Chapter 136 - 135: The Talented Prince.

Chapter 136: Chapter 135: The Talented Prince.

It’s clear that he’s waiting for his opponent to come for him, and not wanting to disappoint the people he came to represent, the man obliges.

Tentatively, at first, and then more aggressively, when he detects no sign of trickery. His first attacks, as expected, are slow; predictable and probing, intended only to gauge an enemy’s defense; to get a sense of their reflexes, and how they react to pressure.

They’re not meant to connect; any swordsman with half a brain could turn them aside easily, so it’s no surprise that Loac smoothly sidesteps each one.

​What is surprising, is what follows after.

​Confidence building, the soldier ups his intensity, driving forwards like a rampaging bull and dropping enormous strikes down upon Loac, one after the other in quick succession.

Even from this distance Khobi can tell that he’s strong, and precise, and has exceptional control over his blade.

He flings his whole weight behind his attack but doesn’t overextend, and makes sure to maintain his balance in case a counter comes his way.

​It doesn’t. Still, Loac doesn’t reach for his sword.

​But by some miracle, despite the calculated angle of the attacks and speed at which they come raining down at him, not a single one touches him.

​Not a single one.

​Everything that comes at him, no matter the speed, the sheer ferocity, or target, he just moves aside , stepping around the edge of the blade as if it’s no more difficult than weaving through a crowd.

Which it is. Infinitely more difficult. Being able to read each attack is one thing; being able to react to it on such a level is another.

And unarmed, too, with little more than a leather hide standing between him and being cleaved in two.

​It’s impossible . Men don’t move like that. Shadows move like that. Water moves like that. Even the fastest man stumbles occasionally. But Loac doesn’t.

He just sways in time with his opponent’s blade, stepping so easily out of danger; not missing a single beat.

​Then, like lightning splitting the night sky, his posture changes, and he strikes.

​And suddenly, it’s the soldier who is unarmed and backpedalling; stunned to find himself staring down the edge of his own blade.

The blade that Loac has, with terrifying speed, snatched from his very hands even as he moved from one attack to the next, and turned on him.

​The entire crowd gasps.

​In the seat beside him, Gurdet hums, not in the least bit surprised.

​The soldier looks absolutely floored . He’s staring at his sword like it’s somehow betrayed him; like he can’t remember the last time he lost his grip on his own blade like that.

In a way, it’s kind of comical. And in another, unbelievable.

​His opponent is unarmed now, and furious for it, but Loac doesn’t strike. Instead --almost thoughtfully --he lowers the blade.

Taps the tip on the ground a couple of times, and then, to the confusion of everyone watching, throws the sword down at its owner’s feet.

Even the soldier doesn’t know what to think. He just stares at it, sitting uselessly in the dirt, until Loac, with one hand, gestures for him to take it up again, and try again.

​It’s not necessarily unprecedented , but it’s definitely a little odd.

But the soldier is either insulted by the gesture or determined to redeem himself for such a lousy first showing, because he gathers his weapon up once more, and bows once again, like he’d merely dropped the thing, and Loac had done him a service in picking it up for him.

In the stands, heads start turning and the mutterings start; wondering whether or not that was against the rules, or if somehow, the fight is already over.

But the king, overarching judge of the whole affair, stays silent, and allows the match to reset. Words seem to pass between them, but from this distance, even with how still the wind is, it’s impossible to hear exactly what’s been said.

​That’s when Loac draws his sword.

​It gleams , as he brings it forth, and no sooner is it free of its sheath than it’s coming for its enemy.

Khobi only glimpses it in flashes, but it is a real thing of beauty, and it moves through the air like it has a life of its own, carrying Loac forwards like somehow it’s given him wings.

It’s so brilliant it’s almost blinding; a blur of light that scorches and scours ugly, deep marks into the soldier’s shield as he just barely manages to fling it up in time.

Each time it strikes down, a bright, crisp peal rings out, and somehow, despite the harsh welts that marr the sigil stamped upon the shield, the note that rises up into the sky is sweet, and pure.

And it’s clear that the soldier is trying to keep it from the crowd, but it is taking everything he has to make sure it’s his shield, and not his body, that catches that next strike.

​The shield only lasts so long before the soldier is forced to drop it, and a number of the crowd rise to their feet in alarm as it becomes clear that his arm is broken.

But he doesn’t yield, no, he just hefts his sword a little higher, and turns aside Loac’s next attack with his blade; arm broken but spirit intact.

And from there, it should have turned ugly. It should have become a pitiful struggle of a damaged man trying to desperately defend himself.

​But it doesn’t.

