The next morning was even colder than the last.
Gaël pushed himself upright with a groan. His muscles immediately protested, a blend of dull ache and fiery stiffness. Every move drew a wince. His palms, scraped raw by the leather grip the day before, were now crusted with dark scabs. 'Breathe.' He inhaled slowly. The frigid air bit into his lungs.
'You survived yesterday. You'll survive today.'
A few meters away, Brann was already standing, dark, still, and unshakable, like a statue carved from the night itself. Arms crossed, his gaze was fixed on the misty horizon. He hadn't moved since sunrise… or perhaps he hadn't slept at all. With Brann, there was no way to tell.
Gaël trudged toward him, dragging the heavy blade behind. The scrape of metal against stone trailed his steps, but this time, he bore it better. The weapon was still a colossal weight, but he could feel it, either he was getting used to it, or he was starting to understand it.
Brann didn't even glance at him as he approached.
"You're still on your feet. Not bad."
That was Brann's version of well done. Gaël allowed himself a breathless, crooked smile.
He wanted to say he could feel something shifting, something he was proud of. But he stayed silent. He hadn't earned that right yet. Not until he could lift the blade high enough.
Without another word, Brann turned and strode toward an open area among the ruins, a long-abandoned square, judging by the cracked paving stones and the shattered base where a statue must once have stood.
"Yesterday, you cut what stayed still."His voice rang out beneath the heavy sky."Today... you'll cut what doesn't want to be cut."
A shiver traced Gaël's spine.
'Something that moves...'
Brann crouched down, brushing his fingers lightly across a crack in the stone. For a moment, everything fell silent. Too silent. And then...
A deep rumble rose from the earth.
Gaël stepped back instinctively, tightening his grip on the sword hilt. The crack widened. Something shifted beneath the surface. A snap. Then an explosion of gravel.
A creature burst forth, an Infested, quicker and leaner than any Gaël had seen before. Its gray, scaled skin shimmered with an oily sheen, and its claws, curved like sickles, sliced the air with terrifying speed. Its eyes, twin voids of shadow, locked onto him.
Brann let out a dry chuckle and called out:
"Don't find it cute? Then cut it!"
Gaël's heartbeat spiked. His arms trembled, not from fatigue this time, but from pure adrenaline. He knew Brann wasn't going to help him.
The creature lunged. Gaël tried to raise his blade, but he was too slow. The claws whistled past his face, slashing a chunk of stone behind him.
"Lift that damned blade!" Brann barked.
Gaël clenched his teeth. 'Intention… focus…'But fear was anchoring him. 'It's too fast...'
The creature lunged again.This time, Gaël raised his blade in time.
Steel met flesh, or whatever passed for it. The impact rattled through his bones. The Infested staggered back with a shrill screech, a deep gash torn across its side. Not deep enough. Not clean.
"You're swinging with your arms, not your will, you're afraid!" Brann roared. "That thing wants to kill you. What about you? You want to die holding a blade, or live by making it speak?!"
The words hit Gaël like slaps to the face.
'What do I want?' He saw it again, his village. The flames. The screams. His helplessness. His rage.
The beast lunged once more.
Gaël felt his blood ignite.He turned, the blade flowing with the twist of his hips.He didn't think about force.Didn't think about weight.Only the intention to cut.
The blade whistled. The Infested froze mid-leap. Split clean through.
Its upper half collapsed at his feet.
A breath. A silence. Then the rest of the body crashed to the ground, spilling foul, dark fluids across the stone.
Gaël stood still, chest heaving, arms aching, his eyes fixed on the spot where the creature had been.
'I did it.'
Brann approached, snatching the sword from Gaël without warning.
"Better. Not good. But better." He examined the blade, then handed it back.
"You've learned half the lesson."
Gaël frowned, puzzled.
Brann turned, casting a glance over his shoulder.
"Cutting something after it moves is fine. Cutting it before it moves? That's better."
He started to walk away, adding over his shoulder:
"Tomorrow, there won't be a warning. Be ready to strike before you see. For now, a thousand times!"
Gaël stood frozen for a moment.
'Strike before I see? How...?'
But deep in his chest, where his will now burned, he knew this next lesson, would be even harder.
He lifted the blade, chose a stone, and struck.
The cut landed, clean.
'One.'
_ _ _
The next morning rose under a low sky, heavy with steel-colored clouds. A light drizzle fell across the ruins, soaking the cracked stones and turning the gravel into a slick, treacherous carpet. The air was thick with the scent of rain on dust, raw, mineral, and the metallic tang of old debris. The ghost city felt even quieter than usual, as if it, too, was holding its breath.
