Chapter 31 – Wind Steps
Tamara von Hailbrecht POV
Tamara stared at the broken practice sword on her desk.
The cut was too clean.
No splinters, no crushed fibers, no ugly scars from brute force. Just a pale, smooth line where the wood stopped existing. Her fingers traced it for the third time, then the fourth, as if it might suddenly feel different.
It didn't.
She scowled at it anyway.
"That idiot," she muttered.
Her room was quiet. No one else had any reason to come in; dinner was still going on in the hall, and even Marion wouldn't make her rounds until later. The faint noise of students laughing and clattering plates drifted up through the open window.
Tamara should have been down there.
Instead she sat at her desk, in a half-unbuttoned uniform, hair still damp from splashing water on her face, glowering at a piece of wood.
She could still feel it.
That moment in the yard when she'd braced, aura flooding her arms, wind wrapped thick around the practice sword. She'd been sure—absolutely sure—that even if he broke through, it would be a contest.
Instead, the world had gone quiet.
No shock. No crash.
Her blade had just… parted.
Like butter, the old knights back home would have said. Cut like butter.
She clenched her jaw, remembering the thin, steady line of his short sword. It hadn't looked dangerous. The aura around it hadn't flared bright. It had felt calm.
That was the worst part.
It felt like the sort of blade that didn't care what it was cutting.
Tamara dropped the broken half back onto the desk and leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling.
"How," she whispered.
She'd asked him already.
He'd smiled—actually smiled—and said, "It's not the time for you to know."
Her cheeks heated at the memory.
Arrogant. Infuriating. Completely, absolutely—
"…unfair," she muttered.
She swung her feet off the desk and stood abruptly.
Her muscles protested. Her calves and shoulders ached from all the drills he'd put her through. Small, precise swings. Short steps. Again. Again. Again.
"Direction," he'd said.
Think of the wind following, not resisting. Let it chase the sword. Let it catch her ankles. Let it slide her instead of making her stomp.
Basic, he'd called it.
Basic, my ass.
Tamara crossed the narrow room to the open space by the door. She picked up her spare practice sword—the one that wasn't in pieces—and took a breath.
The air in the dorm room was still and slightly stuffy. The floor was wooden, not packed dirt. The ceiling was low enough that she had to be careful not to smash the light charm.
None of that mattered.
She set her feet the way he'd made her do, not rooted and heavy like the instructors drilled into them, but light. Ready to move.
"Wind follows," she said under her breath. "Not crushes. Follows."
Mana gathered in her core, familiar and sharp. She guided it down her arms and into the wooden blade, then forced herself not to drown it. No thick coat. No proud glow to show off.
Just a thin line along the edge.
Her first instinct was to push it outward, to make the aura large and impressive. She bit that urge in half and let it run ahead instead, just a finger's length beyond the tip.
She swung.
The practice sword hissed through the air. For a heartbeat, the dust at the edge of the stroke swirled in a thin, neat line before settling.
Her heart jumped.
There. Again.
She turned, repeated the motion. This time she added a small step, focusing on the moment her boot hit the floor. She pushed a breath of wind low, catching her ankle, smoothing the landing.
Her foot slid a little farther than it should have.
Not enough to fall.
Just enough to feel like the ground had stopped trying to drag her down.
She almost laughed.
"Oh," she breathed.
It wasn't as smooth as when he'd done it, not even close. She still over-pushed sometimes, the wind flaring too hard, or not enough. A few times she stomped like always and cursed herself for it.
But the difference was there.
Her swings didn't feel like she was shoving against the air anymore. They felt like she was cutting paths and stepping into them.
Of course she was.
She was being taught by Viester's son.
Tamara lowered the practice sword and let her breath out in a long sigh.
She'd grown up hearing that name.
Viester.
Swordmaster. Knight. War hero. Whatever title the nobles wanted to layer on top, the important part was that his blade had held the line more than once. Tamara had watched him from the stands when she was younger, fingers gripping the railing so hard her knuckles hurt, while he carved through opponents like a storybook knight.
She'd wondered what kind of training his child would have.
Now she knew.
He was standing in dusty campus yards, poking holes in her stance and making her play with wind like a beginner.
Tamara's mouth tugged into a reluctant smile.
"Stupid," she said softly. "Stupid, useful boy."
She could admit that much—to herself, at least.
***
By the time she'd calmed down enough to face other people, dinner was nearly over.
The hall was still noisy when she slipped inside, but the worst crush had passed. Students were finishing up, trading bread and gossip. The smells of stew and roasted something hung in the air.
Tamara grabbed a tray out of habit, not entirely sure what she was picking up. Her ears caught snatches of conversation.
"—did you see that upper-year's fire spell—"
"—heard someone split a training post clean in half earlier—"
"—that country boy from the duel, right? The one who—"
Her shoulders stiffened.
Country boy.
She knew who they meant.
She took her tray and moved toward an empty spot near the wall before someone could drag her into idle talk. A few other nobles glanced her way, half-invitations in their eyes, but she ignored them.
Normally she'd have taken the seat, worn the mask, played the part.
Tonight, her head was too full.
She sat down alone, stabbed a piece of meat with unnecessary force, and chewed without tasting.
Her mind kept replaying the afternoon.
The first time the wind had really followed her blade. The moment her foot had slid instead of planted. The look on his face when she'd gotten it right—not surprised, not overly impressed. Just a quiet, satisfied "there" that had slipped out of him.
Like he'd expected she'd get there all along.
She hated how much that pleased her.
Then the spar.
Her reinforcing everything she had into the practice sword. Him meeting it calmly.
Click.
That soft sound as he'd moved his thumb. She wouldn't have noticed it if she hadn't been so close. The faint warmth she'd felt when their blades touched. A hum more felt than heard.
