Interlude A2.VIII

Isolde Ovetha

[Access Granted: Yggdrasil]

[Soulsinger Designation: Isolde Ovetha]

[Class 1: Forger (Type: Dragoon)]

[Class 2: Conjurer (Type: N/A)]

The Southern Training Arena of Brightwash Academy echoed with the sound of steel striking steel, the impact reverberating like thunder in the cavernous space of the empty training grounds. Isolde braced herself, gripping her massive lance, Ascalon, as its radiant edge pulsed with aura, the air around it trembling as if the weapon’s very presence defied reality.

Before her stood Rosal, a living bastion of power. The Broceli woman towered over most opponents, including full-grown Olenish men. Her pale complexion and white-gold hair—both traits representative of the harsh northern Nifhel Region she hailed from—shimmered faintly in the arena’s cold light that streamed down from large aetheric light constructs that hung from the domed ceiling. Rosal’s silver eyes were unreadable, fixed on Isolde with the unrelenting precision of a predator sizing up prey. Her armor, Les Deux Amants, glowed faintly with a soft white light, an extension of her will as a Forger. Her shield, massive and perfectly circular, gleamed with an almost ethereal sheen, radiating quiet defiance. They were both breathtaking examples of Soulsinging at its highest level—aura-constructed armaments from the Chevalier’s soulforge.

Isolde lunged, driving Ascalon forward in a calculated thrust. The lance’s aura flared as it surged toward Rosal’s center, its tip a comet trailing light. Rosal moved in response, her shield snapping up to intercept. The collision was deafening, a shockwave rippling outward, scattering loose sand across the arena floor.

“Good form,” Rosal said, her voice calm but resonant. She held her ground effortlessly, her shield absorbing the blow as if the force of Isolde’s strike were nothing more than a summer breeze. “But predictable.”

Gritting her teeth, Isolde pivoted, swinging Ascalon in a wide arc to sweep Rosal’s legs. Rosal shifted, planting her feet with the weight of an ancient oak, and slammed her shield down to meet the attack. The lance bounced back, and Isolde stumbled slightly from the recoil.

“Don’t overcommit,” Rosal chided. “It leaves you open.”

Isolde snarled softly, adjusting her grip on Ascalon. Sweat trickled down her brow, though she refused to acknowledge it. Rosal’s calm critiques weren’t just maddening—they were a challenge. Each word dared Isolde to break through the unyielding wall that was her Chevalier.

“Again!” Isolde barked, her resolve sharpening.

Rosal inclined her head, as if granting permission, and raised her shield, the glow of Les Deux Amants intensifying.

Isolde charged, this time angling her lance low before feinting high. Ascalon whistled through the air as she redirected her strike mid-thrust, aiming for the gap between Rosal’s shield and helm. Isolde channeled aether, burning mana as she silently casted a Spell. The aura surrounding the lance flared brighter, the air crackling with tension.

[Spell: Severing Light]

Ascalon transformed into a beam of light that fired towards the minute gap in Rosal’s defenses. Rosal head moved just slightly, barely a twitch, causing Severing Light to land on the side of her helm, bursting into a fountain of sparks as the beam ricocheted into the air. That’s fine, Isolde thought. She wasn’t hoping for her Spell to land—just to give her a different angle. Ascalon’s gleaming point following the spear of light, coming around the edge of Les Deux Amants’ shield, aiming right for a gap in the plate armor covering Rosal’s thigh.

The blow never landed.

Rosal rotated her shield with practiced ease, catching the strike and deflecting it upward. She stepped forward with surprising agility for someone in full plate, using the momentum to swing the shield’s edge toward Isolde’s side.

Isolde barely managed to leap back, narrowly avoiding the shield’s crushing weight. She twisted her body, bringing Ascalon up defensively, the lance’s aura shimmering like a barrier of light.

[Guard] activated, and the weapon’s aura became a defensive cloud that slowed Rosal’s blow, though only enough for Isolde to reposition herself and avoid Rosal’s punishing follow through.

