Chapter Text
Serai Kingdom, Brackenshire County, the Eastern Barracks.
Michael Smith had always preferred the nighttime, when the world was quiet, distractions were few, and the moon was high in the sky.
It wasn’t until the sun was set that he could feel at his most energetic, and he could be left to concentrate on whatever project he had set himself to. That night, the moon was so close, and so close to full, it provided the warehouse with enough moonlight that Michael had no need of a torch. Even hours after sunset, when his fellow trainees lay abed, he was working tirelessly, and dreaming of the day he might be tasked with a duty far more important than chopping firewood.
The warehouse was cold and damp, and wasn’t much better in the daytime. There was a nasty chill in here, and a draft that was exacerbated by the biting October winds. The building wasn’t at all suited for food storage, so it was instead used to stock spare weapons and armour. The walls were covered from top to bottom with weapon racks, piled high with swords, spears, axes, bows, knives, plate armour and shields, none of which were in great condition. Most were old and worn, scratched and cracked, and rusting over from lack of use. They were accompanied by groups of broken training dummies, all of them in varying states of decay, and crate upon crate of arrows, crossbow bolts, armour plates, hay bales (the horses weren’t keen on damp hay, but it was the best they got), and at the very back, an entire tree’s worth of rough, unchopped logs. This was the exact problem that Michael had set out to fix.
The warehouses stood on the far side of the Eastern Barracks’ grounds, far enough away from the sleeping quarters that even the sounds of the other trainees’ cacophonous snores couldn’t reach Michael’s ears. The silence was only interrupted only by the rhythmic thok sounds of his axe connecting with the firewood. Unabated by distractions, his thoughts wandered, drifting to the subject that so often occupied his mind: his dream of achieving knighthood.
Michael had lived in the Eastern Seraian Barracks for most of his young life. He spent his days training, serving his superiors, and on occasion, fighting alongside the Seraian army, to defend their borders from attack. But he was always awaiting his next chance to be of use to his knight.
Unfortunately for Michael, the Royal Knights, who served at their monarch’s side at all times, were more concerned with defending the royal family than they were with raising squires. The last time Michael’s knight had come to the barracks seeking his squire’s aid had been three months ago, and his visits were getting fewer and father between. This was something that irritated Michael to no end. How was he supposed to prove his worthiness as a candidate for knighthood if his knight was too busy to even pay him a visit?
Michael had lost count of the attempts he had made to persuade the knight to let him stay with him, at his side, where he would be of far better use to him. The more time he spent training under the knight’s guidance, the sooner he could be of worth to his kingdom’s military. But the response was always the same. Always firm, always even-tempered, and always “no”.
“This is the only place for you, son,” Sir Romanenkov had said to him in his thick accent. “Just for now. Just until I can find something else for you. Have patience until then.”
Three years had passed since they’d had that conversation.
Michael lined up another piece of firewood, and brought his axe down upon it with a little more vengeance. Perhaps too much, as his strike sent one half of the log spinning off into the shadows.
With an irritated sigh, Michael set his axe temporarily aside, and went in search of the discarded wood. His workbench was brightly lit by a moonbeam, but the rest of the warehouse was cast in shadow, and it was there that the log had scurried off to. Even as he blinked into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust, he could barely see a foot in front of him. He was forced to rely less on his sight and more on the hope that his foot might accidentally collide with the lost firewood.
He searched the shadows like this, but was having little luck, and his eyes became ever more drawn to the moonlight, as it poured down in streaks from the cracks in the roof and the rafters. Amidst the glow, there was a singular beam that shone brighter than the others. It cut through the shadows, and landed upon a sword, a singular sheathed blade propped up against a storage box, as though it were pulling the light towards it.
Before he could get too sidetracked, Michael found the firewood - or rather, his boot did, as he accidentally kicked it and sent it clattering across the floor. He bent down and patted his fingertips against the stone ground, until they found wood. He hoped that this particular log would burn far better than most. It was the least it could do for all the trouble it had given him.
He made his way back to the workbench, intending to go immediately back to his work. Instead, he turned to look at the sword again. Its dull slightly curved scabbard, the tempered steel of the hilt wrapped tightly in tattered cloth. So very unlike any of the other swords stored in this warehouse. The range of weapons available for the trainees was by no means meagre: the selection ranged from light and tiny daggers, to chipped but trusty one-handed swords, to hefty and intimidating broadswords. Those unskilled in the art of swordsmanship had the choice of taking up an axe, or a glaive, or a longbow, if that better suited them. But there was not a single blade in the barracks quite like this one. It was utterly unmistakable.
Michael had been this sword’s owner for as long as he could remember, but he had never known it to catch the moonlight with such concentrated intensity.
He told himself it had been a trick of the light, and went back to his chopping bench. He picked up the other less adventurous log, and threw them both into the pile with the rest of their bifurcated brethren.
Once the firewood was prepared for the following day, and all of his tools had been put back in their rightful place, Michael returned to collect his sword with his head held high, satisfied with a job well done and another night put to good use. But, before he could leave the building, a thought stopped him. Perhaps the day was not quite over yet.
Life in the barracks meant that privacy was a rarity, not a given. At breakfast, at work, at play, at training, at rest, there would be someone demanding his attention, or poking their nose into his business. Michael shot a look at a set of bows hung on a nearby wall, disdain painting his features as they brought back an irritating memory. His archery skills were, in his opinion, abysmal: something that came as a surprise to his tutors, who so often praised his focused, accurate sword strikes. This was not something that perturbed him; Michael had no interest in pursuing archery. He was certain he didn’t have the same flair for the bow as he did with the sword. He had been unable to replicate his precise swordplay in his archery, thanks in no small part to his fellow trainees’ propensity for shouting and jeering at him just as he was lining up his shot. They were lucky he’d hit the target at all, and had not aimed for their faces instead.
