CHAPTER NINETEEN

Sword Growing from One’s Heart

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“Draw your sword, Prince Bram,” Sir Anthony insisted.

Calling him by name, that’s how Bram knew his seneschal was serious.

“So, this is why you wanted to meet me in the training hall…” Bram’s gaze drifted down to the pommel of his bastion-forged steel longsword. “…and why you’d insisted on commissioning me a new sword as quickly as possible.”

Sir Anthony smiled. “As always, you catch on quick, Your Highness.”

His smile twitched slightly.

“That wit has ever been your greatest strength,” the seneschal admitted. “It will serve you well when learning the first technique of the Peerless Heart Sword.”

Bram sighed.

“You know very well that I cannot use sorcery…”

“Lady Rowan’s told me differently.”

“I’ve received but a trickle of magic in my veins… It’s not nearly enough to harness the sorcery of such grand swordsmanship.”

Despite his obvious reticence, Bram’s right hand still grasped his sword’s hilt.

“I’m tired of failing you…”

“It is not weak to fear failure, Your Highness…but it is weakness to fear trying.”

One of the things that irked Bram most was to be told he wasn’t trying. Indeed, he’d tried his best in everything he’d attempted to do so far—to the point of coughing blood whenever he pushed his body past its limits—and still Bram would fall short of the other royals who barely lift their finger to achieve something of note. To tell him he wasn’t trying…such words were fighting words to Bram, causing his fingers to tighten around the handle of his sword.

“I knew the fire still burned in you.” Sir Anthony aimed his sword’s tip at Bram, an act that would have been seen as treacherous if it had been done by anyone else. “Once I am satisfied with your progress, then I will agree to your request.”

“You do understand that I only want to copy your job’s regular abilities,” Bram reiterated. “The Peerless Heart Sword wouldn’t be part of this exchange unless you offered to make it into…”

Bram’s brow creased as he tried to recall one of the gamer terms he’d been learning from Hajime.

“…A skill book…which I wouldn’t ask—”

“I’ll allow it,” Sir Anthony cut in.

Bram’s jaw dropped. “Y-you would share such a prestigious martial sorcery with people who cannot know nor appreciate its long and storied history…?”

“A manual wouldn’t be enough to teach someone the Peerless Heart Sword.” Sir Anthony laughed out loud. When he finished his moment of glee, he added, “It would take a savant of Prince Balor’s caliber to understand the intricacies of the heart sword without a proper teacher to guide one’s training…and we both know there aren’t many even among the imperium’s knightly orders who could match your brother’s talent.”

The mention of Atlan’s third prince caused Bram’s brow to furrow.

Unlike the Ill-Fated Prince, Balor was regarded as a talent who appeared only once in a hundred years. Among the royals, Balor was known to be a gentleman who was kind, fair, and wise—a fact Bram couldn’t refute for Balor had never treated him with the contempt his other siblings showed Bram. To the common citizens of Atlan, Balor was once touted as the ‘New Light of the Imperium’ and there were many retainers in the Sovereign’s court who believed he might become the heir.

“Not even Balor could escape this damnable game of succession,” Bram whispered darkly.

It had been over a year since he’d last seen his older brother. Indeed, Balor hadn’t graced the Sovereign’s court with his presence for longer than that, and the rumors of why he’d sequestered himself in his bastion at Alba, the capital of the Highland Kingdom of Tara, were many and varied and full of dark tidings.

“Yes…it’s why we too must be ever vigilant…” Sir Anthony’s expression stiffened. Though this stiffness was quick to pass. “In any case, offering the skills I’ve sharpened into a fine blade as a rare prize would make your game more interesting to those otherworlders who will gather in Lotharin.”

One of Bram’s eyebrows hitched upward.

“You’ve been paying attention to Hajime’s lectures…?”

“Any good seneschal would do his utmost to learn more about the men and women my prince associates with,” Sir Anthony answered, chuckling afterward. “You’ve made interesting friends, Your Highness.”

