In the inner yard of Elsem Castle was a pit of pulverized stone surrounded by gothic spires. A training ground for Knyyts – but really only
Knyyts of noble Sects train there.
At its center stood General Schar over his knocked-down sparring partner. His right arm made of sand from forearm to hand – the grains shifting to constantly maintain shape yet never littering as he wields his spear in that artificial arm.
Off to the side, a cluster of veteran knyyts shuffled their feet. They looked everywhere but at the General's eyes.
"Who's next?" Schar challenged, "Come on! Someone face me!"
None stepped forward. The knyyts traded sheepish glances.
Schar's expression hardened.
Across the yard, Brimmah and Vale were completing their patrol circuit. Schar's scolding voice carried across the air. "Spineless cowards! You disappoint your nation. Especially at a time like this!"
Brimmah slowed. His eyes locked onto the General, a spark of reckless, martial hunger igniting in his gaze. "Cover for me," Brimmah whispered.
Vale gripped his arm, eyes wide with alarm. "You're not thinking what I think you're thinking!"
"General Schar is one of the best fighters in the South," Brimmah replied, his words coming in a fast, overexcited rush. "Aside from being a Runemaster, he's unmatched with a spear. I've been dreaming of a chance
to spar with him. Just cover for me!"
Before Vale could utter another protest, Brimmah was gone, blurring across the yard.
As he strode near the training ground, his mind raced. Now, how do I
get him to notice me?
He didn't need to worry. Schar's predator eyes snapped onto the approaching guard.
"You there!" Shar barked.
Brimmah froze, his heart hammering. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"You were the combatant who won the King's tournament, are you?" Schar said.
Brimmah's pulse race. Schar of the Sandstorm knows who I am! It's...
a dream come true...
"Come," Schar commanded, his stance shifting wider, lower. "Spar with me. Perhaps I ought to make changes around here."
The other Knyyts glanced each other and eyed Brimmah. Few mutters were exchanged. Nothing Brimmah wasn't accustomed to since he began work at the Castle.
He didn't hesitate. He approached, bowed his head, "You honour me, General. I shall give my all." He spoke calmly despite inner
overexcitement.
He drew his sword.
Schar braced his spear.
Brimmah burst forward with raw, explosive speed.
Schar's eyes widened at the suddenness as Brimmah closed the gap between them before he could take advantage of the longer reach of his spear.
He raised the shaft of his weapon high — to block an overhead slash.
But no contact.
A feint.
Brimmah dropped low with an even wider stance. Sword drawn back — ready to be thrust upward to Schar's torso now wide open.
Schar hopped backward, avoiding the thrust. But inwards, he knew better.
Did he hesitate on the thrust? He means to insult me? No that's wrong…
"Boy, remind me your name." Said Schar.
Brimmah reassumed his stance. "Brimmah." He answered. "Knyyt Brimmah."
"Henceforth, Knyyt Brimmah, you're welcome to spar here with me. So
do not attempt to extend this duel anymore. I shall take the next such attempt as a slight. Come at me!"
High above, on a limestone balcony overlooking the yard, Councilman Esq slowed his walk. He peered over the railing, his gaze narrowing as he recognized Brimmah below.
Esq's jaw clenched. His face twisted into a sneer of pure, visceral disgust. To see the "worthless" Brimmah — a boy without spark of Rune — holding his own against a Runemaster was an insult to the hierarchy of Elsem.
Without a word, the Councilman turned on his heel and disappeared back into the shadows of the corridor, leaving the sounds of the duel behind.
Brimmah's sword whistled in lethal arcs. He used the force of Schar's spear, pivoting and spiraling around the long-reaching weapon.
He parried a high strike, the ringing of steel like a bell, and drove the General a step back. He pushed onwards with unyielding momentum.
Schar thrusted again.
Brimmah barely reeled aside as the spear tip grazed his plates.
Schar tugged back the shaft like retracting a jab — adjusting his grip to the very center. Suddenly, he spun it in a vortex when Brimmah closed in.
Relentless still, Brimmah shoved his blade into the vortex.
The recoil snapped each fighter's weapon out of his grip.
However, while Schar's spear clattered onto the floor, Brimmah had somehow
caught the hilt of his sword midair.
He lunged for a decisive strike—