Not that Michael was unused to receiving such treatment from the other trainees. They had never quite seen eye to eye, on many matters. Such as his preferred choice of weapon.
He gripped the sword in his hand a little tighter. He couldn’t possibly waste this opportunity to practice in private, undeterred by his peers.
A short while later, Michael was stepping back from a readied training dummy, strategically positioned right where the moonlight would catch it. This particular mannequin was well-used; countless cuts and notches peppered its worn wooden limbs, and had all but destroyed the old flaking paint that marked its weak spots. Even the frown carved into its crude face failed to convey any kind of menace.
He admired his handiwork, checking to make sure the dummy had the strength to hold the sword and shield he’d given it, and ultimately decided he was still unsatisfied. He reached across, holding the scabbard of his blade at length, and used the heel to bump the dummy’s arm up a notch. These models had not been assembled with the greatest care, and the slight disturbance was enough to shake the dummy’s entire arm. It gestured as though it were waving its weapon menacingly in Michael’s direction. At this, a smile came unbidden to his lips.
Playing along, he knocked his head back and set his jaw, as though he were offended by the most uncouth manner the dummy had used to challenge him with.
“‘Do you raise your blade to me, sir?’”
It was a quote from a story book he’d read, about a valiant soldier’s battle against a kingdom that had turned its back on him. Though the words were not his own, hearing them spoken in his own voice filled him with determination.
The dummy was, of course, unresponsive. Michael was unperturbed.
“‘You do,’” he said.
The dummy had not moved.
“‘But you must know…’”
He set a firm grip upon the hilt of his sword. It fit his palm as though it had been made to be held by his hands. In one swift motion, he drew the sword high, slicing a sharp arc over his head, to point the single-sided blade at this foe.
“‘A knight cannot refuse a challenge.’”
The dummy appeared nonplussed, but Michael liked to think that, had it been a living breathing thing, it would currently be fearing for its life.
But there was no going back now: the challenge was issued, and their duel must begin.
Michael was nothing if not a devoted student, so he initiated the battle the way he had been taught to: with the honourable Seraian salute. Clapping his ankles together, he straightened his back and shoulders, head held high as he brought his flattened palm down upon his heart. Then he bowed deeply. He righted himself with a flourish, and with that, the games were over.
He charged towards the dummy, strafing from side to side as he went, dodging his opponent’s imaginary attacks as he honed in on its weak spots. Footwork was his strongest asset, and he put it to good use during training. He would catch himself on the balls of his feet every time he changed direction, so not a single step would lose momentum. He didn’t set a foot wrong, yet he still wasn’t satisfied. Michael told himself he should be focusing on improving his weaknesses instead of reveling in his strengths. He was so confident in his footwork he could dance circles around his peers and his enemies; not one of his fellow trainees could get a hand on him, no matter how hard they tried. And they did try.
When he wasn’t dodging imaginary attacks from the dummy’s sword, he was landing accurate blows on the weak spot targets on its chest, shoulders and head. But he had a nasty habit of leaving himself open to attack during his parries, and he was fully aware of his shortcomings. He made a sharp turn, evading another non-existent swipe at his face, and attempted to correct himself by bringing his shield closer to his chest. That solved his defence problem, but he still hadn’t managed to land a strike of his own. The voice of his teacher was in his head, chiding him for his mistakes.
“Michael!” Sir Leon would yell. “Keep your wits about you, lad! Had this been a real fight, you’d have lost both your legs by now! Stop prancing about and bloody hit him!”
Frustration flooded his chest; it took hold of his sword arm and raised his weapon high. The blade cast a shadow upon Michael’s foe as it pierced the moonbeams above him. He prepared to bring the weapon down hard upon the dummy’s chest target, more concerned with attaining catharsis than he was with keeping the mannequin in one piece.
Luckily, he noticed the bright lights sparking from his sword before the glowing blade could make contact.
“Oh! Woah woah!”
He leapt back, all malice gone from his wide eyes, so surprised that he lost his grip on the hilt and tossed it back and forth between his palms like a hot potato. Once the initial shock was over, he gripped the hilt firm in both hands, arms out straight like he were trying to ward off a wild animal. But it wasn’t biting back. The hilt was cool to the touch, and the sparks had stopped. And most peculiar of all, the light was entirely gone from the sword’s silver blade.
Michael glared at the sword as though it had personally offended him.
“How?” he huffed as he turned the weapon over in his hands, bringing it up close to his eyes to inspect it proper. “How does this keep happening…?”
His search yielded no results. No heat, no marks, not so much as a flicker of life or light. Not even a good shake could bring a reaction out of it. The blade was entirely inert, obedient, and still reluctant to explain its erratic propensity for setting itself alight.
Relenting, Michael let his arm flop to his side, sighing as he passed a hand across his face, his head heavy with the burden of unanswered questions. When he removed his palm, his eyes were met once again with the training dummy, standing undefeated with its far more obedient weapon held high. Its face looked downright smug now.
Far too proud to leave their sparring match undecided, Michael collected himself, readied his stance, and lunged at his target again. He wasn’t messing around this time; foregoing footwork practice in favour of brute strength, Michael drew back his sword and struck the dummy’s centre target without restraint. It span and rattled violently upon its pivot, its balance thrown by the hefty shield and sword strapped to its arms, and it tottered helplessly before it gave way to gravity’s pull. With a defeated creak, it fell to the floor.
Michael sheathed his blade, grinning. He may not have been any closer to discovering the truth about his sparking sword, but he was at least pleased he got to have the last word.