The clash continued, each exchange of blows more ferocious than the last. Isolde moved with precision, her tactics shifting as she probed for a weakness. She tried thrusts, sweeps, and even a spinning strike that sent arcs of light slicing through the air. But Rosal held firm, her shield an impregnable wall, her movements economical and deliberate.

Finally, after another collision that sent a ring of force rippling outward and echoing against the walls of the arena with a deafening boom, Rosal lowered her shield slightly and stepped back. “Enough,” she said, her voice as steady as it had been at the start.

Isolde froze mid-stride, Ascalon humming in her grip, its aura dimming slightly as she let out a slow breath. Her chest rose and fell as she steadied herself, frustration and pride warring within her.

“Well done. The timing of your attacks continues to improve,” Rosal said in her typical matter-of-fact way. “You held your own against a much higher-leveled opponent in a battle limited to our Forger abilities. However. . .”

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Isolde’s eyes narrowed.

Rosal slammed her shield edge-first into the sand and leaned slightly on it, a rare gesture of relaxation. “You continue to use your high Dexterity to position yourself and find openings in Les Deux Amants’ defenses. You are aware that my Type is Living Fortress. A defensive specialist. My endurance eclipses yours by leagues and in a contest of attrition, you’ve already lost.”

“Our abilities as Forgers presents an unfavorable match up for Ascalon,” Isolde observed.

“Yes, but not an impossible one. What is my armament comprised of?”

Isolde took in Rosal’s aura constructed armament, thinking for a moment before responding to the Chevalier. “The shield, breastplate, pauldrons, gauntlets, greaves . . .” Then the answer hit her. “It’s composed of separate distinct parts.”

Rosal smiled faintly, the barest hint of warmth breaking her stoic exterior. “Correct. My defense is strong, but while appearing to be a single, impenetrable wall, in actuality it is a phalanx, a collective unit.”

The giantess silently recalled Les Deux Amants and the armor around her body disappeared into shimmering silver light that rose into the air before dissolving into nothingness. “What would you do differently, then?”

Isolde’s brow furrowed. She pushed away a stubborn strand of her pinkish blond hair that was sticking to her sweat-slick face. Her eyes were fixed on the gigantic shield that remained sticking out of the arena’s floor. “I would attack points in the defense directly. Focusing my stronger attacks not on the openings I work to create, but instead on breaking down the components of your defense. Perhaps not the shield, as I imagine the aura used to sustain it is a deeper reserve and it would take a lot to break. Perhaps one of your greaves. Shatter it and creating easier openings in your defense, ruining your balance and forcing the other members of your ‘phalanx’ to over-compensate for the downed unit.”

The shield dissolved into particles of light. “Well done,” Rosal said. “Though it’s easier said than done. You were correct that the match up between our armaments is not a favorable one for you.”

Isolde stood in the center of the sand, gripping Ascalon tightly. The words stung. She worked herself to the bone day in and day out to eliminate the idea of unfavorable matchups. On the battlefield, when Soulsingers clashed, levels often didn’t matter as much as the types of Soulsingers fighting. What was the point of growing stronger if you couldn’t eliminate the uncertainty altogether?

As the last echoes of the battle faded, Isolde exhaled slowly and whispered to herself, “Next time, Rosal. Next time, I’ll break through.”

The adrenaline faded slowly from Isolde’s veins as she stood in the center of the arena, her breath finally returning to its resting cadence. With a soft exhale, she raised a hand to her chest, touching the massive lance she still gripped tightly.

“Ascalon,” she murmured.

The weapon pulsed, its ethereal aura dimming before dissolving into streams of light. The glow traveled to her heart, vanishing beneath her skin, and a moment later, the familiar weight of her mother’s necklace settled around her neck. A small marble hung from its chain—a fragment of aether-tec jewelry, smooth and cold against her skin. It was her totem.

Isolde ran her thumb over the marble, and a soft, lilting melody began to play. The music box within the necklace hummed a gentle lullaby, the same song her mother had sung to her every night before bed. It had been a long time since she last activated the construct and listened to that song. Some memories were too crippling, and better kept an arms’ length away.

