Chapter 15

Two Paths, Two Minds

> The Empire, ever wary of divided loyalties, rejects the notion of a state religion. Faith, after all, introduces a rival to the Empire’s supremacy, drawing the devotion of the common folk away from their true master.

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> — Historie and Geographie of the Provincia Empiris

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> Gaius Elvianus

Godfrey stepped down from the makeshift stage on the western side of the market square, the last echoes of his performance still hanging in the crisp evening air. He had chosen an old song, one he had actually learned from a book, but from Master Bertie’s collection. It was a lament, written about a man leaving home, and the melancholy melody had always struck a chord with him.

But there was one stanza in the second verse that had haunted him since he was a child—a line that had him waking a grumpy Master Bertie the night before, desperate to find and memorize the song in its entirety for this moment.

By the hearthstone cold and dying, I leave my kin to mourn;

Through mist and mire, I tread unknown, where shadows bind the morn.

Upon the wilds where winds do howl, my name shall fade away,

And in the dusk of morning's grace, my heart is lost to day.

Godfrey stepped down from the stage, the echoes of the song still lingering in the cool morning air. The lament’s sorrowful tones had captured the attention of the crowd, leaving a palpable silence in their wake. As he made his way through the throng of villagers and visitors, a few approached him, their eyes glistening with tears.

“That was beautiful, Godfrey,” said an older woman, her voice trembling. “It reminded me of my husband, gone these many years. Thank you.”

An old farmer clapped him on the shoulder, his expression solemn. “You’ve got a gift, lad. That song... it touched something deep.”

Godfrey nodded at their words, offering a tight smile. His mind was still half-lost in the melancholy lyrics of the song, and the connection he had felt with the audience lingered in his chest, warm but heavy.

As he moved through the crowd, a shift in the atmosphere caught his attention. People were parting, stepping aside with hushed murmurs as a figure approached. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath as the man moved forward with a grace that belied the weight of his armor.

Godfrey’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight of the man. He was tall, head and shoulders above most others in the square, and his presence was as commanding as the dark steel plate he wore. The armor was intricately articulated, the plates fitting together seamlessly, allowing the man to move with the ease of a predator. His dark curly hair framed a face that was strikingly handsome, with a sharply manicured beard that accentuated his strong jawline. But it was the man’s eyes that held Godfrey’s attention—they seemed to assess Godfrey from his basest parts to his finest details all in a moment.

The man stopped in front of Godfrey, towering over him, and offered a small, almost imperceptible nod. “An impressive performance,” he said, his voice deep and smooth, with a touch of something Godfrey couldn’t quite identify. “And equally impressive restraint.”

Godfrey’s mouth went dry as he tried to make sense of the man’s words. Restraint? Did this stranger know more than he was letting on? Godfrey forced himself to speak, though his voice came out quieter than he intended. “Thank you, sir. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

The stranger's cold eyes seemed to pierce through Godfrey as he continued, “And I hear you will be participating in the village's dueling competition.”

Godfrey nodded, his voice steadying slightly as he replied, “Yes, sir, I am.”

The man’s smile widened, though it still lacked any true warmth. “I find that commendable. It takes a certain kind of person to step into the ring, to face an opponent head-on. It’s not just about strength or skill, but about resolve, determination... and, of course, restraint.”

Godfrey’s mind raced as he tried to gauge the man’s intentions. The way he emphasized certain words, the deliberate way he spoke—it all felt like a test, though of what, Godfrey couldn’t be sure. He didn’t want to betray any unease, so he simply nodded and said, “I’ve been training for this for a long time. I hope to give a good account of myself.”

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were weighing Godfrey’s words. “I have no doubt you will,” he said, his voice low and measured, “I’ll be watching your performance closely. It’s not every day one sees a display of such... promise.”

With that, the man turned and began to walk away, the crowd parting once more to let him pass. Godfrey watched him go, a heavy sense of foreboding settling in his gut.

XXX

Godfrey sat with John in his cabin, the fire crackling softly in the hearth as they sipped tea. Aunt Alice had retired early, sleeping off the evening’s wine, leaving the two men alone with their thoughts. The room was warm, filled with the comforting aroma of autumn honey and herbs steeping in their cups.

“Whoever that man was,” John began, his voice low and contemplative, “he was wealthy enough to afford that armor and informed enough to know who you are. More than likely, it was a member of Rinthess’s faction. If that’s the case, his mention of restraint was likely a warning—not to draw undue attention. The path for your induction into the Hand might already be cleared.”

