The metallic scrape continued, clawing at the silence like a blade etching scars into stone.And yet… he moved forward.
Brann, standing farther along the path, had stopped. He didn't need to turn around. He listened. He listened to that sound, that persistence. The echo of determination. A faint smile, almost imperceptible, brushed the corner of his lips. Not satisfaction. Not yet. But… hm. Maybe a flicker of interest.
'The kid's not the type to die easy.'
Gaël's steps slowed. His strength had reached its limit. A wave of dizziness struck him. His knees finally gave out, his sword slipping from his grasp and hitting the stone with a heavy thud, echoing into the night like the final toll of a weary bell. He collapsed onto his knees, gasping, his face drenched in sweat, his hands raw from the rough leather of the hilt. His throat burned, every breath tore through his chest.
He didn't even raise his head when footsteps approached.
Brann stopped a few meters away, towering over him. He stood silent for a moment, observing.
'This boy... more stubborn than he'd thought. Foolish. But stubborn. A mix that killed most men. Or made them dangerous.'
At last, he broke the silence. His deep voice cut through the cool night air.
"You can't go any further, can you?"
Gaël slowly lifted his head, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. But within them still burned that spark, the kind no training could instill, the fire of someone who refused to collapse.
"I... can still…" he whispered, though his arms told a different story.
Brann snorted, somewhere between a chuckle and a grunt of annoyance.
"You're done. Pushing through is admirable. Dying like a fool isn't."
He turned slightly, letting his words hang in the air. Then, without warning, he unsheathed his own blade. Steel sang, clean and sharp. A silver flash split the night. Gaël flinched, instinctively, but Brann didn't strike. Instead, he plunged the sword into the ground between them.
"Get up." There was no room for argument in his tone.
Gaël wavered, but obeyed. His legs screamed, his arms hung limp with fatigue.
Brann spoke again, this time without looking at him, his voice lower.
"You know why that sword feels impossible to wield? It's not just muscle, kid. Not even raw will."
He reached toward Gaël's blade.
"Steel... sure, it's carried by the body. But more than that, by what's up here." He tapped his temple. "And here." His fist thudded lightly against his chest.
Gaël listened, breathless, struggling to burn every word into his fogged mind.
Brann continued, his voice gravelly:
"That stuff your lineage teaches about intent... It's not just fancy words. A sword doesn't cut because of its shape. Or its weight. It cuts because you decide it does. Because your intent guides the edge. If you hold it like a rock, it'll break you. But if you hold it like it's part of you…"
His eyes sharpened."...then it'll cut what you're ready to cut."
He crouched, grasped Gaël's blade in one fluid motion, and lifted it with one hand as if it weighed nothing.
"In my hands, it's light. Not because I'm stronger than you."
His gaze locked onto Gaël, hard as the steel he held.
"But because I know what I want to cut. You…"He let the silence linger."...you still hesitate."
_ _ _
Gaël clenched his fists, shame and frustration swirling together with exhaustion. He wanted to shout that he knew. That he understood.But… did he really?
Brann let go of the blade. It hit the ground with a low, resonant thud.
"You want to lift it?" he said. "Start by knowing what you want to cut."
He turned to leave, but paused after a few steps, throwing a final remark over his shoulder:
"Tomorrow. At dawn. If you're not dead from exhaustion by then... I'll show you."
And with that, he vanished into the shifting shadows of the ruins.
Gaël was left alone, heart pounding, the sword lying at his feet. In the polished metal, his wavering reflection stared back, drained, yes, but in his eyes…His eyes still burned.
'What I want to cut...'
He reached down and laid his fingers on the hilt. Memories surged forward, his town in flames, the screams, the ash... his helplessness.His breath slowed. Became steady.
"I want to cut what's holding me back," he whispered. "The doubt. The fear. The helplessness... and most of all, a goddamn Monarque."
And in the quiet of the night, beneath a sky full of stars,the blade felt just a little lighter.
_ _ _
The morning wind lashed across the ruins, sweeping dust into the frigid air. The sky hung in a uniform grey, threatening to crack open and spill its rain, but for now, only the bite of the wind accompanied the heavy silence of the dead city. Crumbling walls loomed like broken fangs, casting long shadows, and the cracks in the ground seemed ready to swallow anyone foolish enough to linger.
