The woman drew her blades with a flourish, settling into a fighting stance. Cillian merely stood, his practice sword held loosely at his side.
"Begin whenever you're ready," he said.
The woman's attack was a flurry of motion, her twin blades weaving a complex pattern as she advanced. For a moment, it seemed as though Cillian would be overwhelmed by the onslaught.
Then, with a move so smooth it appeared almost casual, he parried both blades simultaneously. A twist of his wrist, and suddenly both of the woman's rapiers were flying through the air, clattering to the ground several feet away.
The entire exchange had taken less than three seconds.
The woman stood, mouth agape, staring at her empty hands. Cillian lowered his blade.
"Next?" he asked, his tone still maddeningly calm.
What followed was a blur of challenges and defeats. A burly warrior with a spiked mace found his weapon tangled in the chains of a nearby practice dummy. A polearm specialist's weapon was neatly bisected by a single, precise cut. A knife-thrower's own blades ended up pinning his sleeves to a wooden beam.
With each victory, Cillian barely seemed to exert himself. His breathing remained steady, his movements economical and precise. The assembled crowd watched in stunned silence as warrior after warrior fell before him.
Finally, after the sixth challenger had been dispatched with embarrassing ease, a deep voice cut through the tension.
"Enough."
The crowd parted as Commander Valtor stepped forward. He was a mountain of a man, clad in blackened tournament plate. In his hands, he carried a massive greatsword, its serrated edge glinting ominously in the torchlight.
"If you wish to prove yourself," Valtor rumbled, "then face me."
Cillian's eyes narrowed slightly, the first real sign of interest he'd shown all evening. "As you wish, Commander."
The two squared off in the center of the room. For a long moment, neither moved. Then, with a speed that belied his size, Valtor attacked.
His greatsword whistled through the air, a blow that would have cleaved a lesser man in two. Cillian parried, but the force of the impact sent him staggering back a step.
For the first time, Cillian seemed to be on the defensive. He gave ground steadily, barely managing to deflect Valtor's relentless assault. A murmur began to build among the onlookers.
"See?" someone whispered. "He's not so special after all."
Elenor, still clutching her papers, watched with wide eyes. Something about Cillian's movements seemed... off. It was as if he was deliberately making mistakes, leaving openings in his guard.
The duel continued, Valtor pressing his advantage. A particularly vicious strike caught Cillian across the cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.
"Ha!" Valtor crowed. "First blood to me, boy!"
Cillian stumbled, his back nearly against the wall. Valtor raised his sword for a finishing blow.
And then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed.
Cillian's posture shifted, his grip on his sword tightening. As Valtor's blade descended, Cillian moved.
It was like watching lightning strike. In the space of a heartbeat, Cillian had ducked under Valtor's guard, his practice sword becoming a blur of motion. Eight precise strikes landed in rapid succession:
A pommel strike to the solar plexus, driving the air from Valtor's lungs.A flat-blade slap across the visor, momentarily blinding him.A precise jab to the elbow joint, numbing Valtor's sword arm.A circular motion that sent Valtor's greatsword spinning away.A leg sweep that took Valtor's feet out from under him.And finally, as Valtor crashed to the ground, the tip of Cillian's sword came to rest against his throat.
The entire sequence had taken less than two seconds.
Silence fell over the training hall, broken only by Valtor's labored breathing. Cillian stood over him, barely winded, a thin trickle of blood still running down his cheek.
Slowly, deliberately, Cillian reached into his pocket and withdrew a silk handkerchief. With fastidious care, he wiped the blood from his blade, then let the cloth flutter down onto Valtor's heaving chest.
"I believe," Cillian said softly, his voice carrying in the stunned silence, "that concludes today's training session."
His gaze swept the room once more, cold and imperious. "Clear the hall," he repeated. "Now."
This time, there was no hesitation. Knights, squires, and trainees alike scrambled for the exit, their whispered conversations a mixture of awe and fear.
