Chapter 417: Spar (1)
The children’s laughter carried easily across the glade, light as birdsong. Lindarion found himself sitting in the grass, Ashwing perched on his knee, nibbling the edge of a flower.
Caleth was demonstrating wild, flailing strikes with his wooden sword, insisting each one was a killing blow. Liora scolded him while Teren tried and failed to imitate the moves.
It was the kind of moment Lindarion had never known he craved. Ordinary. Untouched by war or shadows.
But it did not remain unnoticed.
A voice cut gently across the glade:
"Caleth. You’re holding it wrong again."
The boy groaned. "Teacher..."
Lindarion lifted his gaze. A man was approaching from the treeline, robes of dark green flowing like woven leaves, his steps sure but unhurried. His hair was streaked with silver though his frame was unbowed, his eyes a deep hazel sharpened by years of patience. A long staff of polished wood rested in his hand.
"Master Thalan," Liora said quickly, rising to her feet. "We weren’t—he just came with us—we didn’t—"
The elf lifted a hand to still her. "Peace, child. The glade is not forbidden. And guests of the council are welcome to walk where they please."
His gaze settled on Lindarion. Sharp, measuring, but not unkind. "So. You are the prince of Eldorath. The one the Tree embraced."
Lindarion inclined his head slightly. "Lindarion Sunblade."
Thalan studied him a moment longer, then nodded. "I am Thalan Viren. These troublemakers are my pupils when they remember to attend their lessons."
"Lessons?" Lindarion asked.
"Discipline. Lore. And the art of the sword." Thalan tapped Caleth’s shoulder lightly with the staff, making him wince. "Though some of them confuse swinging wood with mastering steel."
Caleth scowled. "I was practicing!"
"Practicing wrong." Thalan’s eyes twinkled faintly. "Again."
The boy looked away in sulky silence.
Lindarion let the faintest smile ghost his lips. It reminded him, painfully, of his old fencing tutors, men who had hammered form into his teenage arrogance, until he bled blisters and swallowed tears. For a flicker, he could almost smell the resin of the gym floor, hear the slap of blade on blade.
Thalan noticed. His gaze softened. "You’ve been trained. Not just in war, but in form. I see it in the way you sit. The way you breathe."
Lindarion didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Ashwing chirped in his mind, smug. ’He sees it too. You’re stiff. Always stiff.’
Lindarion ignored him.
The teacher crouched, helping Liora re-braid the leaves she had lost while running. Then he straightened again, eyes never leaving Lindarion. "If you are not weary from your trials... perhaps you would humor me. A spar. No killing blows, of course. The children will learn more from watching than they ever will from listening."
The glade fell quiet. Caleth’s jaw dropped, Teren squeaked, and even Liora’s basket sagged in her hands.
"A spar?" Caleth hissed. "With him? He’ll destroy you, Teacher!"
Thalan only chuckled. "Confidence is well. But arrogance is rot. The Tree’s blessing does not mean one cannot fall." His staff tapped lightly against the ground. "Well, Prince?"
Lindarion rose slowly. His hand brushed his sword hilt, though he did not yet draw it.
The air shifted, heavy with the unspoken weight of challenge.
Ashwing tilted his head, tail curling tight around Lindarion’s wrist. ’Do it. Show them. But don’t... y’know, vaporize him.’
The children crowded together, eyes wide with excitement, the glade suddenly transformed into an arena.
Lindarion’s golden irises met Thalan’s hazel. He spoke, calm and steady:
"Very well. But you asked for this."
The glade hushed. Even the birds seemed to fall silent as Lindarion stepped into the open space. Sunlight dappled through the canopy above, spilling gold across his pale hair and sharper across his golden irises.
His hand rested on the sword at his hip, though he made no move to draw.
Thalan shifted his staff, the polished wood gleaming faintly in the morning light. He didn’t bow or posture.
He simply planted his feet, one slightly ahead of the other, the calm readiness of a man who had taught a thousand children how to stand before they struck.
The children gathered in a tight knot at the edge of the grass, their voices hushed but their eyes huge.
"Do you think Teacher will win?" Teren whispered.
Caleth snorted. "He’s strong, but... look at him. That’s the prince. The prince."
Liora didn’t answer, her gaze flicking between Lindarion’s stillness and Thalan’s patience.
Ashwing was the only one who didn’t seem tense. He clung lazily to Lindarion’s shoulder, tail draped around his neck like a scarf. In Lindarion’s mind his voice chirped, bright and mischievous: ’Don’t blow him up, okay? Just a little scary. Not too scary. He’s old, he’ll break.’
Lindarion’s lips curved in the faintest smirk, though his gaze never left Thalan. ’Noted.’
The teacher was the first to break the silence. His voice was calm, steady, meant for the children as much as for Lindarion.
"A spar is not a duel. It is a conversation." He tapped the ground once with the butt of his staff. "Strike as you would speak. Truthfully."
Lindarion inclined his head. "Then I will answer you honestly."
The words hung between them like drawn steel.
He slid one foot forward, loosening his shoulders, his entire frame shifting into a stance so fluid it seemed he was part of the wind itself. It wasn’t the rigid posture of drilled soldiers, nor the precise forms of court fencing.
It was a blend, the elegance of an elf, the efficiency of a warrior, and something else entirely, something born of another world.
Thalan’s brows lifted slightly. He recognized refinement when he saw it.
The children held their breath.
A hush fell deeper. The glade itself seemed to lean in, waiting for the first strike.
The glade held its breath.
Lindarion didn’t move, yet his presence alone bent the air around him. The dappled sunlight caught in his hair, making every strand shimmer like woven silver-white threads.
His golden irises gleamed with steady fire, unblinking, fixed upon Thalan with an intensity that even the wind dared not interrupt.
Across from him, the teacher raised his staff in both hands, the polished oak humming faintly as mana threaded through the wood.
It wasn’t a weapon designed to kill but one to guide, and yet, in Thalan’s hands, it carried the weight of decades of discipline. His stance was neither rigid nor careless; it was rooted in the earth, flowing like the rivers of Lorienya, every muscle prepared for control rather than domination.