Chapter 35 – Batteries and Sparks
The training yard at night always felt like someone had taken the day, wrung all the noise out, and left only the bones.
No shouting instructors.
No crowds at the fence.
Just sand, dummies, and the quiet creak of the walls in the wind.
I liked it that way.
The lamps along the edges burned low and steady, throwing long shadows. I stood in the center, the long, wrapped bundle at my feet, and listened to the way the air moved.
Footsteps broke that quiet.
Two sets.
I didn't even need to turn to know who they belonged to.
"Of course you're already here," Tamara said, stepping into the light. Her blue hair was tied up this time, red eyes bright in the dark. "Couldn't wait until morning to play with your new toy?"
Lyra hovered just behind her, a pace to the side, red hair loose around her shoulders instead of braided. Her blue eyes darted from me to the bundle, then back again.
"I thought you'd want to see it," I said.
Tamara sniffed.
"I thought you'd try to hide it," she said. "After a delivery like that in front of half the courtyard, the whole Academy's been buzzing. 'What did the village boy get? A divine artifact? A cursed sword? A pet dragon?'"
"No dragon," I said. "Too much shedding."
Lyra's mouth twitched.
Tamara folded her arms.
"Well?" she said. "Show us."
I crouched and pulled the cloth away.
The claymore lay in the sand like a line someone had drawn between today and the future.
Grum had followed the diagram exactly.
The spine of the blade glowed faintly in the lamplight, a shade different from the steel edges—a strange, copper-like alloy that seemed to drink light instead of reflect it. The cutting sides were solid steel, thick enough to survive abuse, shaped to a taper that promised they'd bite deep even before aura or anything else joined in.
The guard was wide and slightly forward-curved, built to catch and deflect. The hilt was long enough for my hands and more, wrapped in dark leather.
On a twelve-year-old, it might as well have been a door plank with delusions of grandeur.
Tamara whistled.
"That's… big," she said.
Lyra just stared.
"It suits you," she said softly. "In a few years."
"Planning ahead," I said.
I picked it up.
Weight settled into my grip—heavy, but balanced. The future-alloy spine carried it like a promise. One day, when my body caught up, this would move like an extension of my arm.
I turned it so the hilt caught the light.
Three small, round holes were set neatly along the bottom, just above where my hands would rest. Two more lay in the guard, one at each side, their rims lined with the same strange metal.
Tamara leaned closer, frowning.
"What are those?" she asked. "They look like… slots."
Lyra stepped closer too, red hair brushing my shoulder as she peered at the hilt.
"There are five," she said quietly. "Three there, two at the guard. They're too regular to be just decoration."
I couldn't help it.
I grinned.
"They're for batteries," I said.
Tamara blinked.
"For what?"
"For this," I said.
I set the claymore back down and reached into my satchel.
Five slim cylinders clinked softly together in my hand. Each was the length and thickness of an old-world double A cell, but wrapped in etched metal instead of painted tin—runes running along the side, a tiny crystal set at each end.
Here, they looked like what the Academy would call "portable mana cells." To me, they looked like the standard the future would be built on.
"The three in the hilt are main cells," I said. "The two in the guard are backup. Each one stores as much mana as my core can safely cycle when it's full."
Lyra's eyes widened.
"All that? In… that?" she asked.
Tamara frowned.
"That small thing?" she said. "You're exaggerating."
I slotted one of the cylinders into place.
The fit was perfect. It clicked in with a satisfying little sound, runes on the rim aligning with matching marks in the hilt. A faint hum ran down the spine of the sword, like a beast waking up somewhere under the metal.
"I'm not exaggerating," I said. "It took a lot of very expensive materials and my father talking the smiths into giving me a discount."
Viester had not enjoyed that conversation. He'd done it anyway.
Tamara narrowed her eyes.
"And if that much mana gets hit while it's in there?" she asked.
"Don't hit it," I said.
She stared.
"Erynd," she said slowly, "are you telling me this thing will explode if someone cuts through the hilt?"
"'Explode' is such a messy word," I said. "Think of it as… strongly objecting."
