The two wooden swords clashed with a violence that made the very air vibrate. But it was in little Aito's arms where the true sensation manifested. An intense, almost painful vibration ran through every muscle, every bone, every fiber of his small arms. He could feel his hands trembling, how the wood of his sword threatened to slip from his numb fingers. The impact had been too strong. Zekin was a thousand times more powerful, a thousand times more solid. His arm recoiled, defeated by his master's overwhelming strength.
But he did not give up. He still held the sword, even though his hands were shaking.
Calithia, seeing her brother in trouble, seized the moment. Her sword traced a lateral arc, aiming for Zekin's exposed side. But the veteran knight, with a peripheral awareness honed over decades of battle, had already anticipated the movement. He moved his sword with surgical precision, deflecting it effortlessly.
The result for Calithia was the same as for Aito: a vibration that shook her arms and made her retreat several steps, gasping from the effort. Although she was bigger than her brother, she was still a small girl, and Zekin was an immovable mountain.
The two siblings exchanged a brief look, a silent communication that only they understood. And then, with a joint roar, they lunged at Zekin again.
Aito from the left, his sword trembling but firm. Calithia from the right, her eyes shining with determination. They attacked at the same time, a coordinated move that would have made any instructor proud.
But Zekin was Zekin.
His sword moved in a perfect arc, a horizontal cut executed with a speed and precision that defied logic. The blow was not aimed at the children, but at their swords.
Crack. Crack.
Two almost simultaneous sounds. The siblings' wooden swords broke cleanly in half, the upper pieces flying through the air in a dance of splinters.
And then, in a move that seemed to happen in slow motion, Zekin extended his free arm. He caught one of the sword fragments in mid-air, just before it hit the ground. And in the next instant, the tip of his own sword rested gently against Calithia's neck, while the wooden fragment he had caught pointed directly at Aito's throat.
Silence.
The only sound in the hall was the labored breathing of the two children and the distant song of birds in the gardens. The sun continued to stream through the windows, indifferent to the lesson that had just been imparted.
Aito's golden eyes widened with a mixture of astonishment and fear. He could feel the cold, rough wood of the fragment brushing against the delicate skin of his neck. One more move, one millimeter of pressure, and...
—You are both dead —said Zekin, his grave and serene voice breaking the spell.
He withdrew the sword and the wooden fragment with the same speed he had placed them. He took a step back and observed the two children, who were still panting, their eyes wide and their hands still clutching the stumps of their broken swords.
Calithia was the first to react. She dropped the remains of her sword to the ground, the sound of wood against stone echoing hollowly in the hall. She lowered her head, her hair covering her face. Aito could see her shoulders beginning to tremble slightly.
—Sister... —Aito whispered, still in shock.
—I... I couldn't do anything —Calithia murmured, her voice breaking—. Again... I couldn't protect you.
Aito felt a knot in his stomach. Forgetting for a moment the trembling in his arms and the fear that still ran down his spine, he dropped his broken sword and approached his sister. With a tenderness unexpected in a five-year-old boy, he took her hand.
—But we're alive, sister —Aito said, in his soft little voice—. Master Zekin was just teaching us. Right, Master?
Zekin, who had observed the scene in silence, slowly nodded. His severe expression softened, and for the first time that morning, a small smile appeared on his lips.
—Prince Aito is right —he said, kneeling down to the children's level—. This was not a real battle. It was a lesson. And both of you have learned something valuable today.
Calithia lifted her head, her eyes bright with tears threatening to spill over.
Zekin looked first at Aito, then at her.
—You, Princess Calithia, have learned that protection is not just about throwing yourself into danger. Sometimes, protecting means thinking, waiting, coordinating. Your love for your brother is your greatest strength, but it can also be your downfall if you let it blind you.
Then he looked at Aito, and his eyes narrowed slightly with renewed interest.
—And you, little Aito, have shown something today. Something even I did not expect. That gust of wind... do you know what it was?
Aito shook his head, his golden eyes reflecting confusion.
—It was your innate element —Zekin explained—. Wind. It manifested, and it did so to propel you towards your goal. That is extraordinary for a child your age. But it is also dangerous.
—Dangerous? —Aito asked.
—Because power without control is like a sword without a hand to guide it —Zekin replied—. It can hurt you before it hurts your enemy. Do you feel your arms? The trembling?
Aito nodded, instinctively rubbing his arms.
—That trembling is not just from the clash with my sword. It is also from the effort of channeling the wind without knowing how to do it. If you continue like this, you could hurt yourself needlessly.
Aito looked at his hands, still slightly trembling. Then he looked up at Zekin, and in his golden eyes there was no fear, but a renewed determination.
—Teach me, Master —he said firmly—. Teach me to control it.
Zekin smiled openly this time, a rare gesture on his weathered face.
—That is the right attitude, little prince. But controlling the wind is not learned in a day. It requires patience, discipline, and above all, understanding. You must learn to feel the wind not as a tool, but as an extension of yourself.
Calithia, now calmer, wiped her tears with the back of her hand and looked at her brother with a mixture of pride and concern.
—Does that mean Aito will be very powerful? —she asked.
—He has the potential —Zekin replied honestly—. But potential is nothing without work. And work, without direction, is wasted effort. That is why you are here. To learn. To grow. To direct that potential where it needs to go.
He stood up and retrieved the fragments of the broken swords.
—That is all for today. Go rest, drink water, and reflect on what has happened. Tomorrow we will continue.
The children nodded, still processing the emotions and teachings of the fight. Calithia took Aito's hand, this time not to protect him, but to walk together, as equals.
—Aito —Calithia said as they left the hall—. Did you really create wind with your feet?
—I don't know —Aito admitted—. I just wanted to reach Master quickly. And suddenly... I felt something pushing me.
—It was amazing —Calithia said, and this time in her voice there was no sadness, but wonder—. You looked like a leaf carried by the wind.
Aito smiled, a little shy from the compliment.
—Do you think I'll be able to control it someday?
Calithia squeezed his hand.
—Of course you will. And when you do, I'll be by your side. Even if it's just to hold you down if the wind carries you too far.
Both laughed, and their laughter mingled with the birdsong and the distant sound of swords from other training yards. The sun continued to shine, the day went on, and two siblings walked together towards the castle, leaving behind a hall where they had learned that defeat, sometimes, is the best teacher.
High up in one of the windows, a figure watched in silence. The Queen, who had witnessed the entire training session from the shadows, smiled with pride and also with a pang of maternal concern. Her little Aito had shown extraordinary power.
But that, as Zekin had rightly said, was a story for another day.
She moved away from the window with the same gentleness with which she had arrived, leaving the morning sun to continue bathing the empty hall, where the echoes of the fight still seemed to resonate in the air.
Clang-clang… Clang-clang…