Chapter 12: Proving Worth in Edoras
John Stark gripped a borrowed sword in Edoras' courtyard, the cold steel biting into his calloused palms, the air thick with swirling dust kicked up by the stomping boots of Rohirrim riders, the grit settling on his tongue. The worn leather armor creaked with each movement, sweat already beading on his brow, stinging as it trickled into his eyes, while he squared off against a rotation of silent, imposing figures, their eyes assessing him with quiet skepticism. His legs ached from the ride, a dull throb in his thighs, and the system's hum pulsed steadily, a battle rhythm he kept locked behind a focused frown, his breath shallow with anticipation.
Steel clanged violently as he met his first opponent's charge, the rider's precise strikes testing his limits, the impact jarring his wrists. He stumbled, relying on death-earned Agility to parry, his arms screaming with the effort, sweat stinging his eyes like salt, the taste bitter on his lips. He applied the muscle-memory of Sword Mastery, masking its system origin with a grunt of exertion, his blade clashing awkwardly yet effectively, the metal ringing in his ears.
"Focus. This is how you earn the respect. This is how you stay alive," he thought, rubbing the back of his neck, the tic a lifeline as his breath grew ragged, his chest heaving.
His opponent stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow with a calloused hand, and offered a gruff nod, the first crack in their wall of doubt, the air cooling slightly. John moved to the next, Cenric, whose weathered face held grudging curiosity, their spar a brutal dance of blows that left his lungs burning, the dust choking him.
[SYSTEM: Sword Mastery: Lv. 4. Not bad, warrior. Keep that guard up, or it's a trip back to the respawn point.]
"This is tougher than my old gym sessions," he muttered, the anachronistic humor a private shield as he caught his breath, his knees trembling.
Cenric raised a cup of water in silent respect, the Rohirrim beginning to see a fighter beneath the outsider's odd ways, their nods a subtle shift in perception, the courtyard's stones warm underfoot.
John leaned against the cold stone wall, his lungs ablaze, muscles aching from the relentless training, the rough surface scraping his shoulder. He bowed his head, feigning exhaustion as the HUD flared, its hum sharp and insistent, the glow searing his vision.
[SYSTEM: Sword Mastery: Lv. 5. Don't get cocky. War looms on the horizon. Maxed-out skill is required.]
A flood of balance, edge-work, and counter-strike knowledge surged through him, a perfect download he concealed with a heavy sigh, his excitement masked as fatigue under the watching eyes of the king's men, his fingers tightening on the hilt.
"Sword pro? Don't cut yourself, Stark," he grimaced at the system's snark, his hand tracing a crack in the stone to steady himself, the chill seeping into his bones.
War looms. The warning tied his growth to Helm's Deep, a shadow on the horizon, and he stood, the sword now an extension of his will, no longer a pretense, his pulse quickening.
Éowyn watched from the sidelines, her presence a warm anchor, her smile a beacon as the wind tugged her hair into a golden frame, the strands dancing in the breeze. He nodded, hiding HUD checks as focus, their bond deepening in the shared silence, her gaze steadying his nerves.
"Your skill grows swiftly, John Stark," she said, her voice clear and warm, cutting through the courtyard's din. "No man has learned the way of the sword so fast. You have true heart."
A flush of pleasure warmed him, drowning the Soul Wear's chill, and he grinned awkwardly, his face heating.
"Your cheers beat any Twitch chat," he replied, the quip his awkward attempt at flirtation, passing it off as charm, his voice cracking.
[SYSTEM: Charisma: +0.5. She's impressed, Stark. Good job confusing her with that Twitch reference.]
A scout galloped in, his horse lathered with foam, shattering the moment, the animal's hooves pounding the earth.
"My Lord! New Dunlending activity reported in the North! Not a raid, but a large, organized skirmish force! They strike closer to Edoras!"
The courtyard erupted into action, the king's apathy forgotten, and John seized his sword, meeting Éowyn's gaze, his grip slick with sweat.
"The next skirmish is about to begin," he thought, his mastery, strength, and resolve aligning for the fight ahead, the wind carrying the scout's urgency.
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