, coughing while holding his right side. Markus rushed to him, taking the cane laying against a small piece of furniture next to the bed and giving it to his grandfather. He refused the help and clumsily sat back on the bed, all while continuing his dry cough. "Here you have everything, there's nothing worth it out there." 

"All I had... all we had, we lost it that last winter day."

"And not a day goes by that I don't think about it, but that's not an excuse to throw your life away!" Arthur argued, ignoring the pain in his throat. He more than anyone knew what entailed dedicating your life to serve others, but serving the dead is a path without destination nor rest.

"So you can choose what to do with your life, but I can't?" Markus gradually raised his voice. "I thought you'd be proud I'm following your—!"

"IT'S DIFFERENT!"

Having said this, the elder couldn't continue ignoring the itchiness and began coughing again, covering his mouth. This time it was more painful, but not as dry. After removing his hand, he saw drops of blood on his palm, however, he simply closed it and continued.

"Everything I've done, everything I went through, I did for our family... for you" he said crestfallen. "Fighting to protect and fighting to destroy, they might seem the same to you... but I saw what makes some men fall defeated after the first arrow shot, and others rise from a pool of allied blood."

"That's why I've been—!"

"Even so..." Arthur interrupted. "I know I can't stop you, so I'll repeat it again, as useless as it may be."

The elder rose his gaze towards his grandchild's, frowned brow with hundreds of tensed wrinkles, but eyes fallen, wishing nothing more than reaching the heart of his last living relative.

"The hardships I endured, the pain I endured, it was all to give you this safe place. To prevent you from walking my path. Give up, Markus. This isn't your fight."

Maybe some other time, in other circumstances, those words would've been enough. Maybe if the young man were listening with his heart and not his rage, he would've understood what his grandfather meant. But all that resides in his head is pain, of not making proud the person he admires the most, of causing so much grief by following the wishes he considers his only reason for existence. Maybe if he knew the origin of his grandfather's words, he would've chosen a different answer...

"By what right do you say that?! Leave your damn honor aside for once! I'm sorry for wanting to take control of my own life and make them pay for what they've done!" Markus yelled, throwing the cane on top of the bed and walking towards the cabin's exit. He opened the door and stood at the frame, glancing over his shoulder. "Stay here and drown in your oh-so comfort. I'll be back for travel provisions and prove you wrong."

Without giving him a chance to answer, Markus slammed the door, making the entire cabin's wood crackle. He had spent years training his blade, but that morning, his words were the sharpest. Even to Arthur, who was already familiar with the pain of seeing his grandson refuse his protection at all times.

The villager's mind returns to the lord's question.

"Yeah... he never had faith in me..." with adrenaline still pumping through his veins, he shakes his head and raises his eyes to meet the copper giant's. "Guess it's time to fulfill your part of the deal, right?"

Everad, cross-armed, nails a scornful look on the eager young man.

"Not just impatient but insolent as well... Alas, you are correct. I promised you the chance to earn your freedom..." His arms break position and take the sword from the ground to sheathe it. "...and I'll keep it over my dead body."

It's very odd to see a lord allowing one his workers to leave the feud, however, it's more than known how Everad Constantine treats those inside his domain. Rumor has it, if you defeat him in a just duel, you are given absolute freedom, although there's no mention of any training amidst the entire ordeal. Regardless, between the slave-masters of the southeast farms and exploiters of the northern mines, this feud provides the fairest treatment someone from the low class can receive.

The lord rests his arms on his waist.

"What are you waiting for? For that old geezer to come here and deliver him the news? Go forth, rejoice a bit."

Markus nods with a sly smile. Using the remaining energy from the fight, he races towards the cabin where Arthur rests. The wind rocks the trees and crashes against his face as he pushes into the residential area, where other villagers greet him and ask about the duel's result. Without a doubt, it was the talk of the town.

The dirt road Markus hurries through takes him directly to his dwelling, given he resides in one of the first houses built in the Sylvain region. Located south and mostly occupied by dense forests, it's the cradle of the best architects in all of Crysaphenius, as well as the strongest axe users. Twas nothing more and nothing less than the talented builders of the region who erected the Walls of Praesidium, great barriers which took almost two hundred years and several generations of Sylvanians to be completed, the longest construction (in both time and physical length) in the entire kingdom. These walls isolate the citizens from foreign lands, making commerce and communication with other territories nonexistent. Luckily, the Crysaphenius Kingdom is completely self-sustaining, allowing its inhabitants to live almost in complete peace and quiet.

Despite the panting and huffing, Markus arrives at the cabin's porch. After briefly resting on his knees and taking a big mouthful of air, he bursts into his refuge puffing his chest. The creaking door opens, letting the confident boy inside.

"Grandpa!" He yells. "I don't wanna hear you whining anymore, guess who—!"

The only light inside the cabin is the one coming from the window, illuminating his grandfather's arm hanging from the bed. Arthur had died, gone in his sleep, completely alone. His doubts were never placed on the duel's result, but on what would come next, which path would the last of the Grymhart's follow, someone he wouldn't be there to protect.

Thus one of the most famous soldiers in the Royal Army's history falls, Lieutenant Arthur Grymhart.