Raizen's boots scuffed the drill hall floor, dust swirling faint around his ankles as he swung the stick again—sharp, deliberate cuts through the air, the rhythm sinking into his bones.
Sweat beaded on his neck, cooling slow after his last bout with Marvin, the echo of their laughter still hanging in the quiet.
Two years since that muddy return—two years of grinding, of pushing 'til his arms shook and his lungs burned—had carved something tougher into his frame.
Legs longer now, frame lean but wiry, his patched shirt clung damp, seams fraying where he'd stretched it past its limits, patches rough against his skin from endless drills.
Marvin burst back in—sandy hair wild, stick slung over his shoulder like a conqueror's prize—grinning wide as he kicked up more dust.
"Thought you'd quit without me," he called, voice bouncing off the stone walls—Raizen snorted, lowering his stick.
"You'd cry if I did—can't spar alone." Marvin darted close, jabbing the air an inch from Raizen's chest—"I'd win without you slowing me down!"—and Raizen swatted the stick aside, smirking.
"Keep dreaming—you trip over your own feet half the time."
They circled each other—sticks clacking fast, a flurry of cracks and thuds—Marvin's laugh spilling out as he stumbled back, boots scuffing.
"Father says I'm getting quicker," he panted—Raizen grinned, sharp—"He's lying to keep you quiet." Marvin shoved him, playful, shoulder to shoulder—a warmth Raizen hadn't known he'd craved 'til it stuck.
'He's loud and reckless,'Raizen thought, parrying another wild swing—Marvin's grin flashed, bright against the gloom.
'Been months of this—sticks, laughing, somehow it eases this dread in my heart.'
Their sparring stretched—Marvin lunged again, stick arcing high—Raizen ducked, sweeping his own low, catching Marvin's shin.
"Ow—cheat!" Marvin yelped, hopping back—Raizen laughed, rare and rough—"Pay attention then!"
They traded blows 'til their arms ached, dust thick in the air, Marvin's chatter a steady hum—stories of catching frogs by the creek, boasts of outrunning Ricardo's old hound.
Ricardo's voice cut through—"Enough horsing around—form up!"
He strode in from the courtyard, graying hair catching the torchlight, sharp eyes scanning them like a hawk over fields.
His wiry frame leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but his smirk betrayed the gruff bark—"You two'll wear out my sticks before learning anything,"
Raizen straightened—stick at his side—while Marvin mock-saluted, grinning wider. "Rai's the slow one, Father—blame him."
Ricardo's laugh rumbled low—"He's got you beat on footwork, idiot—watch him dodge next time," Raizen's chest puffed faint—Ricardo's praise landed solid, a soldier's nod he'd earned swing by swing.
"Keep at it, Rai," Ricardo added, clapping his shoulder firm—"You've got grit—more than most here."
'He means it,' Raizen mused, feeling the weight of that hand linger. 'Not just words—sees something in me, something worth the time.'
Ricardo lingered—adjusting Raizen's grip, showing a tighter stance—voice low as he muttered tips: "Pivot here—strike fast—don't overthink," They ran a drill—slow, then sharp—sticks clashing 'til Raizen's palms stung, Ricardo nodding approval—"Better. You'll hold your own someday."
The hall emptied as Ricardo waved them out—"Supper's on—Lira's orders."
Raizen trailed Marvin toward the kitchen annex, the scent of fresh bread drifting through the corridors—warm, crisp, cutting through the manor's stale bite.
Lira stood at the table—brown hair streaked gray, hands dusted white with flour—kneading dough with a steady rhythm, her apron smudged from hours at it.
"Wipe those boots," she said, not looking up—"Teriel's already snarling about the floors." Raizen scraped his soles on the mat, Marvin doing the same—grinning as he nudged Raizen's elbow.
"She'd blame you anyway." Marvin whispered—Raizen rolled his eyes—"Always does."
Lira slid a plate across—bread steaming, crust golden—Raizen tore off a chunk, the heat stinging his fingers as he bit in, savoring the rare softness.