Gaël stood in the same square as the day before, his posture straight despite the weariness lodged deep in his muscles. His clothes, soaked through, clung to his skin, and the cold had crept into his very bones, but he didn't shiver. Not this time.Beside him lay the sword, that cursed lump of metal, its blade stained with dust and remnants of past fights. His palms, torn open, still bled beneath the crude bandages he'd wrapped at first light.
Across from him, Brann watched.Arms crossed beneath his black coat, rain rolling off the fabric, he stood unmoving, an unshakable silhouette against the wind whipping across the square. His steel-gray eyes, sharp and unrelenting, never left the boy. No useless words. No greetings. The lesson was about to begin.
"Yesterday, you cut something that moved." His voice, deep and calm, sliced the air like the blade he carried.
"Good. But truly dangerous enemies..." He paused. His gaze narrowed to a razor's edge. "You don't cut them when they strike. You cut them before they even think of it."
Gaël nodded, swallowing hard. The idea still felt abstract.
'How do you strike before an attack comes?'
His hands tensed on the hilt of his sword.
Brann pointed at the ground with the tip of his own blade.
"You don't wait for movement. You sense intent."
'Intent.'
That word again. Cut with intent. Wield with will.And now... sense the enemy's intent before it becomes action.
'But how...?'
"We'll see if you've grasped it," Brann said, and moved.
Gaël barely had time to react before a shard of stone zipped past his cheek. Brann had kicked a chunk of debris with casual ease.
Gaël stepped back, now fully alert.
"Your first reflex is to see and then react. That's too slow."
Brann drew his sword without warning, the blade flashing through the air at terrifying speed.
"I'm going to attack. Not to kill, but I doubt you want to lose a limb, right? So anticipate."
Gaël's heart slammed against his ribs.
'He's serious.'
Brann lunged. No shout, no signal.Just a silent, fluid motion that devoured the space between them in a heartbeat. The sword sliced toward Gaël. On instinct, he raised his blade to block. Steel met steel with a thunderous crash, the impact reverberating up his arms like a jolt of lightning. Gaël stumbled back, his heels slipping on the wet stone.
"Too slow," Brann growled, retreating. "You wait for me to move. You need to move with me, not after."
Gaël exhaled sharply and reset his stance. His heart pounded in his ears.
'Move with him... sense his intent...' Easy to say. Impossible to do.
He narrowed his eyes, focusing. Not on Brann's arms.Not on his legs. But on that presence, the fire behind his calm, the breath before the blow, the intention that guided the steel.
Brann came at him again, a feint this time, blade rising left to strike from the right. Gaël raised his sword by reflex. The clash made him wince, muscles burning with strain.
But... he had seen something coming. Not perfectly. Not yet.
"Again."
The pace quickened.
Brann struck, circled, struck again. Every attack carried a lesson, and a real threat. No pulled punches. If Gaël failed, it wouldn't be pain that crushed him, it would be the shame of learning nothing.
His arms screamed.His vision blurred.But somewhere between the frantic heartbeats… something stirred.
The patter of rain.Footsteps on stone.Brann's breathing.
It all blended into an overwhelming cacophony. Gaël felt himself slipping, then...
A moment. A breath.
Everything became clearer.
It wasn't the movement he had to follow...It was the silence before it. That brief instant when Brann thought about striking. A tension in the air. A shift in breath. The invisible pressure before the storm.
'Now.'
When Brann raised his blade for a diagonal strike, Gaël pivoted, before the attack came down. His sword rose to meet Brann's, not in reaction… but in sync.
The blades clashed, sparks flaring beneath the misting rain.Gaël felt it, the faint flicker of satisfaction from the warrior, just before Brann stepped back.
Silence.
Rain drummed on stone, on soaked hair, on waiting steel.Brann slowly sheathed his sword.
"Finally."
Gaël, breathless, let out a shaky laugh.
Brann looked at him with that glint, the one old wolves give a stubborn pup who just won't quit. No smile. But the spark of respect was there.
"You caught the intention." He spun his blade once and thrust it into the ground. "But kid... that's just the beginning."
"When you can sense the intent of ten enemies at once, then you'll truly be walking the Way of the Severance."
Gaël nodded, still panting. His body screamed in pain... But his mind... burned.
"All right. We continue tomorrow. You know what to do."
Gaël nodded again and turned toward a section of wall that had been calling to him.
He brought the blade down.
'One.'