Tamara groaned.
Lyra looked somewhere between horrified and fascinated.
"But why five?" Lyra asked. "If one cell holds that much, why do you need more?"
"Because they don't all do the same thing," I said.
I slid the first cell back out and held it between my fingers.
"Each one has a single command carved into it," I said. "One will make the blade vibrate when I tell it to. One will hold the edge so fine it might as well be a single line. One will pour reinforcing mana through the alloy so it doesn't snap when I use the other two."
Tamara's eyes got that focused look she had when I talked about something she could feel on her skin.
"So you don't have to split your attention," she said slowly. "The cells do the… whatever. You just tell them when to start."
"Exactly," I said. "I use my aura to guide and direct. They do the boring part: keep the hum steady, keep the edge where it should be, keep the metal together."
Lyra's gaze lowered to the claymore.
"And the other two?" she asked, nodding at the guard slots.
"Spare mana," I said. "To feed the others if my core is empty. Or for future tricks."
I didn't say what else I'd noticed when I'd tested the first prototypes.
That the cells didn't just sit there waiting for me to fill them.
They pulled.
Ambient mana seeped toward them like water toward a drain, faster and faster, until the empty cell drank itself full in seconds. Like a tiny black hole with rules.
It was the first thing I'd made here that felt truly dangerous and truly mine.
"Also," I added, because telling them everything would be stupid, "as long as they're near mana at all, they recharge. So I don't have to rebuild them after every fight."
Tamara stared at the sword, then at me.
"You built this," she said. "Well. The cells. And the dwarf made the sword."
"Yes," I said.
"You're twelve," she said.
"Yes," I said again.
She made a face.
"I hate you a little bit," she muttered.
Lyra's lips curved.
"You're just jealous," she said.
"Of course I'm jealous," Tamara snapped. "Do you know how many dukes would kill to get their hands on something that recharges itself?"
She stopped, eyes snapping to mine.
"You do realise," she said, "that if anyone finds out how those work, you're never going to have a quiet life again."
"That's why I'm showing you here," I said, "and not in front of the whole Academy."
Lyra looked up at me.
"You trust us?" she asked.
I met her gaze.
Tamara's too.
"If either of you wanted to use me," I said, "you've had easier chances."
Tamara huffed.
"Don't sound so sure," she said, but there wasn't any real bite behind it.
Lyra's fingers tightened on the strap of her bag.
"I won't tell," she said.
Tamara rolled her eyes.
"Obviously *I'm* not telling," she said. "Why would I hand my advantage to half the nobles on a silver plate?"
"Good," I said. "In that case, let's see something."
I slid the cells back into my pocket.
Not yet.
First, I wanted to see how far they'd come without tricks.
I hefted the claymore again, letting my aura settle along the spine and bleed lightly into the steel, enough to keep the weight from dragging but not enough to sharpen the edge unnaturally.
"Both of you," I said. "Come at me."
Tamara blinked.
Lyra stared.
"At the same time," Tamara said. "Isn't that… unfair?"
"For me, yes," I said. "That's the point."
Tamara's expression shifted.
"Oh," she said. "This is going to be fun."
Lyra hesitated.
"Are you sure?" she asked. "You're… you're bigger, but—"
"I'm fine," I said. "If I fall over, you can drag me to the infirmary and tell them I tripped over my own sword."
Tamara snorted.
"Like anyone would believe that," she said. "Fine. Don't cry when I actually hit you this time."
She stepped back, rolling her shoulders. Wind gathered around her like an eager dog, tugging at her clothes.
Lyra drew in a breath and let it out slowly.
When she opened her eyes again, the shy, waiting girl was gone. Water aura flowed around her hands, small and tight, like gloves waiting to be shaped. Tiny sparks danced along her fingers, blue-white against the lamplight.
"Ready," she said.
"Begin," I said.
Tamara moved first.
Wind wrapped around her legs, pushing her forward. It wasn't the clumsy glide she'd had when we started; she'd tuned it, narrowed it. Now it gave her a sharp, snapping lunge, making her faster without stealing her balance.