Marvin grabbed his own, mumbling through a full mouth—"Best yet, Mother."
Lira's stern face softened, a smile tugging her lips—"Eat up, Rai—you're all bones still."
Raizen ducked his head—"Yes ma'am."—swallowing fast as her rough laugh filled the space.
Ricardo leaned in—"He's growing into it, Lira—warrior's build coming."
He ruffled Marvin's hair—"This one's still a twig."
Marvin swatted his hand—"I'll outgrow you both!"—and Lira chuckled, shoving another loaf their way—"Keep dreaming, twig."
'She's steady," Raizen thought, tearing another piece—fingers brushing the warm crust.
'Always here, always feeding us—she cares more than she lets on. The Bread's better than anything this place deserves.'
Lira lingered—humming low, rolling dough—then tossed Raizen a rag—"Wipe that sweat, you're dripping."
He caught it, scrubbing his face—her nod was quick, a quiet approval that settled warm in his gut.
Outside, Garen's broad shadow loomed by the gates—cloak flapping as he sharpened his sword, the whetstone's scrape a steady hum.
Raizen paused—Marvin peeling off toward the annex—nodding once as Garen glanced up.
"Still at it, little one?" Garen rumbled, voice low—Raizen shrugged, "Ricardo's orders."
Garen's lip twitched, a half-smile—"Saw you spar—Quick hands now. Don't let that kid trip you up."
Raizen scuffed his boot—"Trying not to."—Garen snorted—"Good. Gates need oil—tell Ricardo if he asks."
He turned back to his blade, the scrape resuming—Raizen lingered, watching the sparks fly faint.
'He's all steel,' he thought—'but that nod's real, he's watching, even when he don't say it."
In the corridor, Ryan darted out—scarf trailing, freckles stark against pale skin—nearly crashing into Raizen.
"Rai!" he hissed, eyes darting—"Mother's grumbling—something about dust again."
Raizen smirked—"Same old tune."
Ryan's grin flickered—"Saw you with Marvin—looked fun. Teach me sometime?"
Raizen tossed him the stick—"Sure—dodge Marvin first, he's sloppy."
Ryan caught it, clutching it tight—"Deal!"—but Teriel's voice sliced through—"Ryan! Away from that mess!"
She stormed up, skirts swishing sharp, gray streaks glinting in her hair—lips pursed tight as she glared at Raizen.
"You—keep your filth off my floors, useless as ever," she snapped, voice grating—Raizen's jaw clenched—"Didn't touch 'em"—but she huffed, muttering—"Leeching off us all," and swept off, Ryan shooting an apologetic glance before scurrying after.
'She's poison,' Raizen thought, staring at her retreating shadow—'every word's a jab, every look's a shove—hates me breathing her air.'
He trudged back to the drill hall—torchlight dim, dust settling thick in the quiet.
Marvin's laugh, Ricardo's clap, Lira's bread—they clung to him, threads of warmth in the manor's cold rot.
Garen's nod, Ryan's quick grin—even Teriel's venom—wove a life here, but the marquessate's decay gnawed deeper—beams sagging, air heavy with stagnation. He'd leave it one day—when it got too heavy—but for now, he swung again, stick cutting air, boots scuffing stone, sweat beading down his spine.
He dropped the stick—clatter sharp—and slumped against the wall, chest heaving, dust sticking to damp skin.
Kezess's voice slithered in, low and cold—"You're compatible with the shards, kid—more than you know."
Raizen froze—sweat cooling fast, eyes narrowing in the dark.
"What's that mean?" he muttered, voice rough, confusion knotting his gut—Kezess hummed, red eyes glinting faint, sharp as blades.
"Power—old, jagged—waiting in you. You'll see." Raizen's fists clenched—sweat stung his palms—"Explain it—what shards?"—but Kezess's hum turned mean—"When it cuts, you'll know"—and dimmed, red eyes fading, leaving Raizen staring at shadows, heart thudding, questions unanswered.