The problem with figuring things out was that you didn't know what you'd learned until after you'd bled for it.
Tegüs stood alone again, middle of the horse circle, face half-shadowed by dusk. No one had asked him to train. No one had welcomed him back from the cliffs. Most figured he'd died, or run off, or joined the wolves. He hadn't corrected them.
Instead, he watched. The young ones. The visiting masters. The soft-palmed disciples. Every step they took made noise to him now — not in sound, but in intention.
Before a punch came, it whispered.
Before a kick, the hip twitched.
Before a thought, the eyes lied.
He didn't have a style. Not yet. But he could smell one forming — something crooked and violent and born of scraped knuckles and near misses. It didn't have a stance or a name. It just reacted. Like a cornered animal that started to understand teeth weren't just for biting — they were for shaping the world.
> I dodge what I can't hit. I break what I can reach. Everything else, I outlast.
That was it. That was the only truth he had.
---
It didn't take long for another fight to find him.
A merchant's son from the south — cocky, overfed, sleeves too long for someone who'd never done real work — was showing off with a wooden blade. Spinning, twirling, smiling like he'd already won tomorrow's battles.
Tegüs walked by.
Didn't even stop.
Just said, "Your footwork's loud as goat piss."
That was enough.
---
The blade stung when it hit his shoulder. Not cut — just bruised. But enough to piss him off.
He turned with the strike. Felt the boy shift forward — too far, too proud — and dropped under the next swing. Slammed his forehead into the boy's gut. Heard the air leave his lungs like a kicked wineskin.
Didn't pause. Grabbed the tunic, spun low, and yanked him down into the dust.
One, two punches — not clean, not taught. Just sharp enough to mark and loud enough to count.
When it ended, the boy was bleeding from the lip and holding his ribs like something cracked.
Tegüs looked around.
Most of the circle stared. A few laughed. Fewer still understood.
But one voice called out.
"Brute," Kiren said. Calm. Cold. Not angry, not mocking — like someone commenting on a particularly ugly horse.
Tegüs stood. Shoulder aching. Knuckles scraped. Nose running again.
"You want to be next, silk boy?" he asked.
Kiren didn't move. Just tilted his head slightly, then walked into the ring.
---
It wasn't the same as before.
Kiren didn't flare his robes. Didn't start with a bow or a whisper. Just slid into stance — one foot forward, spear gripped loosely in both hands.
Tegüs shifted too. No form. No stance. Just lowered his body weight and let instinct coil in his legs.
They moved at the same time.
Kiren came in with a fast thrust. Not the dramatic kind — tight, efficient, aimed at the gut.
Tegüs slipped left — not away, just around. The spear missed, but not by much.
He charged.
Kiren reversed. Elegant, sure. Twisting step, redirection, counter-strike.
Tegüs blocked with his forearm. Felt bone on wood. Gritted his teeth and kept moving forward.
No flourishes. No spin. Just pressure.
He was smaller, but that made him slippery. Kiren was faster, but that made him predictable. Fancy legs always had patterns.
The third clash, Tegüs baited high and ducked under, throwing a shoulder into Kiren's side.
It landed. Sort of.
Both staggered. No clean win. Just bruises exchanged.
---
They circled.
Kiren's breathing was calm. Balanced.
Tegüs's was wild. Guttural.
He knew what the boy was thinking — he'd seen that look before. The calm judgement.
> You're strong, but undisciplined.
You're fast, but you waste motion.
You're a beast pretending to be a warrior.
Tegüs spat into the dust. Wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Then grinned.
"You think I fight wrong," he said. "But here we are. You're not winning. You're thinking."
Kiren didn't answer. But his brow furrowed, just slightly.
---
They clashed again. This time, Tegüs timed it better — sidestepped early, jammed the spear with his forearm, drove a knee up into Kiren's thigh.
It didn't drop him, but it staggered him.
And that was enough.
Tegüs didn't press the advantage. Just stepped back. Smirked.
"Style's supposed to help you win, aye? Not look pretty while you stall."
Kiren finally spoke. Voice low.
"You could be more than this, you know."
"More than what?"
"A savage."
Tegüs laughed. Loud, mean.
"I'm twelve. I piss blood twice a week and chew on bones to keep my teeth strong. You think I care what your poetry says I could be?"
---
They didn't finish the match. It didn't end clean.
But when Kiren walked away, his lip was split, and his stance wasn't quite as smooth.
And when Tegüs sat back by the fire that night, alone, nursing a wrist he hadn't even realized was bruised, he felt something humming under his skin.
Not pride.
Not glory.
> Potential.
Something was waking up. Not a style. Not yet.
But a way of seeing the fight before it started.
A way of shaping it into something no one else could copy.
Not pretty.
Not honorable.
But his.