Taní gasped as a flurry of brutal limbs buried him. He was going to drown again. They were busy rushing to class, and he was going to drown again.

His grip on his tome slipped, and realizing what would happen if he lost it, desperately lunged after it—wobbling as a stray elbow smacked him back into place.

After suffering several debilitating jabs to his noggin, Taní popped out of the stream and onto the Art room’s floor with a resounding smack. He groaned; his fuzzy world composed of a dark, grooved surface. Wood…

Taní pushed himself off the ground with a grunt. A pungent scent clung to the air. Not only that, but the place felt humid, much like a Monastery's training room. He wasn’t even aware it was possible to sweat from painting.

Exertion… He grimaced. He was tired of exerting himself. That’s all these damnable classes did. No! What they did should’ve been classified as torture. And now he had one more to go through…the thing he looked forward to all day. Not because he wanted to see her again, but because this was the last. Even then, his cold trepidation wormed its way into his heart.

No. He was here; he had to see this through. Swallowing a great draft of air, he set his jaw.

Once Taní dusted himself off, he tossed the room a sweeping glance. It was devoid of desks and thrice as spacious as a classroom. The place appeared to be divided into an entrance hall, and then the main room. Several training mannequins lined one end of the class, though each sat at a distance even a Towerblade would respect. They weren’t sack-dummies, either, but finely carved humanoids with protruding bits of red, yellow, and orange.

Reds decorated the neck, wrist, and major arteries. Oranges the selective regions around the torso and thighs, and yellow sprinkled the non-lethal regions upon the arms and legs that one can slice themselves on and still live.

Students assaulted their dummies with swords, spears, and axes, though they didn’t seem like they were learning much. More so warming up.

“You’re late, D’Histell.”

Taní perked up. That voice. He knew that voice.

The looming figure of a shadow painted his peripheral, and when he turned, he saw Eleanor. Not dressed as before. Whereas the robe had been loose and large, her form-fitting black garb highlighted her surprisingly chiseled physique.

Taní had imagined she was like any other noble lady: Dressed in the finest silks to mask her wine gut, but after a swift inspection, he found not a single roll. Just incredibly taut skin that rippled like a storm-tossed sea.

“Master Sanrevelle!” he exclaimed. “You look…different.”

Eleanor gave a slight, confused tilt of her head. “Well, yes. This is my proper teaching attire. Rather effective, do you not agree?”

“I guess, but how’s that going to protect you from paint?”

“Paint?”

“Yeah.” Taní’s gaze drifted to the students swinging recklessly at each other. “This is Art, right? Not seeing a lot of clothes… Don’t you have an apron thingy?”

Eleanor blinked. “W-Wait. Did you truly think—” She brought a hand to her mouth before her laughter could spill. “Oh my, you did, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“Think this a class for painting and drawing.”

A sweltering surge of heat nipped at Taní’s cheeks. “Well, yeah…”

“Child, the Fine Arts are what educated Juneacão refer as self-defense,” Eleanor clarified.

“Wait, so this is a fencing class?”

“Though the martial arts are a focus, swordplay isn’t all I teach. Rather, it’s expanding our ability to fight. With or without weaponry. Naturally, we’ll learn how to wield Sedd in tandem, though that’s saved for later.”

Taní risked a glance at Eleanor, but whenever he met her gaze, he hesitated and looked away. Feeling stupider than before. “So…you don’t paint?”

“If by paint you mean how to brush aside your opponent’s blows, then yes. I, Sanrevelle of the Riverlans, teach you how to paint.” Eleanor spun around; hands clasped behind her back. “Now don your proper attire, D’Histell. I’ll excuse your tardiness this once, so don’t make it a habit. Understood?”

Taní nodded vigorously. He looked around for whatever this “proper attire” was, and almost as if she could read his mind, Eleanor pointed to a door nestled in the leftmost corner. One surrounded by a series of white boxes.

“You’re locker thirteen. Leave your belongings inside. Oh.” She twisted around to face him. “And please, do refrain from stripping in public. I’d rather you not violate our Lady’s innocence.”

Taní thanked her and did as he she commanded. It was a battle and a half squeezing in that outfit, though. At least the changing rooms made all the hopping bearable.