Despite the earlier tension, Bram couldn’t help chuckling himself now. Friend—it was a word he didn’t expect to hear. At least not concerning himself.

Finally, with his thoughts organized, Bram drew his longsword from its sheath.

“I appreciate the lesson.”

He raised his longsword’s hilt to his chest in a knight’s salute. Strangely, Sir Anthony did not return the gesture.

Take this seriously, Your Highness.”

“I am.”

“Then wield the sword with your left hand…”

“…You remembered?”

“I’ve been watching you since you learned to walk. Of course, I remember that you’re a southpaw.”

In his mind’s eye, Bram recalled a recent battle where he’d been forced to use his left hand to wield a sword and how it had felt more comfortable fighting Baer and his friends as a lefty. In truth, the seventh prince had switched to using his sword with his right hand only after his academy instructors forced this lesson upon him.

“A sword belongs in the right hand, Your Highness… That’s how proper gentlemen fight,” his sword instructor had once claimed, with a hint of the usual derision in his tone.

Every time Bram forgot this lesson, his instructors or peers would ridicule him. Not directly, of course. Despite his ill-fated reputation, Bram was still a prince, and his royal blood was enough to shield him from a more severe kind of oppression like the ones young commoners got from the young nobles who lorded over them. Though these so-called noble children would often speak just loud enough for Bram to hear how ignorant they thought him to be. Because of this verbal bullying, Bram had learned to hide his quirks, and that included suppressing his need to use his dominant left arm.

Today, however, Bram chose to listen to his seneschal’s advice. With secret relish, he switched his longsword over to his left hand and then repeated his knight’s salute. This time, Sir Anthony returned the gesture.

Bram then slid his right foot forward, bent his knees to lower his center of gravity, and with his back straightened, raised his longsword over his head.

“Excellent display of the ‘High Guard’ stance, Your Highness,” Sir Anthony nodded approvingly. “Now, remember, as you deliver a cut or thrust to your opponent, your lower body must move to generate the power necessary for a single decisive blow — that is the basics of the Peerless Heart Sword.”

“To slay a foe with a single strike,” Bram recalled.

“Exactly,” Sir Anthony agreed. “Now, let us begin.

With that declaration, their clash of steel began.

Bram wasn’t sure which of them moved to claim that first strike, but he did remember that Sir Anthony’s sword was heavy when it clashed against his to the point that Bram’s hand protested at the weight of blocking such a heavy blow.

“You don’t fight like an old man,” Bram hissed through gritted teeth.

“Age is never an excuse to lose in strength to a sapling who’s barely grown hair on his chin,” Sir Anthony taunted back.

That did it.

Bram, who was a little sensitive about his lack of facial hair—a look most fashionable gentlemen of the imperium preferred—couldn’t help flexing the muscles of his sword arm some more as he and Sir Anthony exchanged one savage sword blow after another. Though Bram was bigger, and his swings were getting heavier, Sir Anthony managed to parry each attack with the finesse and skill of a celebrated master swordsman.

“Here’s more advice”—Sir Anthony slid to the left, dodging the downward swing of Bram’s blade a mere half-second before it could cut him—“don’t be so predictable!”

“I thought being left-handed”—Bram stopped his momentum mid-swing, and with a talent that would have been praised in another world where sorcery was not a dominant power, twisted his wrist a full one-hundred-and-eighty degrees to send his blade careening horizontally into Sir Anthony’s path—“already made me unpredictable!”

‘Clang!’

The seneschal’s longsword—a masterfully-crafted blade with a golden griffin’s hilt gifted only to members of the Sovereign-Guard—easily parried Bram’s surprise attack as if he had been expecting it. With a deft swish of his wrist, Sir Anthony slid Bram’s sword to the side and then countered with a riposte aimed at Bram’s neck.