​Well, maybe it does. Khobi actually doesn’t know, because for the first time today he’s not watching the match.

​He’s watching Loac .

​Has been, from the moment he first drew his sword, spellbound. Because even though he knew he was fast, and knew he was strong, he’s never seen him with a blade.

​And never, in all his life, has he seen someone move with a blade like this .

Khobi knows these movements, how each one should look; how each one should feel --on his own form and his opponent’s --but somehow, Loac’s body takes those same, familiar shapes, and makes them more .

On his body, they’re fascinating; vivid and rippling and as ever-changing as the wind , and even though the sun is bright and high, somehow, when Khobi watches him, the way his body twists and sways to the beat of silent drums makes him think of gypsy fires at twilight.

Each of his attacks is distinct and deliberate; so incredibly deft and precise, yet at the same time, his every movement flows so flawlessly into the next that even to Khobi’s eyes it’s hard to tell where one ends and the next begins.

​It sends shivers down Khobi’s spine.

​There’s no other word for it.

​It’s elegant .

​It’s breathtaking.

​And it’s all over too soon.

​A matter of seconds. That’s all he gets before the spell breaks; all it takes before the soldier yields, shield arm broken, good arm bleeding, and sword lying uselessly on the ground some few feet from him.

According to Gurdet, it’s a miracle the man even lasted that long.

​Khobi doesn’t really know what he means, because for those few seconds, time had lost all meaning. Because time was a human thing, and Loac, well, he had moved like nothing human.

​The man is quite the gracious loser; bowing to the audience, then to Loac, before collecting up his weapon and walking himself off, despite the broken arm.

The crowd claps; polite, yet underwhelmed by the sudden defeat and lack of drama. Or perceived lack of drama.

And as he slumps back in his seat; palms sweating and heart inexplicably racing , he finds himself feeling likewise cheated, but for a different reason altogether.

​His eyes, pupils blown so wide their usual red has been all but swallowed up, have seen what theirs haven’t. Where they’ve seen a mediocre soldier lose to a prince, he’s seen a great soldier be defeated by an extraordinary one.

​What the fuck was that?

​Loac ambles back to the dais soon after, yawning like he’s just woken up from a nap instead of having just fought in an actual fight, and seems utterly oblivious to the red eyes tracking him as he saunters across the dais, searching for some sign of the man he’d just seen.

But whoever that is is gone again, crawled back into hiding behind bad posture and glazed blue eyes, like he’d never even been there.

​But Khobi knows better.

​He’s seen it; caught a glimpse of something unbelievable smoldering behind those eyes, and he knows that he has to see it again.

​He needs to.

​It’s a thought that lingers like a dull ache, but that slowly fades into the background as the matches proceed as though nothing unremarkable had occurred.

There are still many soldiers who haven’t taken their turn in the ring, after all, and the crowd --Khobi included --is anxious to see what they have to offer.

And he watches, on the edge of his seat, as swordsmen battle their way across the arena with blades singing their terrible song to the world; heat steadily building in his blood.

​And then finally, his turn comes, and in his urgency to scramble to his feet he almost sends his chair flying. He’s honestly not even embarrassed.

​He doesn’t look back, even when he feels the disconcertingly familiar weight of blue eyes following him.

​At the edge of the arena he just stops. It’s only for an instant, but it’s one that he lets drag on for an eternity, because it’s one he wants to savour.

All his life he’d wanted to fight upon a stage like this, and even as a child he’d known, somehow, that he would.

And even when his uncle’s kingdom had fallen; even through the years of blood in Briyagi, surrounded by enemies and darkness, he’d known that the day would come when he would be able to hold his head high, like his uncle and all those soldiers that had once captivated him, and step out into the light.

Unbroken, and ready to show the world just who he has become.

​Today is that day.

​It won’t be the last time he sets foot into an arena; of that he’s also certain --but this is the first, and marks the day he’s been waiting for his whole life.

A beginning.

​He’s still a prisoner; still the property of a king he wants nothing to do with, and still promised against his will to a man he doesn’t want and who doesn’t want to be promised to anyone, but for today that doesn’t feel like it matters.

​A grin, real and full of fire, slowly starts to spread across his face, and with the arena calling, Khobi hurdles on in.

​It takes him a couple steps before he hears it, another few to recognise that what he’s hearing is applause, and more still, before he realises that it’s for him.

It’s nothing like the roaring thunder that has rolled around the arena for some of the other competitors; more like soft rain weakly tapping on window shutters, and when Khobi stops to drink in the enormity of the crowd, he sees, with a strange rush of affection, that while there are scattered soldiers politely joining in, the majority of his supporters are dressed in Crade colours.