Paragon of Destruction

Blade bared, Arran slowly circled Doran, search for an opening in his opponent's defense. Even if it was just a friendly competition, he did not treat it lightly. Bad habits were hard to shake, and any carelessness picked up in training would show itself in battle.

While Doran used a two-handed grip to hold his sword, Arran used only his right hand. With his strength returned, there was little need for him to use both hands, and his new style somehow seemed more suited for single-handed combat.

Doran was the first to move. In a quick combination, he launched a series of three strikes, two feints followed by a powerful attack.

Arran blocked the attack effortlessly, then used Doran's momentum to make an attack of his own. Before the adept could recover, Arran's blade already lay against his neck.

They both stepped back, then began to circle each other once more.

This time, Arran was the first to strike. In a single quick movement, he struck forward with his blade. Doran parried, but it was as if Arran's blade cut through the defense, and the blow connected.

Doran stepped back, a puzzled frown on his face. "How did you do that?"

"Practice," Arran replied with a grin.

Of course, the truth was that his new sword style contained a trace of his insight into binding and severing, with the binding part aiding his defense and the severing part strengthening his attacks.

Several dozen more exchanges followed, all of which Arran won easily. As they fought, the other adepts and their teachers formed a wide circle around them, observing the match. Doran was more skilled than any of the other adepts, and seeing him defeated so easily caused more than a little curiosity.

If the continued defeats caused the adept any frustration, there was no sign of it on his face. Instead, he fought enthusiastically, eager to test himself against the unfamiliar style.

Finally, after nearly half an hour, Doran lowered his sword. His brow was covered in sweat, and his movements betrayed a hint of exhaustion.

"It's no use," he said. "Seeing that ridiculous beard of yours, I can't help but be distracted." Despite his weariness, he flashed a broad grin at Arran.

Before Arran could defend his beard's honor, Master Kallias stepped forward from the small crowd that had formed around them.

"This new style you're using," he said. "Lady Brightblade taught it to you?"

Arran nodded, unwilling to reveal that he was the style's creator.

"You're fortunate to have so skilled a teacher," Master Kallias said. "That style… I think it contains some traces of insight."

"I haven't fully mastered it yet," Arran replied. This wasn't entirely false — the style was still unfinished, after all. And to truly master it, he would first have to complete it.

"You'll benefit greatly from doing so," the Master said. "But for now, would you mind going a few rounds against me? I'm curious to see what she has taught you."

Arran happily obliged, eager to test his style would fare against a more skilled opponent.

They sparred for half an hour, and Arran could not help but be excited by the results. While Master Kallias was a far more capable foe than Doran, but Arran managed to hold his own, claiming victory in nearly half their exchanges.

This caused the others to grow even more interested. Defeating Doran was no small feat, but matching a Master was a different matter altogether. Even besting a Master once or twice was beyond most of the adepts, and Master Kallias ranked among the strongest of the Masters in the House.

In the hours that followed, Arran sparred against the others in the group, both adepts and Masters curious to experience the unfamiliar style for themselves.

The practice was both useful and enjoyable, and with many different opponents to learn from, he made several small improvements to his style.

When the adepts' practice session came to an end several hours later, Arran was almost disappointed that it was over already.

As the other adepts left, Doran walked over to him.

"Now that you're back, will you be joining us again? We've made good progress in understanding the Thousand Cuts this past year."

Arran sighed, then shook his head. "Brightblade wants me to study with the other Houses. I don't think she intends to leave me much time to practice here — not until she's satisfied with my progress in magic."

"Magic?" Doran looked as if he'd just eaten a mouthful of moldy bread. "With your skill at the sword, she wants you to focus on learning magic?"

Arran shrugged. "I've never been much good at it, and she intends to change that."

"I suppose it can't be helped, then," Doran said regretfully. "But if you find the time, come train with us."