Years of avoiding food thrown his way by bullies hiding in the dark have given Bram the kind of danger sense that helped him avoid getting grazed on the neck. He pulled his head out of the way at the last second and then bounced right back into another attack that Sir Anthony dodged again.

“I’ve mentioned this many times now—”

He slid to the side of Bram who’d overextended himself.

“—but choosing to strengthen your body as a means to counter sorcery—”

With Bram’s side exposed, Sir Anthony stepped forward, bringing himself back into striking distance.

“—was an excellent choice, Your Highness!” He raised his sword high. “It makes you harder to—”

‘Clang!’

Sparks flew as steel clashed against steel.

Once more, Bram’s instincts kept him from losing the duel. Not the instinct to dodge, but to throw himself into the attack regardless of the possibility that Sir Anthony would hit him first.

“Brilliant!” Sir Anthony roared. “You nearly caught me off guard.”

They locked swords, each of them pushing back against the other.

“You seem to be mistaking the point of…” It took Bram a second to recall the words Bridget had taught him. “…trash talking, Sir Anthony!”

“A knight should never stoop to the vulgarity of lesser men, Your Highness!” Sir Anthony chided.

“Fuck civility,” Bram growled. “I want to win!”

To defeat a former member of the Sovereign-Guard—and one as highly decorated as Sir Anthony—would be a tall order, but the seventh prince was nothing if not stubborn. Also, since neither of them wielded sorcery, Bram hoped the handicap Sir Anthony gave him would give him the edge he needed for a single decisive blow.

He used his ogrish strength to push back against his seneschal’s one-armed parry and blew Sir Anthony’s blade away. This gave Bram an opening to launch an attack, although he suspected it was an advantage too easily given. Still, despite the possibility of a trap, Bram leaped forward anyway. With his longsword towering over his head, he sent his right foot forward—grinding it into the stone floor with a hard stomp—and then used the spring of force climbing up his body to empower a slash meant to cut Sir Anthony in twain.

“Gaah!”

Despite his age, Sir Anthony still proved quicker than Bram. The seventh prince felt the crushing blow of a sword pommel smacking him in the gut just before he could complete his swing. The blow pushed him back, but Bram’s stubbornness kept him from falling to his knees. Though he was gasping for breath and too stunned to fix his stance.

“That last attack…” The corners of Sir Anthony’s mouth twitched. “…You attempted to use the Peerless Heart Sword’s first technique?”

“Even without…magic…it’s still…a powerful…technique…”

A pleased smile spread across the seneschal’s face.

“Lady Rowan tells me your unique brand of sorcery allows you to duplicate another person’s abilities for a short time…”

“Rowan…talks to much…”

From the way Sir Anthony raised his sword over his head, Bram guessed his seneschal wasn’t talking about ‘Status Emulation’ but the ‘Ability Replication’ Bram had never used.

“I see…”

“As I’ve said”—the telltale sparks of magic exploded out of the tips of Sir Anthony’s fingers—“you catch on quickly, Your Highness.”

Sir Anthony’s sword shook as a sliver of magic seeped into its blade.

“Phoebus’—”

Before Bram’s very eyes, a pale blue aura—like the first rays of sunlight appearing over the horizon to banish the night—wrapped around Sir Anthony’s blade, enveloping it in sorcery Bram had only heard about in the tales often told about the celebrated champions of the imperium.

“—cock…”

This was the ‘Sword Aura’ that manifested one’s will upon the world, expressed in vivid color by Sir Anthony’s sorcery.

“Allow me to demonstrate it properly so that you may use your ability to copy it.”

“Sir Anthony…”

 

 

The Loom’s notification arrived before Bram as if the system resonated with Sir Anthony’s wish.

 

 

 

Bram’s heart ached when he said, “This feels wrong…”

“Your Highness,” Sir Anthony frowned, “only a fool would be hesitant to play with the gifts the gods give us…and I know I didn’t raise a fool.”

