Chapter 458 - 459: Reading His Opponent.

Chapter 458: Chapter 459: Reading His Opponent.

It’s not original, but plans don’t need originality as long as they work. It’s not too hard to come by some of the tunics the servants wear, and even though they don’t fit quite right they do the job well enough.

No one pays attention to servants after all, especially when they are trotting along after the Third Captain.

Bongo makes sure to keep half an eye trained on each of them as they wander, to make sure that they don’t try anything that their nephew would, but neither of them make any attempt at anything untoward.

But he sees their eyes furtively roving; no doubt mapping the corridors as they go, and he knows that if not now, it will only be a matter of time. Something that Gurdet is sure to be well aware of already.

​He takes them, all the same; not right down into the training grounds for many an obvious reason, but shows them instead to an overlooking balcony where they can watch from unimpeded and unnoticed from below.

Down below, where Khobi looks to have already finished his usual laps for the day and is in line with the other soldiers busy pacing out their steps.

Despite the morning run and how lethargic he’d been only earlier, there’s now a spring in his step and vigour in his limbs as he moves along with the others.

Ynoro keeps time, and he doesn’t fall out of step once; each stroke and each step as fluid and as natural as any of the others who have been doing this their whole lives.

Better, than some. He doesn’t look in the least bit out of place.

​"...Glad to see he hasn’t forgotten everything I taught him," he hears Mozry murmur, a small, proud smile playing at her lips.

​"...Just wait," Bongo tells them, "He’ll be in the sparring ring before too long. You’ll see."

​No sooner are the words out of his mouth than Ynoro calls time.

Not a moment goes by before Khobi is beelining towards the ring, where a familiar set of faces has already gathered.

He hurdles the fence one handed into their midst, and a soft noise escapes Mozry as they greet him with outstretched arms and friendly punches and even a headlock, like they’ve been wondering where he got to and are glad to have him back.

Bongo doesn’t have children of his own but he likes to think he still understands a little.

Friendships like theirs warms the heart, and it must fill them both with such joy to see that their nephew has found a place where he has people around him who care for him; who he lets touch so openly, even after having lived so long distrusting others.

​They stand there for what feels like hours, and Bongo patiently waits. It wouldn’t be fair to tell them that it’s time to go. Not yet.

They see him fight; see how his raw ferocity has been polished until it was gleaming and how the roots that they had planted all those years ago had borne fruit.

Mozry observes particularly closely; assessing his form and making notes and occasionally nodding in approval.

​"He always wanted to be a soldier," Khojin chuckles, voice touched with nostalgia.

​They don’t seem surprised when Loac steps into the ring with him.

Although it would be more accurate to say he throws himself in , shoving Montrel onto his backside in his haste to cut in line.

​Khobi must have told them a little about their fraught history.

​(He wonders what else Khobi has told them about his relationship with Loac. Or rather, what he’s omitted .)

​What they see leaves them both dumbstruck.

​Bongo can’t help but be a little proud. Loac has that effect on people.

And there’s something about watching the two of them together that holds those who behold them positively spellbound.

The pair of them are reputed to be skilled soldiers in their own right but even they know that what they’re witnessing upon the grounds below is something special.

​Something beautiful.

​Ever since he was little Loac Trent had been blessed with a talent –and a penchant –for battle. In Bongo’s life he’s seen dancers who move like they were born to dance, bards who sang like they were put on his earth to sing, and horsemen who ride like they were meant to run upon four legs, not two.

He has seen war, and he has seen blood and death, and he has seen just how ugly battle can be.

​There are times when Loac Trent makes it possible to believe it doesn’t have to be.

​This is skill.

This is swordsmanship . This is brutal and terrifying, but also breathtaking; like standing at the edge of a cliff as a storm rolls off the sea towards land.

​And Khobi makes it feel as though that land will fight back. Like it will weather and endure, and outlast the oncoming tempest, and where once the storm could only rage and howl and batter the world until it wore itself out, now it feels as though there’s sunlight peeking through the clouds.

The promise of spring, and life to follow.

​Bongo’s seen this fight play out many times by now, yet every time still somehow feels like the first.

There’s no pause; no hesitation to the way Khobi flies across the dirt, blade glinting in the spring sun and Loac striding forth to meet him just as eagerly.

And as their blades meet there comes the high, crisp ring of steel on steel, and then again; so quick that the first note barely dies before the next is striking up in harmony.

​When Khobi first came to this place he was raw and unrefined; his movements driven by the desperate instinct to live on, to survive, to bring his sword up one more time.

​Now, it’s clear that while the instinct is still there, its focus is different.

Because while instinct can be trained, and can be honed, some things are simply innate.