Once finished, he joined the other kids, and while he was content to linger in the back, forgotten, his eyes fell to a familiar head of salmon-flaxen hair.

Lavisa?

His feet moved before he could think. She stood at the edge of the cluster, pressed against the matted wall. Her hair shielded her features from him, though something told him she wore that stoic expression again.

Taní came to a silent stop some three paces away, his heart stuttering. Though he had only ever seen Lavisa in her uniform, she looked even prettier in their current gear. Poised and elegant, she possessed all the grace of those now-extinct red birds that had once ruled the forests of eastern Coratão.

Taní blinked. She was still again. Just like that doll.

The word conjured memories of his recent dream. That imposter, those eyes greener than the moon, and that curl of her lips. He had never seen Lavisa smile before. Good blood, he hadn’t even seen her frown. She was just…neutral.

Perhaps her father had spoiled her to where she derived no satisfaction from accomplishments and discoveries. She was royalty, after all.

“Good afternoon, class,” Eleanor said, her authoritative voice neutral. “We’ve two late arrivals today. Second-year Lavisa of House Vlasalisk, and first-year Tanão of House Fadénix.”

The entire class turned to them, and despite himself, Taní flinched. Had they heard the rumors, too?

“Due to their absence, we will briefly review the last two weeks' worth of lessons.”

A unified groan erupted from the crowd.

“Enough. You’ve greater things to lament than a review.” Eleanor approached an elevated platform situated against the center wall. She traveled up the steps and stopped before an enshrined blade. It betrayed hints of far eastern influence. A D’Arcian saber. “Now then, can any of you offer a guess as to what this might be?”

“Your blade!” a girl exclaimed.

Eleanor didn’t spare her a glance. “A show of hands, please.”

A second-year boy raised his hand. “Your blood-stained relic?”

“Close, but no.”

A dark-haired girl raised her hand. “D’Arcy’s Spine, obviously.”

Eleanor thrust her hand out to the side, and though Taní couldn’t see it, an immensity drew him towards the negative space. It gnawed and bent, coaxing something from nothing as the enshrined blade disintegrated inch by inch.

A handle emerged from the ether, and when Eleanor gripped it, the enshrined blade shrieked into being, radiating a presence thicker than honey. It didn’t burn like the sun, yet its radiating heat stifled Taní all the same. He slouched without intending to, and though he desperately righted himself, its presence bore down on him.

“And what exactly is D’Arcy’s Spine?” Eleanor asked in that eloquent manner of hers, unperturbed by the heat.

Taní glanced at the other students.

One boy lifted a shaky hand, tried to keep it up, then relented as it fell back down.

“Yes, Herio?” Eleanor called.

“A…an Aspect?”

“No.” She swept her saffron-chambray gaze across the crowd, and though several students attempted to push their arms up, none could muster the necessary strength. Finally, her eyes landed on Taní. “D’Histell, would you care to provide an answer?”

Taní’s lips parted, but before he could squeeze out a single syllable, he choked. It was just like then. The dream. Did he need a “true” answer to speak?

He traced the blade’s shape, hoping he could spot a solution in its design. The knuckled bow and quillon were of western design, but the bleached wraps swathing the grip bore a strong resemblance to those found in eastern blades. Etched upon its pommel, he discovered a dragon’s eye (or the motif of one). The unmistakable mark of its original wielder. Better known as her tally.

The two-hundred-and-twelve consecutive victories she had attained during her time as a wandering duelist.

Pressed as he was for an answer, the weapon could not help but steal his attention. D’Arcy’s very own blade… The same one used during the Three Nations War. Most referred to it as the “Spine,” but Taní knew it by another name.

The Blood-Thinner.

Recalling the moniker brought him back to the past, when Danza had lectured him about a weapon’s place many moons ago.

“It—It’s a tool. Something you draw when all else fails. It’s not an answer, it’s—” Taní groaned as a feather brushed the inside of his throat. “It’s your last resort.”

A pleased smile touched Eleanor’s lip. “Right you are. You see.” She pressed her thumb against the guard, revealing an inch of steel. “Weapons are a mean for survival, not slaughter. Denying them of their singular purpose is not dissimilar to turning one’s blade on themselves. Can you tell me why, D’Histell?”

