Chapter 7 Weight of the Blade
I woke up to something smacking me in the chest.
Not the sickly ache of fever nor the slow burn of poison. Just a clean, solid thunk of wood right across my ribs.
"Get up," Aeren grunted from somewhere behind the smoke. "You're past the dying phase. Time for the swinging one."
I groaned and rolled over. A wooden sword slid down off my chest and hit the floor with a clatter.
"You hit me with a stick," I muttered.
"I gave you a tool," he said. "And you're lucky it wasn't the real one."
I sat up slowly, still sore from the fever dreams and muscle cramps of the last few days. My body felt like overcooked leather.
The weapon was simple. Dark-stained oak. Worn grip. Blunted edges. The kind of thing a child might get in a village fair. But it was heavier than I expected, especially for something made of wood. Surprisingly balanced, too.
"You're giving me a toy."
Aeren snorted. "I'm giving you a mirror. Let's see what stares back."
Surely he knows when to stop being the mysterious cryptid master right?
---
The morning sun barely peeked over the treeline when we began.
I stood in the center of a dirt clearing that I'd bled on more times than I could count. Sword in hand. Feet unsure. Shoulders tense.
"Step," Aeren said. "Pivot. Cut."
I followed. Clumsily.
"Again."
I obeyed. Tried to find a rhythm.
"Again."
My wrists ached. My arms burned.
"Again."
Time slipped away. One hour? Two? I lost count. All I knew was sweat soaked through my shirt and my legs shook every time I stepped.
"Faster."
"Harder."
"Lighter."
I didn't even know what those meant anymore.
"You feel the rhythm yet?" Aeren asked finally.
"I feel my shoulders separating from my spine."
"Means you're doing it right."
---
By the second day, the sword no longer felt foreign. Not comfortable, exactly. Just... less hostile.
Aeren started pushing my stance. Correcting my footwork. Making me repeat the same swing fifty times until the muscles in my side screamed.
I swung anyway.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The repetition was maddening. But it did something to my mind. Each strike chased out a little more noise. Each breath steadied. I wasn't thinking. I was doing it mindlessly.
"Too tense," Aeren muttered. "You're not strangling a chicken."
"Feels like the chicken's fighting back."
He actually grunted a laugh at that.
Progress.
---
On the third day, he tossed me a slightly lighter blade. Still wood, still worn. But better for speed.
"We're sparring," he said.
I blinked. "I've barely stopped swinging at air."
"Now the air swings back."
He stepped into the ring. No armor. No rules. No warning.
Then he moved.
Fast.
I didn't even see the first strike. I just felt it when it cracked against my shoulder.
Pain bloomed. I stumbled back.
Second strike. I blocked barely. My wrist flared with pain. Wrong grip.
Third, a feint. I flinched. His elbow tapped my chest.
"You're dead."
"Not fair. I blinked."
"Your enemies won't wait for your eyelids."
We repeat this hell.
Again.
And again.
And then...
---
Something shifted.
My hands gripped the blade tighter. Feet planted firmer. Breaths slowed. The fear suppressed not gone, but… tucked behind a wall.
He struck. I moved.
Not with thought.
With instinct.
Step. Shift. Blade up.
A flicker in his stance, a lazy guard.
I attacked.
Fast. Precise.
My strike came in low and sharp. Too sharp.
Wood met wood with a loud crack. His parry deflected it, but only just. I felt the shock run down both our arms.
He stood firm.
The match stopped.
Silence.
I stood still, breath rough in my throat, sword raised and ready.
His expression changed. Not angry. Not surprised.
Just… thoughtful.
"Who taught you to kill like that?"
The words hit harder than the strike had.
"I—I didn't mean—"
"You weren't aiming to win. You were aiming to kill."
I looked down at the sword in my hands. My blood cold hands trembling.
He was right.
And I didn't know why.
---
That night, the fire crackled quietly between us.
Aeren smoked something bitter-smelling. I didn't ask what it was. I just sat, staring into the flames, blade across my knees.
"I've seen that kind of strike before," he said at last. "Soldiers. Assassins. Men who learned to end lives faster than they could think."
I stayed silent.
"You didn't hesitate," he added. "You didn't flinch. You measured."
He let the words hang.
I didn't argue.
Couldn't.
"I wasn't trying to hurt you," I said, voice low.
"But you did. Not in body. In your intent."
The fire cracked. Somewhere in the forest, an owl called.
"You carry something heavy," he said. "Even when you're holding nothing."
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't have one.
---
The next morning, he left a wrapped bundle by my bedroll.
Didn't say anything.
Just nodded and walked out.
I opened it slowly.
Inside was a real sword.
Iron. Worn but clean. Single edge. No engravings. No pomp.
Just steel.
It felt heavier than anything I'd ever lifted. Not in weight but in it's meaning.
Aeren stood at the doorway, arms crossed.
"You're not ready," he said. "But the world won't wait for you to be."
"You're giving me this now?"
"It's not the sword that matters," he said. "It's the will behind the hand that holds it."
I gripped the hilt.
It fit.
Too well.
---
[Quest Completed]
Title: Weight of the Blade
Clear Conditions Met:
Survive Sparring Exercise
Instinctively Land Lethal Blow
Reward:
+1 Dexterity
Skill Gained: [Measured Strike I]
Bonus Objective Failed:
Lost Emotional Control in Combat
[Trait Locked: Combat Temperance]
Trait Gained: [Instinctive Combatant]
You react before you think. Effective under pressure. Dangerous without control.
---
That night, I didn't dream of flames or fever.
I dreamed of a ring.
Of a blade in my hands.
Of a man standing across from me faceless, nameless.
He raised his sword.
I didn't strike.
I breathed.
And woke up with the sword still beside me.
---