They spoke for several more minutes before eventually parting ways. As he left, Arran could clearly tell that the adept was disappointed. Yet Arran had no choice in the matter — as much as he would have liked to spend the next year improving his sword skills, Brightblade had decided he should focus on magic.

And, in truth, he knew her decision was the right one. As much as he enjoyed sword play, what needed his attention most were his weaknesses, not his strengths.

When he arrived at the mansion, he found Brightblade already waiting for him. She was sitting in the garden, a glass of wine at her side and an ancient-looking book in her lap.

When she saw him, she gave him a bright smile. "Good, you're here," she said. "And earlier than I expected — which is fortunate, because your training with the House of Flames starts tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Arran frowned. "Didn't you say it would take a few days?"

He had hoped he would have at least some days to train with the adepts of the House of Swords, but it seemed he wouldn't even be granted that short respite.

"I decided to have you join the initiates instead of the novices," Brightblade replied. "That was easier to arrange, and I trust that you will be able to rise through the ranks yourself." She reached for her void bag, then produced a small flame-shaped badge. "You'll need this to prove your identity."

Arran suppressed a sigh. Forcing a smile, he said, "I'll do my best to make you proud."

"I expect nothing less," Brightblade said, nodding in satisfaction. "Training starts an hour after dawn, so I suggest you head to bed early. The House of Flames is several hours from here."

When Arran awoke the next morning, the sky outside was still pitch black. Resisting the urge to get back in bed, he wearily ate a breakfast of fruits and dragon meat, then hurried out of the stronghold.

He ran most of the way — first to the capital, then to the House of Flames, which was a few miles south of the capital — but even so, it was well past dawn by the time he arrived.

Immediately, he saw that the House of Flames was nothing like the House of Swords. Their walled stronghold was far larger, the size of a city, and despite the early hour there were already many mages on the road leading to its gates.

Most of these wore crimson robes, which Arran guessed were worn by the members of the House of Flames. Arran's own robe was a simple black one which would have gone unnoticed in most places, but here, it clearly marked him as an outsider.

When he approached the gate, a crimson-robed guard immediately came toward him. "What's your business here?"

"I'm here to train," Arran replied, fumbling for the small badge Brightblade had given him.

"Rank?" the guard asked curtly.

"I'm an initiate," Arran said. "I have—"

"Follow the road to your left," the guard interrupted him, not sparing so much as a glance for the badge. "It's the hall at the end of the road."

Without giving Arran a second look, he returned to his post. The affairs of initiates clearly were of no interest to him.

When Arran entered the gate, and the sight immediately caused him to go wide-eyed. Straight ahead, he saw what looked to be a sizable city, while to his left and right were two roads that led past a series of vast stone halls.

Arran hurried down the left road, finding it dense with people, all but a few of them in the robes of the House of Flames. As he jostled his way through the crowd he got more than a few angry looks, but there was no time to worry about that — although he didn't know the exact time, he knew he was running late.

The road led past numerous halls that looked mostly identical, and up close, Arran could see that they were built out of large chunks of stone, put together in a way that did not seem entirely natural. Inside the halls, he could Sense the familiar feeling of Essence, though the walls seemed to dampen it.

The crowds grew less dense as he moved forward, and the people around him looked younger and — he suspected — weaker.

Finally, after a good two miles, he reached the end of the road. There were several stone halls here, and Arran quickly entered the thick doors of the furthest one.

Behind the doors, he found a single vast space, several hundreds of feet across and at least a hundred feet high. Inside, the stone walls bore many dark scorch marks, but Arran could not see any damage, and he guessed the walls were somehow shielded from magic.

At the center of the hall stood a large group of people, at least a hundred from what Arran could tell. About half of them wore crimson robes, with the other half wearing robes in other colors — initiates from other Houses, Arran guessed.

As Arran approached them, a crimson-robed young man stepped forward from the group. Tall and dark-haired, he was handsome but for the arrogant look on his face.

"You there! What are you doing here?" the young man called out at Arran.