Ruins And Royalty

A Formidable Opponent -Chp 9 Part 3

“You are ready,” Sir Damos’ deep voice resonated as he held out a pair of Chakrams toward me. I took them cautiously, turning them in my hands to examine their design.

These were unlike any Chakrams I had seen before, even different from the ones Sir Damos himself wielded. Each had a central grip, and at the bottom of the circular blade was an opening. Subtle, but purposeful.

“The Chakrams you hold now are the reason I had you master dual wielding,” he explained, eyes fixed on me. “The enchanted ones can transform on command. When you hold the grip and speak the word, the back blades part, forming sword-like extensions for close combat.”

I glanced between him and the weapons in my hands, a thrill rising in my chest. For the first time since training began, a spark of exhilaration replaced the exhaustion and frustration.

It had been just over a month since I started under Sir Damos’ tutelage, and already I had mastered dual wielding. Now, the thought of commanding the enchanted Chakrams filled me with anticipation I hadn’t felt in years.

Today, we found ourselves in a sun-dappled clearing deep in the forest. Sir Damos had chosen this location for the next phase of my training, explaining that what he intended to teach me was far too dangerous for the barracks. Curiosity mingled with excitement. I thrived on the adrenaline of battle, especially when danger hovered close.

“The circular blades are very different from a gladius,” he warned, pointing to the Chakrams in my hands. “If you are careless, you will cut yourself.”

“Take your stance. Position yourself, and be aware of the Chakrams as you move,” he instructed. I followed his directions, swinging the weapons as I would with the gladius, careful not to bring the sharp edges too close. The first few swings passed harmlessly, but soon the Chakrams clanged against the metal of my armor and arm guards. The silver muscle cuirass rang under the impact, and I silently thanked myself for wearing it.

Sir Damos had gone quiet, observing me from the sidelines. For nearly ten minutes, he studied my movements before finally speaking again.

“Do not rely on your armor to protect you. The Chakrams are not your opponent,” he said, his tone calm but firm.

I nodded, tightening my focus. With each swing, I widened my arcs, keeping the weapons safely away from my body while maintaining speed and control.

“Good,” Sir Damos announced, lifting a hand to signal me to stop. “Now, let us move on.”

“Finally,” I muttered under my breath, rolling my eyes.

“I’ve requested an opponent for you today. They’ll arrive any minute now,” Sir Damos added, a satisfied glint in his eyes. I already had a guess and decided to voice it.

“Let me guess. You asked Princess Isalyn to fight me,” I said, irritation lacing my tone.

The man chuckled. “No, you’re mistaken.”

I blinked, caught off guard. The Princess of Freyah was the only person I’d ever seen him meet outside the Arena.

“Then who? If not Bellefay?” I pressed, curiosity and annoyance mixing.

“Your brother, Prince Dayron,” Sir Damos replied, a grin spreading across his face.

I froze, shock rooting me in place. He’d asked my brother... and he’d agreed. My mind reeled, unsure of what to expect. The last time Dayron and I had spoken, he’d scolded me before I left on my so-called ‘hunt.’

A rustle of leaves drew our attention to the path leading into the clearing. Sure enough, my eldest brother stepped forward, clad in full combat attire.

“Sir Damos,” he greeted formally. Then, turning to me, he added, “Brother.”

“What are you doing here?” I snapped, skipping the courtesy. The memory of our last confrontation still stung.

“I see you still lack manners,” he said calmly, his gaze moving past me to Sir Damos.

“Shall the training commence?” Sir Damos asked, his voice clear and authoritative. Dayron nodded, poised and collected, but I did not.

“What is the meaning of this?” I scoffed, my anger bubbling over. I had no intention of being in the same clearing as Dayron, much less fighting him.

“Why did you ask him to be my opponent?” I demanded, glaring at Sir Damos, who remained unflinching.

“Calm yourself, boy,” he said, looking down at me. “I did not ask him here. I requested a soldier from the barracks. Prince Dayron, however, volunteered to face you instead.”

I shifted my focus to my brother, who was already preparing for combat. Stretching and swinging his sword. His every movement was precise, controlled, and dead serious.

“Why?” I asked bluntly, forcing my anger into calm.

“Your attitude is off-putting. It’s about time someone puts you in your place,” he replied evenly, assuming a poised stance, sword and shield at the ready.

“Let the battle commence!” Sir Damos announced, and before I could fully center myself, Dayron lunged with staggering speed. I twisted aside, narrowly evading his first strike, but before I could regain my footing, I had to block again.

His sword met the Chakrams with a sharp clang, sparks flying. Panic surged, I realized just how out of my depth I was, both in weapon and opponent.

His blade slid along the rounded edges of my Chakrams, no hilt to trap it, yet I couldn’t exploit the moment. Dayron flowed with the movement, redirecting effortlessly, striking again and again. I was forced to defend continuously, my arms burning with each parried blow.

I had to act. Timing his next swing, I dipped low, letting his sword slice through empty air. I countered with a strike aimed at his armor, but he anticipated it, swinging his shield to intercept.

“That was predictable,” he remarked calmly as we both took a step back. I stared at him, astonished at how composed he remained. No heavy breathing, no signs of fatigue after that display of raw power.

His breathing remained steady, unlabored, and not a bead of sweat marred his calm expression.

“You are not my instructor,” I snapped, seizing the opening to strike and so did he. The clash of metal rang sharply through the forest, echoing off trees, as soil scattered beneath our feet.

Dayron was relentless. I couldn’t land a single meaningful blow. I managed to hold my ground, barely, dodging most attacks and blocking just in time, though a few strikes still found their mark.

Every attempt I made to retaliate felt weak in comparison. My muscles screamed, my feet dragged through the earth, but I forced myself to push harder, to keep moving.

“You think too much about your next attacks,” Dayron remarked mid-strike.

“And you think the sun shines out of your ass,” I shot back, furious, pulling away. Irritated by his comment, I wanted to glance at Sir Damos for guidance but I couldn’t afford to take my eyes off my brother.

We were poised to clash again when Sir Damos suddenly intervened, cutting through the tension. “Take off your armor,” he commanded, his tone sharp and serious.

“What? Why?” I asked, frowning at the unexpected order. Sir Damos simply gestured toward my body, leaving no room for argument. I glanced down at my armor, studying the gouges and scratches marring the metal. A few were clearly from Dayron’s sword, but most, surprisingly, were from my own Chakrams.

I hadn’t realized how reckless I’d been. In my focus on striking and dodging, I had been grazing myself with my own blades.