Chapter 184 - 182: All But Wonder.

Chapter 184: Chapter 182: All But Wonder.

​If he’d been hoping –and he had –that the rain would die down somewhat while he ate his breakfast, then he’s shit out of luck.

If anything, the storm looks like it’s settling in and has no intention of slowing. It’s going to be a bad day for anyone who has to be out in it, which inevitably will include him.

​Usually the sounds from the training grounds carry.

It’s one of the reasons they’re placed where they are, after all –there would be no end to the complaints if the nobles were woken before dawn on the daily by men shouting and cursing and the heavy sounds of metal on wood and vice versa.

And even in the evenings, when they’re at their quietest, it’s usually easy to tell that the most dedicated have lingered there.

But today, the storm batters at the walls, drumming thick beats into the stone and drowning out the world beyond and it’s only as the storming expanse of the training grounds rise up from the gloom into view that Binny is able to confirm with his own eyes, the rumours of a disturbance.

​From a distance it’s impossible to tell, even with his eyes, just who exactly it is, but what he does manage to make out through the rain and in the dim early morning light, is that it’s not one person, but many.

​Concerning.

​He quickens his pace but keeps his steps soft, as all servants do, and as he makes his approach it becomes apparent, from the distinctive ringing of blades at work and the clamour of men shouting over the downpour, that there’s a fight going on.

​And it has drawn a crowd.

There’s no way it’s not Khobi out there; only he would be keen enough –stupid enough, some might say –to brave a downpour like this at a time like this.

Binny searches for him anyways, sharp eyes scanning through the curtain of rain and over the drenched shapes of soldiers to find Khobi.

And right on cue, the shifting mass of bodies moves, and there is Khobi, red hair dark and swept back off his face; completely soaked through, muddy from knee to foot, and armed.

He’s still not wearing armour, but at least the sword isn’t sharp.

​At this range, he doesn’t notice Binny. Eyes for only his opponent, he barely even seems to notice that it’s raining.

​His opponent, who Binny recognises as Loac.

​And he’s not entirely sure whether or not he’s surprised.

​Twice now, he’s seen them fight like this, and he understands at least one part of why no one in the crowd is stepping in to stop them.

After all, he hadn’t, had he? He’s not sure he would’ve been able to, but even if he had had that kind of power, it would have been a shame to break them apart.

​It’s impossible for anyone who’s ever held a sword –or dreamed of holding one – to look upon the way they fight and not regard them with complete and utter awe.

They’re skilled, sure –but there are many soldiers who are skilled with a blade –and they’re ferocious, too, but most men lost in the heat of battle are, but as they fight, as their blades sing and their bodies collide, an aura of power builds around them both that commands lesser men to stop, and watch.

​It feels like they don’t move the way normal men move. Like they’re flowing back and forth across a plain of dark water on a current that only they feel in a terrifying, dangerous kind of dance.

​And those men that watch don’t even see it all.

​Because most of them don’t have eyes like Binny.

​He sees the way Loac’s blade whips through the air, slicing clean through the storm, and the impossible way Khobi rises to meet it, arms rippling and straining as he catches it and turns it aside.

He sees the way the rain scatters from them as they wheel; catches Khobi’s foot planting deep in the dirt and knows that his next blow will hail down like absolute thunder.

​And where most onlookers would see only blurs, as they spin Binny sees their faces.

​Rain is coursing down Khobi’s cheeks.

In this light the red of his eyes is dark, yet somehow they still gleam. He looks so serious.

So focused. So entirely, wholly consumed by the person before him that he has eyes for nothing and no one else.

He’s completely drenched; shirt translucent and trousers soaked, and the water they kick up is deep and thick with mud, but he moves as though he’s weightless, each movement as controlled as though they were fighting on a clear day.

​The crowd is shouting, revelling in the rising tension as they ache for one of them to falter, to slip; waiting with bated breath for the precarious equilibrium to shatter.

​When it comes, it’s Loac who does the breaking.

​Something in the air changes. Binny’s not sure what exactly, but he’s sure the others feel it too, and he’s sure as anything that it’s because of Loac Trent.

​It’s suddenly too quiet out –almost like the storm has inexplicably subsided –but no, there’s rain falling around him still, but at the same time, the beating of his own heart feels far too loud in his ears, and he’s certain that if he tried to run, towards his prince –or away, it didn’t matter which –his feet wouldn’t have let him.

All he can do is watch, spellbound, as Loac rounds on Khobi, shifting his weight as though balanced atop the water’s surface, dark skin as pitch in the gloom, and eyes aglow like a predator in the night.

There’s no way it’s possible, but as he turns, it’s as if the rain falling around him starts to slow, forming a moment of perfect, terrifying stillness amidst a raging storm with him at its core.

Binny wonders if this is what Khobi sees too.