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Chapter 14 - The Cursed Name

The main training ground opened before Caelum like a sea of pale sand, bordered by weathered palisades and archery frames. He knew the place well—he had tested his strength here against the guards under Barion's stern gaze—but he had never seen it this full.

Fifteen pages. Five squires.

For a mere baron, it was an impressive youthful force.

The pages, dressed in Yllar's blue and silver tunics, each carried a wooden sword or a battered old shield. The squires stood out by a piece of armor: studded leather, iron pauldrons, or metal bracers. A sign they had already stepped onto a battlefield, even if only in the second line.

Here, there was no strict separation. Pairs mixed pages and squires, a reminder that in a few years, these youths would form the same web of loyalties and debts.

As Caelum crossed the rope marking the central circle, he felt a few gazes settle on him. Some curious, others indifferent… and one, heavy with contempt.

Érian Dalmor.

He stood tall, one hand resting on the hilt of his training sword as if it already belonged to him. A head taller than Caelum, Érian had an athletic build, forged by years of drills under knightly breathwork. His thick black hair was tied in a low tail, though a few rebellious strands framed a face with sharp, chiseled features. His skin bore the marks of sun and dust, and his eyes—steel gray—always seemed to search for weakness in others.

Even at rest, he radiated contained tension, like a drawn bow. His voice, when he spoke, was low but firm enough to cut through the noise:

"Well, well. The son of the kingdom's gravedigger. They let you in?"

Caelum held his gaze but didn't respond. This wasn't the place for words.

Behind that contempt lay a story they both knew by heart.

The Battle of Veyrun. Ten years earlier, the royal army had been forced to hold the southern line against an invading force twice its size. Sir Alaric Velmire, Caelum's father, had been appointed commander of the 3rd Royal Army. Sir Garran Dalmor, Érian's father, was his second.

On the morning of the third day, a thick fog covered the plain. The scouts sent by Dalmor misjudged the enemy's position. Believing they had several hours before the assault, Alaric Velmire split his forces: The left wing, led by Dalmor, moved to secure a strategic ford; the right wing, with Velmire, awaited the main attack.

But the enemy had hidden a breakthrough in the center. When the fog lifted, it was too late: the right wing was crushed, the ford lost, and the army caught in a pincer. It was a massacre.

Upon return, the Crown sought a single scapegoat. The blame fell on Velmire, accused of scattering his forces and ignoring retreat signals. Dalmor, though criticized for his scouting report, escaped full disgrace… but still lost his lands and title. Both families were ruined, but only House Velmire became the cursed name whispered like an insult.

For Érian, it was simple: If Velmire had held, his father wouldn't have failed. If Caelum bore that name, he bore the fault.

The master-at-arms, a wiry old man dry as a dead branch, clapped his hands. "Pairs of two! Switch after each round. No break longer than a salute."

Caelum first faced a blond page with an open face. The early exchanges were cautious: high guard, measured strikes. Caelum blocked, pivoted, used his stability to absorb rather than retaliate.

Then came a squire: sharper blows, irregular rhythms, shield slamming against his parries. His forearms vibrated, but his breath remained steady.

And finally… Érian.

The salute was brief. From the first slash, coming from the right, Caelum felt the difference. Not just technique—raw power. Each strike was heavy, fast, relentless. It reminded him of Barion, but with youth adding endurance to pressure.

Érian struck as if trying to carve defeat into Caelum's body. A horizontal blow, followed by a rising backhand, chained with a low feint to open the guard. Caelum parried, retreated, slipped out of range… but felt constantly pushed back. Even physically, Érian dominated him.

A whisper from a group of onlookers reached him between exchanges: "They say he's already close to a knight's level. If he awakens his life seed, he'll make it."

Caelum took a hit to the ribs, dodged a slash to the face, and countered with a clumsy backhand—just to regain space. His opponent deflected it effortlessly and pressed forward.

"Bad habit of retreating, Velmire," Érian said with a cold smile.

The exchanges grew faster. Caelum, despite his reflexes and endurance, couldn't turn the tide. But he held. Each breath remained measured.

When the master-at-arms called for a switch, Érian lowered his weapon but kept his eyes on him.

"You hold better than your father," he murmured as he passed.

Caelum still didn't respond. But the words etched themselves like a fresh scar.

He returned to his place, reset his grip on the hilt, and continued. He hadn't won a single bout… but he had held his ground against all, including Érian.

And on this sand, sometimes holding was worth more than striking.

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Caelum switched partners, but his mind remained fixed on Érian. The way the squire had controlled the distance, imposed his rhythm, struck with clinical precision… It was the same feeling he'd had with Barion: the certainty that the other knew exactly what he was doing, every second. Except this time, there was no benevolent restraint.

A new wooden strike cracked against his sword. Caelum reacted purely on instinct, deflecting the blow before it reached his shoulder. His arms were beginning to feel heavy, but his breathing remained steady. It wasn't fatigue that troubled him. It was the cold realization: even with his new physical abilities, there were opponents who could dominate him on every level.

"You faced him?" asked a page beside him in a low voice between exchanges.

"Érian?"

"Yeah. Want some advice? Don't end up alone with him unless you've got a witness."

"Why?"

The boy shrugged and launched a clumsy strike that Caelum easily parried.

"He doesn't break the rules… but he likes to bend them. And he can afford to. He's already nearly at knight level. If he awakens his life seed, no one here will be able to touch him."

Caelum absorbed the information in silence. No protest, no denial. He had seen with his own eyes how thoroughly Érian dominated the exchange. Even his breathing, though not activated, was perfectly controlled—each inhale and exhale timed like a war metronome.

The master-at-arms' bell rang, signaling the end of the session. The youths scattered into small groups, laughing or commenting on the bouts. Caelum picked up his sword and placed it back on the rack, his fingers lingering for a moment on the wood, polished by years of wear.

He hadn't scored any points, nor forced Érian to retreat—but he had held his ground. And that was enough… for today.

As he stepped out of the ring, he felt a gaze on his back. He didn't turn. No need to check—he knew exactly who it belonged to.

[Skill: Inept Sword Handling — Mastery: 6%]

His hand, still resting on the hilt, had shifted its grip: firmer, more natural, as if the weapon had molded itself to his fingers. And deep within, a new sensation—a faint but clear instinct—whispered how to lift it, place it, strike or retreat… even before the opponent moved.

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