Back to the Roots

Chapter 12: Struggle

I stepped toward the center of the circle we had formed, tension running through me. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on me, and their stares burned like fire. Anger welled up inside me—not at them, but at myself. I had fallen right into Alpaz’s trap.

From the very beginning, he had deliberately pinned his gaze on me, forcing me to speak. And the moment I opened my mouth, he raised his voice, amplifying our tension so everyone could feel it. That way, he caught the instructors’ attention and got exactly what he wanted: a duel. His plan had worked flawlessly. And I, even though I had sensed it, failed to stop it. I felt like a fool.

But there was no turning back now. I couldn’t refuse the fight. Gripping the wooden sword tightly, I faced Alpaz. The instructor between us glanced first at me, then at him. The hall was silent. Everyone held their breath, waiting.

“Alright,” the instructor said. “You may begin.” Then, turning especially to Alpaz, he added:

“Be careful. I don’t want anyone seriously harmed.”

The words ignited my fury. Though the warning seemed directed at Alpaz, it carried the undertone that I needed protection, as if simply because I was a woman, I would be powerless against him.

At that moment, Alpaz gave a short nod to the instructor. I didn’t take my eyes off him. The bandage on his nose, the bruises across his face—they were all my handiwork. That’s why he was itching for revenge. And this duel was his chance.

But I wasn’t afraid. On the contrary, my determination flared. If he wanted a fight, I would give him one. I had beaten him once. I could do it again.

I tightened my grip on the Saver sword. Its lightness and balance reminded me of the blades I had trained with in Solvenia—designed for speed, agility, and precision.

Shifting my left foot back, I steadied my stance and raised the blade. Across from me, Alpaz mirrored the pose, his eyes gleaming with resolve. Not with nerves, but with the adrenaline of the hunt. Every move, every glance of his, dared me to falter.

“Begin!” the instructor’s voice rang out.

We circled each other, measuring, testing. He swung his sword in front of me theatrically—half intimidation, half showmanship. I noted his height and the way he guarded his torso above all. If I pressed high, then struck low, I might end this quickly.

Before I could act, Alpaz lunged—probing, not slashing, his blade aimed at my chest. I parried swiftly, steel clashing against wood. He smirked, and the crowd chuckled.

We traded steps left and right. Then I struck first, slicing at his torso. He retreated, countering with a heavy downward blow. I blocked, then deflected to the side, steadying my stance.

The hall echoed with the thud of wooden blades. Cheers and gasps rose from the onlookers. And when I found an opening and drove my blade forward, Alpaz staggered back in surprise. The crowd erupted—my strike had landed.

The instructor’s voice cut through the noise: “Well done.”

Alpaz’s face darkened. He pressed harder, strikes coming faster, wilder. I defended as best I could, but his strength bore down like a storm. A sideways blow nearly broke through my guard—he wasn’t just fighting me, he was toying with me. He locked our swords together, pushing with raw force, driving me backward. My feet slid across the floor until the instructor finally barked, “Enough, Alpaz.”

We reset to the center, panting, glaring. I switched the sword to my left hand briefly, flexing my right. As I raised it again, Alpaz smirked:

“If you want, I can fight with one hand behind my back,” he sneered, loud enough for all to hear. “That way it’ll be fair.”

The soldiers chuckled. Even the instructor gave a small nod. Heat surged in my chest. All he wanted was to humiliate me.

I lifted my sword high and spoke firmly:

“Then let’s make it fair. Let’s fight with real blades. First blood decides the winner.”

The hall froze. Whispers rippled through the crowd. Even Alpaz blinked in surprise. But I was serious. With one hand tied, I could beat him. And more than that—I would earn respect.

The instructors exchanged uneasy glances, but finally one said: “If you both agree… then so be it.”

Alpaz’s grin widened. “Good!” he shouted. “Do you want a real fight?”

The soldiers roared their approval.

We were given steel swords, and the circle widened. The tension thickened. This was no longer training. This was war in miniature.

“Begin!”

I lunged first, blades clashing in a storm of sparks. I feinted low, rolled, drove him back toward the tables. He pressed, shouting with exertion, his strength battering against mine. A wild shove sent me sprawling—but I rolled back, springing to my feet, the crowd gasping.

I used the table as cover, flipping over it, driving it into him with a sudden shove. He stumbled, falling back. In a flash, I leapt onto him, pinning him with the weight of my blade.

His arm trembled under the strain, his single-handed grip faltering. Victory was within reach—until his elbow struck my face. Pain exploded across my vision. I staggered back, black spots swimming in my sight.

Still, I clung to my sword. Crawling, reeling, I refused to let go. With a final burst, I swung upward, meeting his blade again, sparks flying as steel screamed against steel.

We were locked, nose to nose, our breaths ragged, our fury burning—when a sharp voice shattered the chaos:

“Enough!”

The hall fell silent.

It was King Valen.

Every soldier dropped to one knee, bowing their heads. Only Alpaz and I remained standing, blades crossed, panting, our defiance blazing in our eyes. For in that instant, victory had been within our grasp—until the King himself had taken it from us.