Chapter 418: Spar (2)
The children whispered nervously at the glade’s edge.
"Why aren’t they moving?" Caleth muttered, shifting from foot to foot.
"Shh," Teren hissed. "It’s... it’s like they’re waiting to hear each other."
Ashwing, sprawled on Lindarion’s shoulder, flicked his tail idly and yawned. But inside Lindarion’s mind his voice chirped, sharp with excitement: ’He’s gonna poke first. I can feel it. He’s waiting to see if you flinch. Don’t flinch.’
’I never do,’ Lindarion replied silently.
And he didn’t.
The teacher struck first.
The staff whistled through the air, a clean arc aimed low toward Lindarion’s shin. It wasn’t fast, not by Lindarion’s standards, but it was precise, measured to test balance, not cripple.
Lindarion shifted only an inch. His heel lifted, weight transferring to the ball of his foot, the strike passing beneath as though the world itself bent to miss him. Not a wasted movement. Not even a ripple of effort in his breath.
Thalan’s eyes narrowed. The staff spun, redirected upward in a blur toward Lindarion’s side. This time faster, carrying weight.
Steel hissed free.
Lindarion’s sword blurred upward, shadows coiling faintly along its edge. The wood and blade met with a crack that echoed through the glade, a sharp vibration rattling the air.
The children gasped, one even yelping, but Lindarion’s stance never faltered. He had absorbed the strike as if his body were a rooted tree, unshaken, eyes calm as still water.
"Too heavy," he murmured softly.
The words weren’t boast, but observation. They fell between them like the toll of a bell.
Thalan exhaled through his nose, unbothered by the comment, and shifted again. Staff twirling, his strikes came sharper, higher, thrust, sweep, jab. The rhythm quickened, wood striking at angles meant to corner, to force Lindarion into motion.
Lindarion obliged.
But only barely.
He stepped back once, letting the staff skim past his chest by a whisper. Then forward, letting his blade intercept in a flick that redirected rather than blocked. Each movement was fluid, elegant, terrifyingly efficient. His strikes weren’t counters, they were lessons.
The children fell completely silent now, watching the impossible balance between them.
Teren swallowed hard. "He’s not even trying..."
Caleth’s fists clenched. "No... he’s... teaching Teacher."
The realization spread like a chill.
Ashwing’s laughter bubbled inside Lindarion’s head, bright and sharp. ’You’re dancing with him. He thinks he’s testing you, but you’re testing him more. Look at his face! He’s trying to read you like a book and it’s blank.’
Indeed, Thalan’s calm expression had tightened ever so slightly. Not with frustration, but with the unfamiliar sting of recognition. He was being outpaced, not by raw speed, but by something harder to name.
Lindarion’s blade didn’t move faster than sight, nor did his body blur with supernatural bursts of power. Every motion was simple. Human, even. But each was placed exactly where it needed to be, not an inch more or less.
That was what made it alien.
Thalan pivoted sharply, shifting to more aggressive footing. His staff lashed downward in a two-handed arc, aiming for Lindarion’s shoulder with enough force to stagger an armored knight.
Lindarion stepped forward into it.
Steel sang.
The sword rose in a diagonal sweep, shadows trailing in its wake, catching the wood halfway through the strike. Instead of stopping it, Lindarion pushed, guiding the staff past his own frame, redirecting the momentum so cleanly it spun Thalan half a step sideways.
And in that space, Lindarion’s blade kissed the teacher’s chest.
Not striking. Not piercing. Just a faint touch at the center, cold steel hovering against fabric.
A heartbeat of silence.
Then Lindarion lowered it.
Thalan straightened slowly, exhaling as he drew his staff back. His expression was unreadable, calm even in acknowledgment of the exchange.
The children, however, erupted in whispers.
"He beat him already!"
"No, no, it’s just, it’s just beginning, right?"
"He didn’t even—"
Ashwing’s tail flicked Lindarion’s cheek. ’That was mean. You didn’t even sweat. He’s gonna push harder now. You should let him hit you once, or the kids will cry.’
Lindarion’s lips curved faintly. ’Perhaps.’
Thalan raised his staff again, expression still calm, but his knuckles tightened just slightly around the wood. His voice, quiet enough only Lindarion truly heard, carried a weight heavier than the strike itself.
"You hold mountains on a blade’s edge," he said. "Do you know what it looks like, from here?"
Lindarion’s golden gaze didn’t waver. "A storm."
"Exactly," Thalan replied. And then he moved again.
The glade trembled faintly, not from steel, not from staff, but from silence. That silence was weight, heavy, unbroken, the kind that pressed into bone.
The children huddled closer together at the edges, small hands gripping bark and each other’s sleeves, wide eyes never leaving the two figures in the clearing.
The sun had shifted higher now, shafts of gold burning across Lindarion’s hair until it gleamed like snow set aflame. His golden irises caught that light and threw it back with frightening steadiness.
He hadn’t broken a sweat.
He hadn’t stumbled once.
And that was the most terrifying thing of all.
Thalan’s staff rested lightly in both hands, but his breathing had deepened. His years as a teacher had not dulled his form, he was still swift, precise, honed. He had sparred kings’ guards, warriors of the old forests, champions who carried steel for centuries. None had made him feel like a child with a stick.
Until now.
Yet the teacher’s face betrayed none of that humiliation. His lips held calmness, his gaze firm. He bowed his head slightly.
"Forgive me, children," he murmured without taking his eyes off Lindarion. "I must show you something truer than wood on flesh."
The children stiffened. They had never heard their teacher speak like that. Even Caleth, who idolized Thalan’s calm strength, blinked in confusion.
Lindarion’s gaze narrowed a fraction.
Ashwing’s voice chirped brightly inside his mind: ’Oh, here it comes. He’s going to cheat.’
’It isn’t cheating to use his full strength,’ Lindarion replied.
’Mm, it feels like cheating if you still don’t even move your feet,’ Ashwing teased, tail flicking against Lindarion’s neck.
A faint smile ghosted across Lindarion’s lips, but it vanished as quickly as it came. His stance remained relaxed, blade lowered slightly, as if he were almost disinterested.
Then the air shifted.