Date: April 15, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
After a meager but nutritious breakfast—oatmeal gruel with a piece of black bread and a mug of sour milk—they were lined up on the yard again. Now it was empty, except for a few wooden posts driven into the ground and a rack of training weapons: wooden swords, shields, and staves of various lengths. The sun had risen higher, warming their shoulders, but the morning coolness still hung in the air.
Master Koch walked along the line, his boots thudding dully on the packed earth. "Strength without skill is a club in the hands of a madman," his voice cut the air like a blade. "Today you will learn to speak with steel. And if you're lucky, it won't kill you for your stupidity. Paired sparring. Maël, Dur. To the first stance."
Dur felt his still-warm muscles ache slightly. He looked at Maël. Maël nodded at him with a barely perceptible confident smirk and headed for the indicated spot. Dur followed, feeling wary. Fighting a person, and a friend at that, was something new for him. In the forest, he fought for his life against beasts, or silently, from ambush, against an enemy.
Koch tossed them two wooden swords, covered in leather to soften blows, but no less hefty and painful for it. "Maël. Show the 'Wall Stance.' Basic defense. Dur…" Koch paused for a moment, something like curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Do what you would do in the forest if a bear with a stick attacked you."
Maël instantly assumed the position. His feet were firmly planted on the ground, his body turned sideways to reduce the target area, the training sword held point down, covering his legs, and his left arm, bent at the elbow, protected his torso. It was a geometrically precise, economical pose, without a single unnecessary detail. The movement of air around him seemed to change—he became denser, more impenetrable.
Dur, however, instinctively stepped back a pace, slightly bent his knees, assuming a stable but mobile position. He didn't stand still, but swayed almost imperceptibly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, as he did before pouncing on prey or dodging claws. He held his sword not like a noble weapon, but like a heavy club-stick, ready for any movement—a circular strike, a thrust, a block. "Begin," Koch commanded, stepping aside.
Maël moved first. His attack wasn't a furious charge, but a cold, calculated thrust. The wooden blade whistled through the air, aiming for Dur's forearm—to disarm, not maim. Dur, obeying instinct, didn't block the strike directly. He jerked sharply aside, letting the blade pass a centimeter from him, and immediately, using the inertia of his movement, delivered a short, chopping blow to Maël's arm as he tried to return his sword to a defensive position.
*Thwack!* The wood struck the leather-protected arm with a ringing smack. Maël flinched from the surprise and pain, but his stance didn't waver. He didn't retreat; instead, he stepped forward, pressing his blade against Dur's, trying to force him open by sheer strength. It was a pure power move, which Dur, with his still-unbuilt mass, couldn't parry.
And then Dur did something no one expected. Instead of pushing back, he abruptly released the pressure and leaped backward, as if pushed. Maël, not meeting the expected resistance, momentarily lost his balance and instinctively took a step forward to recover it. At that moment, Dur's foot, as if by accident, kicked up a small cloud of dust from the ground, which hit Maël in the face.
Maël blinked, distracted for a fraction of a second. That was enough. Dur, like a snake, lunged forward, but not for a sword strike. He simply pushed Maël in the chest with his full body weight while he was off balance. Maël staggered back with an effortful grimace but managed to stay on his feet, digging his heel into the ground. "Stop!" Koch's voice boomed.
He approached them, his face impenetrable. "Maël. Your stance is impeccable. Your technique is clean. But you are fighting an ideal opponent in your imagination. You expected him to fight like you. He fights like…" Koch turned to Dur. "What do you call it?"
Dur, breathing heavily, lowered his training sword. "Like a bandit. Dodge, confuse tracks, strike when least expected."
"Exactly," Koch nodded, and for a moment a spark of approval glinted in his eyes. "You, boy, use everything around you. Dust, the sun in the opponent's eyes, his inertia, his expectations. It's… inelegant. Dirty. But effective. Maël, your task is to learn to anticipate this dirt. Dur, your task is to learn to direct your quickness so it can break through a steel wall, not just bounce off it."
He gave them a minute to catch their breath, then continued, addressing all the recruits watching the sparring. "Did you all see? These aren't two styles. These are two worlds. The world of the city, the army, discipline—and the world of wild nature, where every man is for himself. Your strength will lie either in choosing one and perfecting it… or finding a way to combine them."
The next round was different. Maël, taught by bitter experience, acted more cautiously. He didn't rush to attack, but waited, studying Dur, trying to anticipate his movements, illogical from a fencing perspective. Dur, realizing he couldn't withstand a direct onslaught, began to use space. He made Maël move against the sun, maneuvered so he would trip on the uneven ground of the yard. Their fight turned into a strange dance: Maël—the unshakable rhythm, and Dur—the unpredictable, disorienting melody.
By the end of the session, they were both covered in bruises and sweat-darkened shirts. No one had achieved a clean victory. But both had learned something vital. Maël—that the world doesn't play by textbook rules. Dur—that cunning alone is not enough against iron discipline.
Returning to their quarters to wash, Maël silently handed Dur his water flask. "You know," he breathed, wiping his face. "I thought you were just a stubborn savage. But you're… you're like that dust you threw in my face. Small, annoying, and you get everywhere. But without dust, you can't mix cement for a strong wall."
Dur drank some water and returned the flask. He didn't know what cement was, but the meaning was clear. "And you're like that stone," he said after a pause. "Smooth, hard. You can build on you. But if you hit the same spot many times… even a stone cracks."
Maël smirked, but there was no offense in his eyes. Only respect. "Then we'll learn. You—to strike one spot. And me—not to let you."
That day, Dur understood that his hunt had gained a new dimension. Now he hunted not only for beasts or saboteurs. He had begun a hunt for knowledge. For the ability to turn his wild, untamed strength into honed weaponry. And his partner in this hunt was the one who embodied everything he had once rebelled against—order and discipline. The irony of fate was both bitter and beautiful.