Gaël stood firm, feet buried in the gravel, the sword he had dragged the day before resting by his side. His eyes, still shadowed by exhaustion, were locked onto Brann's silhouette, already there, motionless, standing like a pillar amidst the desolation. The warrior's dark cloak fluttered behind him, caught by the gusts.
Gaël took a deep breath, the cold air clawing at his throat. His arms, sore from yesterday's ordeal, ached even before the training began. But he forced himself upright, fists clenched. He wouldn't show weakness.
Brann broke the silence. His deep voice rolled through the frosty air like distant thunder:
"Pick up the blade."
No greeting. No encouragement. Just an order.
Gaël swallowed hard. His fingers slid along the worn leather strap. The metal was cold, almost biting, as if the sword itself was daring him to try again. He lifted it, or tried to. His arms trembled under the weight, but this time, he managed to raise it to hip level. Not without pain. Not without effort. But better than yesterday.
Brann gave the slightest nod.
"Better. Not enough, but better."
He drew his own sword. Steel sang through the air, clean, precise, sharp. In his hands, the heavy blade seemed weightless, a natural extension of his body. He spun it with unsettling ease, then planted it in the ground between them, just like the day before.
"Today, you'll learn the first lesson of the Way of the Severance."
His voice dropped lower, each word driving in like a blade beneath the skin.
"Intention guides the cut. Not your arms. Not your strength. What you aim to reach."
He crouched down and picked up a fragment of stone at his feet. Without warning, he tossed it into the air and, with a motion that looked almost lazy, pulled his sword free. A flash of steel split the space. The stone burst apart, the shards falling perfectly to either side with surgical precision. Gaël felt a shiver run down his spine. The blade hadn't even whistled.It wasn't just a strike.It was a decision.
Brann slowly sheathed his sword.
"You don't lift the blade. You direct it. Like your arm. Like your gaze. You must want to cut... not just expect the sword to do it for you."
He fixed Gaël with a piercing stare.
"Try."
Gaël nodded, though his gut twisted with apprehension. He raised his weapon, pointing it clumsily ahead. His wrist buckled slightly under the weight. He inhaled. 'Intention... what do I want to cut? The air? The stone? My doubt?' He shook his head. 'No. What's holding me back.'
He brought the blade down. Steel struck a nearby rock with a dull thud… and bounced off without slicing through. It slipped from his grip, almost falling. He winced.
"Again."
Brann's voice cracked like a whip.
Gaël tightened his hold. The wind whipped his hair across his face.
'Visualize. A line. A cut.'
He raised the blade… and struck again. This time, a piece of the stone chipped off. Not clean. Not like Brann. But it was something.
The warrior watched silently, then spoke more softly:
"You're hesitating. That's why it doesn't go through. When you strike… do it like you're cutting what chokes you, what feeds your fears. You need a clear mind."
Gaël furrowed his brow. 'What's choking me...'The images came rushing back, his town, the screams, the smoke, the helplessness. His jaw tensed. He raised the blade, gripping it until his nails bit into his palm. And he struck.
This time, the sword cleaved the air with more force. The gravel split more cleanly, shards scattering under the impact. Not perfect. But... satisfying. He gasped for breath, his heartbeat thudding in his ears.
Silence followed. Brann was still watching. Then... a nod. Barely perceptible. But enough.
"Better." His deep voice softened just slightly. "This is only the beginning. The Way of the Severance... is also about cutting through what you refuse to face. The shadows. The pain. Yourself."
Gaël caught his breath, sweat dripping down his brow despite the biting cold. He felt the pain in his arms, the burn in his muscles. But more than that… he felt something else. A presence, deep in the corner of his mind.A blade, sharpening.
Brann sheathed his sword with a fluid motion.
"Do it a thousand times. Tomorrow, you'll have to cut something that moves."
Gaël's eyes widened, but Brann was already walking away, his cloak snapping in the wind.
Gaël looked down at his callused hands, the red marks where the leather had bitten into his palms. Then at the blade. Still heavy. Lighter than before, but still.
'A thousand times? He's mad.'
He could think about that later.He raised the sword again.
'One.'