Bram flinched at the reprimand for it happened so rarely.

“Do what you must with whatever means is available to you,” Sir Anthony lectured, “until you can achieve what you want the way you want to do it!”

“I…I see.” Bram felt sufficiently admonished. “You’re right…”

Bram wanted to make Sir Anthony’s technique his without aid from the Loom, but this was an impossible proposition. For now, at least.

“Replicate.”

As he said the magic word—the third incantation he’s learned—Bram felt his eyes grow suddenly hot. It wasn’t painful exactly, but there was a strange pressure in his irises that made staring uncomfortable.

“Impressive…I feel a weight lifting off me already.” Sir Anthony couldn’t hide his delight at seeing his prince perform sorcery for the first time. “Now, let me show you just how proud of you I am.”

‘Ba-dump.’

Bram could hear a familiar beating. Weak at first but increasing in pitch and tempo with each passing second. He knew from his lessons with his seneschal that this ‘drumming’ was the anthem of one’s determination to cut the world with a sword growing from one’s heart.

‘Ba-dump!’

Sir Anthony sent his lead foot stomping forward—causing cracks to appear where his boot slammed against the stone—and then used the spring of force climbing up his body to empower a slash meant to cut the world in twain.

“Death from Above.”

With a thunderous boom, Sir Anthony’s sword came swinging down in a cut so quick that Bram barely caught its motion. The sight of such overwhelming swordsmanship sent heat and pain lancing up Bram’s eyes so that he had to grit his teeth to keep from screaming.

‘Krak-ka-boom!’

Bright blue Aura descended from on high like a lightning bolt that sliced through air and earth at tremendous speed, zipping past Bram’s left side even faster than the auto-carriage from his dreams. It cut everything in its path like a blue line drawn across space.

There was a ‘Crash!’ and then the howling wind stilled.

“Bloody hell…”

Bram glanced over his shoulder.

“Sorcery offers such a ridiculous advantage…”

A chunk of stone had been carved out of the thick stone wall behind him. His face shone with delight at the sight of it. It was a delight that was quick to pass, however, for Bram felt sudden nausea overwhelm him, and then he was on his knees and puking blood on the cracked floor.

‘Ping!’

 

 

That’s when Bram realized why pain wracked his body. To activate ‘Ability Replication’, the Loom had used his health as a substitute for his lacking magic.

“Y-your Highness!”

Bram raised his hand to keep his seneschal from rushing over.

“I’m…fine.”

As if to prove his words, he rose back to his feet on shaky legs.

“My abilities…”Bram grimaced, his teeth smeared in blood. “They’re akin to wielding blood magic…”

“I…I see…” Though he stayed where he was, worry and doubt filled Sir Anthony’s face. “Perhaps we should—”

“No!”

Bram straightened his back.

“You were right…the first time, Sir Anthony.” Bram wiped the blood smearing his lips with the sleeve of his shirt. “I must prove…my worth.”

 

 

While understanding the current limitations of his new ability, Bram raised his sword high over his head, perfectly replicating his seneschal’s earlier stance.

‘Ba-dump.’

“It might not be today…” No telltale sparks of magic exploded from Bram’s fingertips. Instead, he felt the familiar sticky sensation of blood beginning to coat his fingers. “But one day…”

‘Ba-dump.’

His longsword shook slightly as a sliver of magic—no—his blood began seeping into the steel of his blade.

‘Ba-dump!’

“I will show you this technique again…”

“Blessed June…”

Before the seneschal’s widening eyes, veins of pulsing blood spread upward, enveloping Bram’s blade in a dark crimson aura.

‘Ba-dump!!’

“And when I do,” Bram flashed his seneschal a blood-smeared grin, “it shall be done without the aid of the Loom.”

‘Ba-dump!!!’

As Bram stepped forward, his sword came crashing down to draw a vertical line of crimson against the world…

 

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We're at chapter 19! Woohoo!

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