Chapter 192 - 190: Familliar Moves.

Chapter 192: Chapter 190: Familliar Moves.

Instead of answering –because there has to be a catch –Loac just smirks back at him and juts his chin out towards the rising sun; the rising sun that had started to peak its way over the horizon mere minutes before Khobi had laid foot on training ground soil.

​"Drogger’s coming," Loac tells him reproachfully, pushing off the wall and casually tucking his arms up behind his head as he walks away, "...Better start running."

​" Fuck you ," Khobi grits out vehemently, and he could swear there’s an element of a snicker in Loac’s voice as he turns away.

​" See you later , Khobi."

​...

​Now, even on a good day most soldiers detest running laps.

Even those who take to it with the most spirit would generally rather be doing almost anything else.

Drogger, so the stories say, has always been of the mindset that not only does it teach discipline to young, tardy soldiers, but that mindless repetition to the point of exhaustion is an excellent way to clear the mind of distractions.

​And most days, that’s true. No one would ever admit it to him, but when a man’s lungs are on fire and his head is spinning and his legs have run so long and so hard he thinks they might just fall off his body, it’s fairly difficult to focus on anything other than just keeping on .

Just one more step. Just one more breath. One moment longer. After all, it might just be the moment that counts.

​But today, the distractions win.

​One single distraction, in fact. Even Khobi and Rogard, who are well known amongst the soldiers by now for their commitment to their penance, fall victim.

They’re just as curious as everyone else, after all. More, even.

​Because while everyone knows of Loac Trent, few have seen him here in recent memory, and none of them know why he is now.

The whispers circulate –speculate –while those running out their sentence on the outskirts peer in, and while the soldiers obediently fall in around him like he’s one of them, it’s clear by their faces that while they want to know why he’s here, they would rather he wasn’t.

​Loac either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.

​As one they start to move, and Khobi doesn’t bother pretending that he’s not watching.

​Rogard doesn’t even call him out for it, because he’s watching, too.

​It’s the same drill it always is. Ynoro Yoshitaka has earned himself many reputations over the years –for being unlucky in love, a hopeless romantic, and a bit of an airhead, to name but a few.

Occasionally, such unfortunate accolades overshadow his dedication to his duty as a soldier, and it can be all too easy to forget that he holds the respect and trust of Crade’s Second Captain.

​These drills serve as a reminder.

​Under his command, the soldiers form ranks. None fall in directly beside Loac.

​As one, they draw their swords, and start to move as they always do; that same sequence of movements learned by heart, cutting the same shapes through the air with a sword until it feels as natural as breathing.

As usual, Ynoro is out in front, leading them and pacing through the same motions; setting the time and painstakingly keeping them in formation and on rhythm, but today the attention isn’t on him.

Because while Loac is walking through the same steps, in the same pattern and the same cadence as the rest of them, the shapes feel different on him.

The stances and their many patterns, repeated over and over until it is the soldier’s body that remembers rather than his mind, are meant to teach form and control, but on him, the mindless, endless movements seem so much more; each one flowing so cleanly into the next that it’s impossible to tell where one starts and the next begins, or even if that’s how it works at all.

It feels somehow more delicate but at the same time, infinitely and effortlessly more dangerous.

​Khobi is familiar with these steps. These are the steps his uncle and his men had walked; the same ones his aunt had taught him, a long time ago.

They even walked them in the dark depths of Briyagi. They have been a part of his life since before he can remember.

​And yet, he’s never seen them quite like this.

​Never quite so... flawless .

​It goes beyond natural talent. Even the most gifted of swordsmen don’t intuitively know these steps; don’t instinctively know their patterns and how they weave together –at least not like this.

​Khobi knows it, because he knows soldiers –gifted, and not; from this kingdom, and his own –that have spent hours upon hours tirelessly polishing these very shapes into their bodies until they shine and gleam, and yet even they sometimes falter.

Even they sometimes forget, or step out of place.

​Not Loac, though.

​Loac is polished far beyond the point of simple brilliance, and all of their lights fall dim next to his.

​Next to him, those same soldiers –the ones that Khobi has admired and envied in turn –look almost clumsy.

​On some level, even before this moment, he already knew –after all, he’s seen the light in his eyes, and felt the strength in his arms and the calluses on his hands –that at some point Loac had poured his heart and soul into drills just like this one.

(Khobi wonders, helplessly, how many countless hours he must have spent with a blade in hand to be so intimately familiar with the weight and balance of a sword, and to tread these steps so light, and as effortlessly as breathing. When he was younger he’d practiced his own so fervently that he’d worn tracks in the dirt of his uncle’s training grounds, and he had still come to forget them over time.)

It’s impossible this early in the morning, and so far from the plains, but Khobi could swear he hears music.