Her first slash came in high, aura-tight, a probing cut meant to test my defence.
I met it with the flat of the claymore, letting the bigger sword's weight eat her momentum.
The impact shivered up my arms.
She grinned.
Flame flared along her edge, riding the wind.
This time, when she followed through, the slash didn't stop at the end of her arm. Fire streamed ahead, feeding on the air current, extending the cut in a long, burning line.
Better.
Much better.
I stepped aside, deflecting the wooden blade and letting the fire-slice hiss past my shoulder into the sand. It burned a neat, smoking line before it faded.
Tamara didn't pause.
Wind kicked under her feet again, carrying her to my right.
And straight into Lyra.
Lyra had not been idle while Tamara charged.
She'd circled, light on her feet, water clinging to her fingers. Instead of hurling it, she'd shaped it into thin, tight lines looped around her arms and wrists.
When she snapped her hand forward, the water streaked out—not as a clumsy splash, but as a narrow whip that caught the sand near my ankle.
It wasn't strong enough to bind.
It was enough to *tug*.
I shifted, weight adjusting, just as Tamara came in with another flaming cut.
If I'd been a half-step slower, that coordination would've boxed me in.
Lightning crackled up Lyra's other arm.
She snapped her fingers.
The water whip flashed as the electricity ran along it, leaping toward my aura.
I felt it bite, a sharp tingle as my aura field shunted it aside. If I'd been sloppy, it would've stunned me for a heartbeat.
Her control on that whip was precise. The line was thin, mana waste almost nonexistent; most mages bled power just keeping a shape like that from unraveling. Lyra's held steady like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Right. She was a heroine for a reason.
"Good," I said, even as I pivoted and brought the claymore around to knock Tamara's blade aside again. "Again."
They didn't need telling twice.
Tamara started using wind not just to move herself, but to feed Lyra. She'd cut wide, wind trailing off her sword, and Lyra would snatch that moving air with a line of water, turning it into a conducting path.
Flame and wind on one side, water and lightning on the other.
If someone had described that combination to me first-life, I would've called it a recipe for disaster.
Here, it was… almost elegant.
Tamara's speed forced me to keep my guard high. Lyra's whips and little snapping bolts pressed my footwork, trying to catch me off-balance.
Once, Lyra deliberately soaked part of the sand under my back foot, then sent a weak current through it. Not enough to hurt. Enough to make the muscles twitch.
Tamara saw the opening instantly.
Her next slash came in lower, aiming for my knee.
I let the claymore's weight drop, diverting her blow, then twisted and used the flat of the blade to flick Lyra's water back toward her before she could finish the pattern.
She yelped, dodging her own lightning.
We kept moving.
They weren't perfect.
Tamara over-committed twice, relying on her wind to save her instead of good stance. Lyra hesitated once when she had a clean shot at my side, worried about hitting Tamara.
But the gaps between their movements grew smaller.
Tamara started leaving spaces without thinking—pauses in her pressure where someone else could fit a strike.
Lyra started seeing them.
A water whip would flash in just as Tamara's blade drew attention, forcing me to block both at once or give ground. Every time Lyra extended that whip, it held its shape with almost no extra draw; her mana control was a miser's dream, spending exactly what it needed and not a drop more.
If she ever got real training, the world was going to have a problem.
They weren't fighting side by side.
They were starting to fight *together.*
I didn't use the claymore's tricks.
No vibration. No unnatural sharpness. No borrowed mana.
Just weight, reach, and the aura I'd already trained.
Even so, after a while, my breath came a little harder.
The cells in my pocket hummed like they were laughing at me.
Finally, I saw it—the point where their rhythm tipped too far forward.
Lyra pushed lightning too hard through a half-formed whip and lost a fraction of control. Tamara, trusting the opening, threw herself in with a full commitment cut.
I stepped inside her guard, twisted my wrists, and let the claymore's long hilt knock her sword up and away.
At the same time, I nudged the water line with my aura.
Lyra's current broke, snapping back toward her fingers in a harmless crackle.
She flinched.
Two heartbeats later, both of them were flat on the sand.