“Cuz our duty is to protect. If you—” Taní caught his breath. “If you rely on their power, then you’ve already failed. You’ve already broken the codes. Juneacão are meant to preserve. Not take life away.”

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

Eleanor released the blade, causing it to close with a clink. “The moment we draw our weapons is the moment we threaten to take life. Very astute, D’Histell.” She relinquished D’Arcy’s Spine to gravity’s grasp, but instead of clattering on the floor, it reappeared on the shrine. With it, the pressure vanished. “If we need see restocking, then so be it. If we must hone our bladework, then so be it. If we are driven by our base desire to best our fellow Juneacão for sport, then so be it, but we mustn’t turn our blades during rage. To do so only invites tragedy.”

Eleanor stepped down from the shrine, her eyes on Taní’s. “Godly relics are a boon to us, but not through their unparalleled ability to maim. It is in their strength, their capacity to pacify that which is eager to take life.”

“But weren’t they used during war?” a girl asked.

“Yes”—Eleanor turned to her—“their initial purpose was simple. Mind you, this was during the bloodiest era of human history. One in which man’s madness reigned supreme.”

Taní inclined his head. “Man’s madness?”

“A saying from the Aisenstadt.”

“Aisenstadt? The Aisenstadt? The same people that just…disappeared?”

She nodded. “The very same. They, in all their knowing, knew peace was but a break from the Cycle. There will be moments when we’ve no other choice but to fight. We might not wish to acknowledge it, we might think ourselves above it, but there will be a challenge that requires us to take a life. Only then can we avoid further bloodshed. By spilling theirs first.”

Taní’s stomach clenched with cold disquiet. He’s never seen Danza kill anyone before. Scare them, yes, but never kill. It went against their very duty.

Eleanor’s eyes softened, and though she dared not break a smile, her voice carried all the honeyed warmth of a late Greentide’s sun. “Do not despair, D’Histell. Should you remain true, then you shall find no need to draw your weapon. Let us hope you keep that fortune.”

Taní instinctively reached for his shiny pebble in his pocket, but found only dead air. If he was lucky. God, he hated that word. There weren’t wars anymore. If anything, he could deal with issues as Danza had: By bonking everyone hard enough for them to see twinkling scales.

Eleanor spent the next hour summarizing the detailed histories of the various martial arts, the advantages of several weapon types, their disadvantages, when best to use them, and the regions of incapacitation. That being the proper term for the dummies’ yellow protrusions.

If one couldn’t cooperate with a rowdy target, then their best option was to render them weak.

A student raised their hand. “Master Sanrevelle?”

Eleanor ceased pacing. “Yes?”

“What if we need to fight another Juneacão?”

“I hope you’ve no desire to cross blades with your ilk. It’s been over twenty years since the last recorded instance of a Juneacão altercation. Let us keep it so.”

Another student asked if they would learn how to fight on horseback, but Eleanor quickly explained that wasn’t her responsibility. Art was based on a Juneacão’s personal performance. Not that of their mount.

“In four months,” Eleanor continued, “you will be incorporating elements of Sedd into your physical routine. Be sure to pay extra attention to your general Sedd instructor. I wouldn’t want you failing two classes.”

Taní raised his hand.

“Yes, D’Histell?”

“Why do we need to use Sedd?”

“A Juneacão’s greatest strength is in their blood, D’Histell. Unfortunately, some struggle with conjuring it entirely, and when they don’t, they fail to incorporate it properly. This makes one stiff. If the flow is stiff, your defense will suffer. That is why this course is designed to open the floodgates, so to speak.” Eleanor returned to her spot before the shrine. “A relic can further impede our ability to fight. Its mere presence stifling our blood. That is why you failed to remain upright: Because its Order was too great.”

Taní cocked his head. “Order?”

“A blood-stained relic, especially one as divine as this, does not tolerate transgressions.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Despite their might, they demand one thing, and one thing alone: Peace. That is why it strips you of your will to fight. Because rebellion cannot exist before true divinity.”

“So why didn’t you struggle holding it?”

“Simple: it’s because I relate.”

Taní arched a brow. “Excuse me?”

Eleanor gripped the hilt in one hand and the scabbard in the other. She lifted the weapon from its pedestal, and almost immediately, the immensity returned.