As the last of the stunned onlookers filed out of the training grounds, an eerie silence settled over the cavernous space. The air still hummed with the echoes of clashing steel and the lingering tension of the recent duels. Cillian stood motionless in the center of the room, his posture relaxed yet commanding, the practice sword held loosely at his side. His gaze, sharp and penetrating, swept across the now-empty hall before finally settling on Elenor.
She remained rooted to the spot, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and something deeper, more complex. The parchments in her hands trembled slightly, betraying the rapid beating of her heart. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as their eyes met across the expanse of the training grounds.
Cillian's face was a mask of impassivity as he broke the silence. "Well," he said, his voice devoid of emotion as it carried easily itself in the quiet room, "Is a formal dismissal required for you to vacate the premises as well?" His icy gaze fixed on Elenor, who remained rooted at the far end of the room.
Elenor flinched as if struck, the spell broken. A flush crept up her neck as realization dawned on her face. "Apologies," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. She turned quickly, her movements jerky and uncoordinated, so unlike her usual grace.
As she reached the heavy oak door, Elenor paused for a fraction of a second, her hand resting on the cool metal of the handle. She didn't look back, couldn't bear to see if Cillian was watching her retreat. With a deep breath, she pushed the door open and stepped through, closing it behind her with a soft thud that seemed to echo in the empty corridor.
Once outside, Elenor leaned against the closed door, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure it could be heard through the thick wood. She pressed her lips into a thin line, fighting against the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. I thought I'd never fall for a man, she thought, the realization hitting her with the force of a physical blow. But what is this feeling now?
Unable to bear the proximity to the training grounds—to him—any longer, Elenor pushed herself away from the door. Her feet began to move of their own accord, slowly at first, then faster. Soon, she was running, her footsteps echoing off the stone walls of the palace corridors. She was a 23 year old woman. She ran without direction, without purpose, driven only by the need to put distance between herself and the tumultuous feelings she couldn't understand.
As she ran, hot tears began to fall from her eyes, streaking down her cheeks and blurring her vision. The parchments she had been clutching so tightly fluttered to the ground, forgotten in her emotional turmoil. Each step seemed to drive home the painful truth that was taking root in her heart: he would never be hers.
Elenor ran until her lungs burned and her legs trembled, finally coming to a stop in a secluded alcove far from the training grounds. She leaned against the cool stone wall, sliding down until she sat on the floor, her knees drawn up to her chest. There, in the shadows of the silent palace, she allowed herself to weep quietly, mourning for a love she had only just discovered and already lost.
-Helia Palace; Inner Training Grounds, 11 AM-
The cavernous expanse of the Inner Training Grounds stretched out like a silent battlefield, its stone walls bearing witness to countless duels and drills. Shafts of late morning sunlight pierced through high, narrow windows, casting long shadows across the worn flagstones. The air hung heavy with the lingering scents of sweat, leather, and steel – a testament to the grueling sessions that usually filled this space.
At the center stood Cillian, a solitary figure amidst the emptiness. His posture was relaxed, yet there was an unmistakable aura of lethal grace about him. The rich fabric of his attire seemed at odds with the utilitarian surroundings, but the way he carried himself left no doubt that he belonged in this arena of combat.
The clock's chime reverberated through the hall, eleven distinct notes marking the hour. As the final tone faded, Cillian's sigh cut through the silence, a sound laden with impatience and a hint of something darker.
Without warning, the air began to crackle and hum. Motes of light coalesced on the floor, swirling into an intricate pattern of arcane symbols. The magic circle pulsed with an otherworldly radiance, casting eerie shadows that danced across Cillian's impassive features.
In a flash that momentarily outshone the sun, three figures materialized within the circle. They appeared in a tangle of limbs and disoriented groans – Kryll, his lean frame easily identifiable; Remi, her delicate form crushed beneath the others; and between them, a small boy with hair the color of sun-bleached coral.
As the glow of the magic circle faded, leaving behind a faint scorch mark on the stone, Cillian's voice sliced through the air like a blade.
"Bruh." The single syllable dripped with derision, his aristocratic accent making the casual word sound almost obscene. "Took your sweet time, didn't you?" His words dripped with icy sarcasm. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost in the fabric of space-time."