“You’ve come far, princess,” Rosal said, breaking the moment. Her tone was as steady as ever, but there was warmth beneath the words. The Chevalier’s silver eyes rested on the necklace Isolde fingered. She knew the meaning of Isolde’s totem. “Your mother would be proud.”

Isolde turned to her Chevalier, the compliment striking deeper than any blade. For a moment, she was silent, uncertain how to respond. Rosal never gave praise lightly. That’s what she liked most about Rosal—the knight was honest even when speaking to the princess she was sworn to.

“Thank you, Rosal,” she said, voice firm despite the lump forming in her throat.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew both their gazes to the side. A voice followed, resonant and commanding, yet carrying an undercurrent of warmth. “It seems talent runs in your blood, Princess Isolde. You may be the most gifted recruit our Academy has seen since your mother walked these halls.”

Isolde snapped to attention immediately, spine straightening as Headmistress Eleftheria stepped into view. The woman was an imposing figure, draped in the deep crimson of the Crown Coalition. Her sharp eyes, framed by silver-streaked hair, bore down on Isolde with a weight that demanded respect.

Beside her stood her father, King Regent Liam Ovetha, his presence quieter but no less significant. He wore a simple dark tunic, his crown absent, yet the authority he carried was unmistakable. His eyes softened when they met Isolde’s, pride brimming within their depths.

“Headmistress.” Isolde saluted sharply, stepping into parade formation.

“At ease,” Eleftheria said, her tone light. “You’re not a recruit just yet. The semester hasn’t started. Enjoy your last day as a Princess.”

Isolde relaxed slightly, though she remained mindful of her posture.

“I must agree with Rosal,” her father said, his voice tinged with emotion. “Your mother would be proud, Isolde. As am I.”

Isolde felt her cheeks flush, but she held his gaze, determined to stand tall beneath his praise.

Eleftheria’s gaze shifted to the sparring arena, then back to Isolde. “This year’s recruits with special recommendations are exceptionally talented, Isolde. And the upperclassmen are no less fierce. With your mother’s legacy, you carry a mark on your back. If you aim to become Dux per Par, you’ll need to earn it every step of the way.”

“I understand,” Isolde said, her voice steady. “I won’t let my family, my people—or Brightwash Academy—down.” It was tradition for the future Queen of Broceliande to attend Brightwash, and her family had an excellent reputation of performance. But even the sterling track record was dull compared to what her mother had accomplished during her time as a student at the Academy.

Her father cleared his throat. “Well, Isolde, I came to fetch Rosal before we returned to Broceliande. And to wish you the best of luck during your time at the Academy.”

Eleftheria nodded approvingly, but before she could say more, Rosal stepped forward, her armor faintly gleaming in the afternoon light. “Are you sure she should be here without an escort, or guard?” Rosal asked, her voice tinged with uncharacteristic concern. “Brightwash or not, traditions can be broken. And after what happened to Queen Ermetrude . . .”

The Regent smiled faintly. “There’s no safer place than this academy, Rosal. And tradition dictates that the crown princess attend Brightwash without the presence of her Chevalier.”

Isolde nodded in response.

Her father stepped forward and wrapped her in a tight embrace. He nearly lifted her off the ground. “I’ll miss you very much, daughter,” he said. When they separated, his eyes were misty, though he hid it well. “You’ll do just fine here. I know it.”

Rosal sighed, her gaze lingering on Isolde. “You’ve always been stubborn about this,” she muttered, then stepped closer to Isolde. “I’ll miss watching you grow stronger, Princess. But I look forward to seeing how Brightwash hones you. Don’t disappoint me.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Isolde said, her lips curving into a small, confident smile.

With that, Rosal inclined her head, turning to follow the King Regent. Isolde watched them leave, her heart heavy yet resolute.

As the two disappeared from sight, Eleftheria stepped up beside her, clasping her hands behind her back. The Headmistress’s gaze followed theirs, but her words were for Isolde.

“Welcome to Brightwash, Princess,” she said quietly. “Your real battles begin now.”

Isolde nodded, her hand brushing the marble at her neck, her mother’s lullaby still echoing softly in her mind. “I’m ready.”

END OF ARC 2.