Tamara because I'd hooked her ankle with the claymore's crossguard and taken advantage of her overextended lunge.
Lyra because she'd tried to stop to avoid hitting us both and tripped over Tamara's leg.
They lay there, staring at the night sky.
I rested the claymore's flat across my shoulders and looked down at them.
"Match," I said.
Tamara groaned.
"I hate you," she said, staring up at the stars.
"You already said that," I said.
Lyra panted softly, red hair fanned out around her.
"We… almost had you," she said.
"Yes," I said. "Almost."
I let the sword slide down and stuck the tip in the sand.
"You work well together," I said. "When you stop trying to outshine each other for five seconds."
Tamara turned her head to glare at Lyra.
"I am not working with her," she said.
Lyra turned her head to glare right back.
"I don't need a noble to hold my hand," she said.
They both spoke at the same time.
"Never," they said.
Their mouths betrayed them.
They were smiling.
Just a little.
"You don't have to like each other," I said. "But you just made me work harder than some adult soldiers I've seen. If you keep fighting like that, other people are going to have a very bad time."
Tamara snorted.
Lyra's lips pressed together, the compliment landing somewhere it mattered.
I pulled the claymore free and rested it across my shoulders again.
"Besides," I added, "if you're too busy trying to scratch each other's eyes out, you'll both miss when the world tries to punch you in the back of the head."
Tamara sighed.
"Fine," she said. "Temporary truce. For training."
Lyra hesitated, then nodded.
"For training," she echoed.
Their eyes met again.
This time, there was less heat.
More… calculation.
They'd both seen how much stronger they were together than alone.
They weren't going to forget that.
"Good," I said. "Tomorrow we'll try something harder. Bring bandages."
"You bring them," Tamara muttered as she sat up. "You're the one with exploding sword parts."
Lyra laughed under her breath and pushed herself upright too, brushing sand from her skirt.
The lamps along the yard edge flickered.
It was late.
We gathered our things.
As we walked toward the exit, Tamara waved her hand, a little flame dancing over her fingers in time with her steps. Lyra traced a thin line of water along the fence, sparks snapping off it in tiny, controlled bursts.
They didn't walk shoulder to shoulder.
But they didn't put as much space between them as before either.
At the gate, we split—girls toward their wing, me toward mine.
"Same time tomorrow?" I asked.
Tamara rolled her eyes.
"As if you'd train without us now," she said.
Lyra smiled.
"I'll bring notes," she said. "If we get more assignments, I mean."
"Of course you will," I said.
They disappeared into the dim hallways.
I was halfway across the courtyard to the dorms when I heard it.
"Viscount Erynd Milton!"
A boy in a smith's apron again. Different one this time. Younger, freckles across his nose. He jogged up, breathing hard, clutching a folded slip of parchment.
"Message," he said, thrusting it at me. "From Master G. Said to give it to you 'the moment your arms stop wobbling.'"
Grum had very specific ideas about timing.
I unfolded the note.
The handwriting was blocky and heavy, like someone had carved it into the parchment with the quill.
*Sword done. You swing it yet? Bring it back when you're stronger. Got ideas for the next one. – G.*
Below that, in smaller script, someone else had squeezed in a line:
*P.S. The alloy likes you. That's rare. Don't waste it.*
I looked toward the dark shape of the training yard behind me, where sand still carried the scuffs of three sets of feet.
Tamara's wind and fire.
Lyra's water and lightning that held together with almost no loss.
My claymore, humming quietly along the spine even now.
Pieces were starting to fall into place.
"Tell him I got it," I said to the boy. "And that I'm not done with this one yet."
The boy shrugged.
"Not my job," he said. "But I'll say something if I see him."
He trotted off.
I stood there a moment longer, feeling the weight of the claymore in my hand and the faint sting where Lyra's near-miss lightning had grazed my aura.
I rested the flat of the blade against my shoulder and headed for the dorms, the night air cool on my cheek where Olivia's kiss had already faded.
Behind me, in the empty yard, the marks of our fight slowly disappeared under the drifting sand.