Three years. It had been three years since he had been here as just a spectator. He was eight years old at that time, but now he felt like he was several decades older. The boy who had stared in amazement from the stands no longer existed.
The one who had taken his place was a person of great self-control, seemingly sculpted by early morning practice sessions and quiet, late-night meditations. He let his eyes roam over the arena.
Bright sunlight, as thick and rich as honey, streamed in through the open arches, and long, sharp shadows that looked like fingers were stretching across the ground made of sand. The seats made of stone, which were cold and gray in the shade, were slowly turning to a light gold color as more people came in.
He saw aunts and uncles whom he had only met at formal occasions, and their faces were a perfect combination of being politely interested and secretly calculating.
He saw servants in the Graythorne uniform, and their faces were calm and they did not show any emotion.
Also, he saw other children, his cousins and the children who would later become the rivals, and their faces were a mixture of bravado and fear. He knew the fear.
The Graythorne arena not only tested skills; it also revealed the characters of people. He moved his hand through the air. He could already feel in his palm the rough and hard parts of the skin that had come from his labor.
His body was like a book telling the story of his works. Every time the muscles of his body ached, or he got a scar, that made an entry in the book. He had become stronger, of course. In fact, he was much stronger.
But what was more significant was the change that had happened to his mind. The desperate, immature and irrational need to prove himself had been changed into a calm and patient focus. He was conscious of what he was, and even more, he was conscious of what he looked like.
In the eyes of all these people, he was only Leonel Graythorne, the Duke's second son. Maybe a talented boy, but still just a Sword Initiate at the very beginning stages. A potential young plant, but still not having grown into the level of the Adept, that really was the difference between the heirs and the rest of the family.
They saw his youth and that he was of a relatively small height. They didn't see the secret foundation that he had built during the silent and dark hours. The three techniques, which in fact were his own very heartbeat, came into his mind. The Skyfall Slash was the gift of his father.
The recollection of the time when he first learned it was like a dull pain in his head that made him remember the frustration of his uncoordinated limbs and the father being intimidatingly heavy for the son to follow the ideal. It was a very strong, absolute and unyielding power kind of a technique.
In fact, it was a kind of statement. It didn't end finessing; it ended . And now, after so many times that had been changed from hard and painful work into muscle memory, it was what kept him grounded. The time when he pulled it out, he felt the support of his father who was calm and very powerful but he was there at his back. After that, there was the Gale Shadow Strike.
That is the imprint of Elara on the boy. He can still hear her saying the thing that was made up of mockery, and at the same time, of passion.
"You're not a mountain, you idiot, you're a wind. Stop fighting and start riding it." It was very hard to learn. Skyfall was a power-demanding move, while the Gale Shadow was all about surrendering, and that surrender had to be to the rhythm, to the instinct, and to the air flow.
Now, as he works, he is able to hear a faint trace of her killer grace, his figure getting lost in the motion, and his hits coming right after he touches the opponent, even though he was already gone. Then there was the third. The one that was his only.
The Blackwind Slash. He didn't get it from a book, nor did a master teach it to him. He realized it, in between the other two. It was a child of mountain and storm. It is a move that takes the devastating side of Skyfall and the elusive speed of Gale Shadow and combines them to create something new, something that seems… hungry.
It created a whirlwind of shadow and confusing wind, which was the beginning of a very quick hit if you knew it wasn't a sword blow but rather the night coming upon you.
He was almost there with it. So close that he could see the metallic, electric-tasting air, like the moment right before a lightning strike, if he could only step just a little bit further. No one knew.
That was how he kept it. A week ago, breaking through in the absolute silence of his room and with the moon as the only witness, was what he did. His core of Essence, which was once vague and nebulous, became clear and definite as it crystallized into a dense, powerful source of energy.
He was a Sword Adept. The concealment method that he found a long-forgotten, dusty scroll from a neglected corner of the library was a mere trick, but a clever one.
It cloaked his real strength with the veil of the normally seen and easily dealt with Initiate's aura. It was a mask, and he put it on perfectly. Let them watch the kid.
The arena was almost packed to the rafters, the sound of numerous conversations merging into one single hum of anticipation. Lady Seraphina, his mother, was seen by him climbing onto the grandstand. She looked like a very strong and commanding figure, her silver hair standing out against the dark polished wood.
The people stopped talking, not because they were scared but because they were very respectful of the person.
"House of Graythorne," her tone was like a bell; it was very clear, and it carried far; it broke the silence that was left after the murmurs. "Blade's Ascent find us again at the meeting table. However, this is not just a show of power. It is a way of measuring our growth. It is the proof of the training that is the heritage of our line."
On hearing this, Leonel felt a glow of warmth in his heart that he was familiar with. It was not his mother's words to be taken as empty promises. She was the caring core of the family, the one who would always remind them that a sharp blade is of no use if the mind that guides it is not sharp too.
"One armed by the sword shall never cease to perfect it," she said further, her gaze following the young ones who are going to compete for the prize. "Today, you will confront your foes. But the real enemy will be the limit you set for yourself. Shatter it. Heal from every block, every escape, every downfall. Because a defeat that instructs you is a million times a greater triumph than a victory that teaches you nothing."
She lifted her hand, and the sun rays reflected a plain silver band on her wrist. "Allow the Blade to rise. Battle with honor. Depart with wisdom."
After this, the crowd's reaction was not that of the wild and noisy cheer of the common crowd, but a very calm, polite, and respectful acknowledgment. It was a Graythorne applause.
The announcer, a senior retainer with a voice like grinding stone, started summoning the contestants. The initial bout was awkward and unskilled.
Two elder boys, all rapid and uncoordinated movements, and loud, panicked shouts. They used only heavy-hitting methods; their skill was rough, and their stepping was all over the place.
Leonel was watching it all, but with a very detached and clinical approach. He could spot the openings, the unnecessary moves, and the fright. It was like watching a tutorial on what not to do.
Next, the voice was calling his name.
"Leonel Graythorne."
He came out. The ground was a bit giving and thus his boots went a little into the fine sand. It felt as if the world was getting smaller with the loud crowd turning into a distant murmur of the sea. His concentration was only on the sand circle, opponent and practice sword's weight in his hand.
His opponent was his cousin, Kaelen. He was a year ahead of them, had broader shoulders and carried his head an inch higher with a confident, almost arrogant sort of a smile.
Leonel saw him training. He was strong for his age, but he was an impatient type. Winning quickly was what he liked, and that way he just crushed his opponent.
Good, Leonel thought. Tell him to be impatient.
The referee was between them and said, "Competitors, salute!"
Leonel did a formal, accurate salute with his sword raised. Kaelen was doing the same thing but quickly and carelessly, already fixing his eyes on Leonel like a hunter eyes its prey.
"Begin!"