Chapter 18 - 17 - Sword, Sweet, and Stupid Words
Riven swung his sword once more—a diagonal slash from right to left—then drew in a deep breath. His breathing was heavy, sweat beading along his temples, and his arms beginning to ache. But he didn’t stop.
In his hands, his new sword—Crysthalis—gleamed faintly in the morning light, its metallic sheen seeming to absorb the sunlight filtering through the trees. The blade was beautiful—too beautiful for someone like him.
He stood on a patch of flat earth surrounded by trees, adjusting his footing as he recalled the stances of knights he had once seen. Shoulders lowered, right hand gripping the hilt firmly, left hand supporting the base. And yet, every movement of his body still felt stiff—like a puppet forced to mimic a dance.
His posture lacked stability. Sometimes his swings were too high, sometimes they tilted too far to one side. But still, he kept trying, even though he knew he had no talent for it.
He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling how those knights moved—how they struck their enemies, how they stood with pride and grace. He had no mentor. No father. No teacher to guide him in combat. All he had was observation.
His battle the night before—with the intruder from Arkham—flashed through his mind. How close he’d come to dying.
If that man hadn’t already been gravely wounded, if Crysthalis hadn’t been in his hands... he would’ve become another corpse in the middle of the forest.
He was still too weak. Too slow.
But that was exactly why he trained.
In a world where strength was the highest law, he had to grow stronger to survive—and to protect his sister.
Swing after swing. Movement after movement. Sweat rolled down his forehead, soaking into his collar and dripping to the ground. But every time his blade moved with a little more stability, every time his footing felt more sure, a faint sense of satisfaction bloomed in his chest. That feeling... it reminded him of the old days—when he’d pushed himself to swim harder in pursuit of his dreams.