He strode forward, each step purposeful and silent. His hand extended towards Kryll, an offer of assistance that looked more like a challenge. Kryll, still dizzy from the teleportation, swatted it away with a growl.
Kryll struggled to his feet, shoving away Cillian's offered hand. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did we keep the great Cillian waiting? How inconsiderate of us mere mortals."
"Spare me the dramatics," Cillian retorted, his tone razor-sharp. Cillian's eyebrow arched, a minute movement that somehow conveyed volumes of disdain. "What's your excuse this time?"
Kryll's response was a torrent of frustration, his words tumbling out in a rush as his eyes flashed dangerously. "Excuse? You try pilfering from the Magic Library without getting your soul ripped out. It's not exactly a walk in the park for those of us who can't charm our way past every obstacle."
Throughout Kryll's tirade, Cillian's face remained a mask of indifference, as if carved from the same cold stone as the walls around them. His eyes, however, glinted with something dangerous – amusement, perhaps, or a warning.
"Charming? Is that what you call it?" Cillian's laugh was devoid of humor. "I call it efficiency. Something you might want to learn about."
"Whatever," he said flatly, the single word effectively silencing Kryll's rant. In a fluid motion, he bent to scoop up the coral-haired child, his movements gentle despite his apparent disinterest.
As Kryll opened his mouth to retort, Cillian cut him off, his attention already on the coral-haired boy. "Save your breath. Did you at least find anything useful about our little guest?" Cillian asked, his tone clinical as he brushed the boy's unruly bangs aside. His eyes scanned the child's face with an intensity that belied his casual demeanor.
Kryll, now helping a wobbly Remi to her feet, shook his head. "Nah. Nothing at all."
Remi's voice bubbled with enthusiasm, a stark contrast to the tension permeating the air. "We named him Luca!" She chimed in with her cheerfulness.
"Luca..." Cillian repeated, rolling the name on his tongue as if tasting it. His expression gave nothing away as he carried the child to the center of the vast hall, setting him down with unexpected care. He crouched before Luca, his next words softer, almost gentle. "Luca," Cillian echoed, his voice suddenly soft but no less menacing. He crouched before the boy, his next words a chilling promise. "Listen carefully, kid. What's coming won't be pleasant, but I'll make it quick. Trust me on this – it's in your best interest. So rest assured on this big bro, okay?"
Kryll's voice rang out, sharp with alarm. "Cillian, I swear if you—"
"Relax," Cillian cut him off, his tone glacial. "I'm not a monster. At least, not today."
Luca's small face was set in defiance, his jaw clenched and eyes burning with a mixture of fear and determination. He knew, with the instinct of a cornered animal, that escape was impossible.
"Good boy," Cillian murmured, patting Luca's head. The gesture seemed incongruous coming from him, a moment of tenderness from a man who exuded danger. He rose to his full height, backing away with measured steps that echoed in the cavernous space.
Kryll, sensing the shift in atmosphere, grabbed Remi's arm and pulled her urgently towards the far end of the hall. Their footsteps were hurried, a counterpoint to Cillian's deliberate pace.
The air in the training grounds grew thick with anticipation. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight, the only movement in the suddenly still room. The soft scrape of Cillian's boots on stone as he positioned himself was deafening in the silence, each step bringing him closer to whatever grim task lay ahead.
The cavernous expanse of the Inner Training Grounds fell into an unnatural stillness as Cillian slowly tilted his head back, his gaze fixed on the vaulted ceiling high above. The worn stone walls seemed to hold their breath, anticipating the extraordinary event about to unfold. Shafts of sunlight that had moments ago illuminated the space now appeared dim in comparison to the otherworldly energy beginning to coalesce around Cillian's form.
His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, drifted closed with an almost meditative slowness. The lines of his face smoothed out, a mask of concentration settling over his features. His lips began to move, forming words in a language so ancient it predated the very foundations of the palace. The syllables, though inaudible, seemed to resonate through the air, causing the dust motes floating in the sunbeams to dance with increased frenzy.
To be Continued...