“The closer you are in nature to the relic’s original master, the greater your tolerance until you’ve achieved complete Synthesis. This can occur through a variety of means, mind you. My wielding it does not make me unique.” She returned the blade to its shrine.

A girl raised their hand.

“Yes, Neila?” Eleanor said.

“Do we keep the relic once we can summon it?”

“No. Those are strictly school property.”

“I thought only students were allowed to summon them,” the girl said.

Eleanor clasped her hands behind her back, appearing as proud as a royal guard whenever they strode through town. Instructors and graduates with proven Synthesis may—if dependable—receive special permission to wield them.”

“What happens if someone else summons it?” Neila asked. “Is there like a timer, or…?”

“Yes. A relic—much like a person—can only be in one place at one time,” Eleanor stated.

No one asked further questions, and so Eleanor continued with a lecture on combat styles. While they were free to pursue whichever school they desired, they’d receive instruction on the Academy’s two schools of fencing.

That being the Tyrian school, and D’Arcian school.

Eleanor assigned them into pairs, and while Taní expected to be partnered with someone he couldn’t care any less about, hearing Lavisa’s name joined with his left him astonished.

Their towering Art instructor distributed wasters, and though she hadn’t given the signal to start, several students took to eagerness and thwacked each other on the head.

“Tanão,” came the soft timbre of Lavisa’s refined voice.

“Yeah?”

“I’m pleased to see you’ve recovered from your stupor.”

“What’re you—” Taní paused. “Ooooh, right. Yeah, no, I’m fine.”

She dipped her head. “That gladdens me. Most don’t take well to my revelation, though you seem to have recovered quickly.”

“Yeah…it’s not easy learning that the person you’re talking to is a princess.”

Not poking her on the ship had turned out to be the right idea, after all. Would his head even be on?

No, she didn’t seem the type to blow up over something as petty as a touch. She’d probably stare at him until his anxiety reduced him to a bubbling puddle.

“So…what do we do now, Lavi— Er, I mean, your highness,” Taní corrected himself.

Lavisa lifted a porcelain hand. “You’ve no need for that here. I am a student, the same as you. Call me by name.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, Lavisa.”

“All is forgiven.”

A yelp sounded from somewhere behind Taní, reminding him of a fleeting thought. “Hey, mind if I ask a question?”

Lavisa gave the slightest inclination of her head. “What is it?”

“You’re a second-year, yeah? What’re you doing in an introduction class?”

“Oh, that. While Art is a required course, first-years opt from taking it.”

“Why?”

“Because it allows them to take Literature by itself. It’s a course typically reserved for second-years, and in my opinion, taxing.”

Taní groaned inwardly. Of course, he was taking two of the hardest classes at the same time.

He shifted, but immediately froze as a pressure formed on his neck. Curious, he glanced down and found a sword. Lavisa’s sword.

He hadn’t even seen her swing.

“You talk too much.” She lowered her wooden blade back to her side.

“But I thought we were—”

There was a blur, but his body couldn’t react fast enough. Instead of experiencing the red-hot sting that came with being smacked with a wooden instrument, he felt air and a light tap on his wrist.

“Learning? Yes, we are, and I’ve learned you’re far too absorbed when you speak. So, pay attention,” Lavisa instructed, her voice as even as pond-brushing breeze. “You never know when a word might be as deceptive as silence.”

†

Taní toweled off his hair as he came out of the stall. What a complete flop. He learned nothing and the only person he liked spent the entire class reminding him of just how stupid he was. And the worst part? This was what he had been looking forward to. The end of the day.

And he felt no better.

He heaved a heavy sigh. The class was empty now. Well, nearly empty. Eleanor remained by the shrine, but there was something else. A tiny speck of nearly golden light sitting on the shrine’s edge.

“Master Sanrevelle?” Taní called.

She turned to him; her tense shoulders relaxing once she spotted him. “D’Histell. How was your day?”

“Eh. Kinda horrible.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that. First days are rarely pleasant, even for those of the nobility.”

“Yeah, I guess it could’ve been rougher. What about you?”

Eleanor snatched the speck from the shrine. She opened her mouth, hesitated, then flashed him a hint of a smile. “I suppose I’ve fared no better, but I am glad to have ended it with a familiar face.”