And then—nothing.
No resistance.
If he'd wanted to, he could have kept going. Her hand, her wrist, her arm—it would all have gone with the sword.
He hadn't.
He'd stopped at the guard, as neatly as if he'd planned it that way from the start.
Tamara scowled into her stew.
No, that wasn't right.
He had planned it.
He'd spoken so casually afterward, like cutting reinforced wood in half with a thin, lazy stroke was normal. Like broken practice swords were just something that happened around him.
"It's not the time for you to know."
She jabbed at her food again.
Who even said things like that?
At least say "secret family technique" or "ancient sword art" or something. Not that—and that smile.
Tamara's face felt hot again.
She pushed the tray away and let her head thump lightly against the wall behind her.
A few students glanced her way. She lifted her head and shot them a look until they pretended they hadn't seen anything.
"He's hiding something," she muttered under her breath.
But instead of the cold twist of anger she might have felt before, she found something else sitting in her chest.
Interest.
He was hiding something. And he'd chosen to show it to her first.
Not the instructors. Not some noble-born favorite. Her.
Her lips curled without her permission.
"Alright then," she said softly. "Keep your secrets for now."
She wasn't stupid.
If she ran to the instructors and complained about strange swords and unfair blades, maybe they'd pay attention. Maybe they'd test him. Maybe they'd take that sword away or drag him into some private training room and never let him out.
The idea made her stomach twist in a way she didn't like.
No.
If there was something like that in the academy, she wanted it near her, not locked up far away.
She wanted to see it again. To fight against it again. To find a way around it.
To stand next to it.
Tamara picked up her tray and finished what was left without noticing the taste. Then she headed back to her room before anyone could stop her.
***
That night, she dreamed of wind.
Not storms or hurricanes—those were easy. Any brute with enough mana could throw themselves at the air and hope it listened.
No, in her dream the wind was thin and clear and sharp.
It followed her sword like a ribbon, always just ahead of the steel, cutting paths for her feet. Each step she took, it caught her, carried her, turned the ground into a soft slide instead of a hard stop.
Somewhere at the edge of the dream, a soft hum followed her.
A thin line of sound that wasn't quite sound.
She turned toward it and saw a blade with no reflections. Just a narrow, patient edge that the world peeled away from.
When she woke, her heart was pounding.
Tamara stared at the ceiling for a long moment, then threw off her blanket.
The sky outside was only just starting to pale. The little room was still dim and quiet; no one would disturb her at this hour, and Marion wouldn't knock until proper morning.
She slipped out of bed, grabbed her practice sword, and padded barefoot to the door.
The yard would be empty at this hour.
Perfect.
***
The morning air was cool and smelled faintly of damp stone.
Tamara stepped onto the practice field and shivered once, more from anticipation than cold. Mist clung to the ground, curling around her boots. The training posts loomed like dark silhouettes.
She took her place in the center and closed her eyes.
Wind follows.
Not crushes.
Follows.
Mana flowed out of her core at her call, sharper and cleaner now that she knew what she wanted from it. She guided it along the practice sword, then let a thin sliver slip ahead of the tip.
She moved.
Slash. Step. Turn. Step.
The air slipped along the path of her blade. Her boots whispered against the ground instead of thudding. The mist swirled in lines, showing where she'd cut.
She made mistakes. Too much here. Too little there. Once she nearly overbalanced and had to grab herself with a rough gust that sent dust flying.
But each time she corrected.
Each time, the feeling grew clearer.
By the time the first other student wandered onto the field, she'd lost track of how long she'd been moving.
Her chest burned, breath coming hard. Sweat stuck her nightshirt to her back. Her arms trembled a little.
She felt good.
Strong, but not from sheer force. Right, in a way that had nothing to do with glowing brighter than anyone else.
"Hey—Tamara?"
A voice made her open her eyes.
One of her classmates, a girl from a minor house, was staring at her from the edge of the field, half-awake and clutching a practice sword.
Tamara straightened, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.
"What," she said, more sharply than she meant to.
The girl flinched, then quickly shook her head.
"Nothing," she said. "Just… your swings looked different. Better. I thought—"
Tamara felt something unpleasant and pleasant mix in her chest.
"Of course they did," she said automatically.
The girl nodded, wide-eyed.
Tamara hesitated.
Part of her—the part that had been raised on proper noble behavior, on house pride and hierarchy—wanted to say more. To boast a little. To casually mention that she'd been training with Viester's son, that of course her forms had improved.
Another part of her clamped down on that.
No.
This was hers.
"I'm busy," she said instead, lifting her sword. "Find another corner."
The girl murmured a quick apology and retreated to the far side of the yard.
Tamara took her stance again, alone in the center.
She thought about Erynd's expression when he'd watched her catch the wind properly for the first time. The way his eyes had sharpened, the faint, approving "there" that had slipped out of him.
She thought about his sword humming against hers.
Not yet, she told herself.
One thing at a time.
First, she would master this. The wind on her blade, the wind at her feet. The simple, basic, "boring" things he'd pushed her through until her muscles screamed.
Then—
Then she'd ask him to spar again.
This time she'd be ready for whatever he was hiding.
And when he smiled that stupid smile and said it still wasn't time for her to know, she'd be close enough to that humming edge that no one else could step between them.
Tamara swung again, wind following.
"Just you wait," she muttered under her breath. "You're not leaving me behind."
Her blade cut a clean path through mist and morning air.
Somewhere in the academy, she knew, Erynd was probably hunched over some new scrap of steel or scribbled diagram, making something no one had asked for.
Tamara von Hailbrecht intended to be there when he showed it to the world.
Whether he wanted her there or not.