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John paused, taking another measured sip of his tea. Godfrey followed suit, savoring the subtle sweetness that softened the brew's earthy tones. The warmth spread through him, a brief comfort amidst the uncertainty.

“But,” John continued, setting his cup down with a soft clink, “there’s another possibility. If that man isn’t aligned with Rinthess, then we’re dealing with another faction entirely, one that’s already aware of you. That could complicate things.”

The idea of being caught in the crossfire between powerful factions was daunting. He had known that his life was changing, that he was being drawn into something larger, but the players in the game were still unknown to him.

John set his cup down, the seriousness in his eyes deepening. “We need more information, Godfrey. I’ll see what I can find out, quietly. It’s too dangerous to make any assumptions right now, especially when we don’t know who else might be watching.”

He leaned back in his chair, the firelight casting flickering shadows on his face. “In the meantime, Hawker wanted to talk with you. He mentioned something about a final bit of preparation before the Fete’s dueling competition. I suggest you speak with him.”

Godfrey nodded, feeling the weight of his uncle’s words as he rose to leave. “Alright. I’ll go see him.”

“Good,” John replied, his tone softening slightly. “And Godfrey… stay sharp. We’re all walking a fine line here, and one misstep could be costly.”

XXX

Godfrey found Hawker in the clearing behind Tarlow’s house, the older man’s silhouette illuminated by the moonlight that filtered through the trees. In his hands, Hawker held a live steel broadsword and a polished kite shield, the edges of the blade glinting ominously in the dim light.

Hawker glanced up as Godfrey approached, his eyes briefly assessing the weapons Godfrey carried. “Good to see you brought your steel,” Hawker remarked, a hint of approval in his tone.

Godfrey gave a slight nod, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his longsword. “You taught me better than to walk into a potentially hazardous situation unarmed.”

Hawker’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile, though it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Smart lad. We’ve got work to do tonight.”

Hawker shifted his stance, positioning the broadsword and shield with practiced ease. "Attack me," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Hawker’s smirk widened into a grin, and he shrugged. “You’ll need to learn to live with a few nicks and dents in your steel, boy. You’ve already learned how to care for them, so consider this a platitude, if you want.”

He raised his shield, settling into a ready stance. “Now, stop worrying about your sword and start worrying about how you’re going to hit me. Show me what you’ve learned.”

Godfrey set his jaw, determination flashing in his eyes as he launched himself at Hawker. In a single, fluid motion, he drew his steel mid-leap, his longsword singing as it left the scabbard. He aimed for Hawker's shield, attempting to catch the edge of the kite shield in the teeth of his parrying dagger, hoping to wrench it away or at least create an opening.

Hawker was ready. With a practiced ease, he shifted his weight, angling the shield to deflect the incoming strike while simultaneously raising his broadsword to counter Godfrey’s offensive.

The clash of steel echoed through the clearing as Godfrey pressed his attack, trying to find an opening in Hawker's impeccable defense. But something felt off. As Godfrey circled, looking for any advantage, he noticed the beads of sweat on Hawker's forehead, the intense concentration in his eyes.

Godfrey’s mind raced as he parried a swift strike, narrowly avoiding the follow-up blow from the shield’s rim. Hawker’s broadsword and kite shield moved with such precision and independence that it felt as though Godfrey was battling two separate opponents. The broadsword danced and thrust with the skill of a seasoned fighter, while the shield seemed to anticipate every attack, moving almost as if it had a mind of its own, blocking and countering in perfect synchronization.

Godfrey's instincts screamed at him that something wasn't right. He adjusted his stance, trying to outmaneuver the shield, but every feint and lunge was met with unerring precision, as if the shield knew exactly what he was going to do before he did it.

Godfrey broke off his assault, stepping back, puzzled by what he was witnessing. He held his weapons at the ready, breathing heavily, eyes narrowed while struggling to understand how Hawker was managing such a relentless defense.

Hawker grinned, lowering his broadsword slightly but keeping the shield up. “I see you’ve noticed something’s different,” he said, his voice calm despite the exertion. “This, lad, is what we call splitting Focus. It’s a step every Soldier must take to become a Knight.”

Hawker sheathed his sword and lowered the shield entirely, stepping closer to Godfrey. “It’s about dividing your conscious mind, lad. When you split Focus, you can concentrate on two things simultaneously, giving each your full attention. It may seem simple when I explain it, but in practice, it’s anything but. On the battlefield, this technique is remarkably effective. Imagine being able to wield your sword with one mind and direct your shield with another—both independent, yet perfectly coordinated.”

He tapped the edge of the kite shield with his knuckles. “That’s what I was doing just now. My mind was split—one part focused on the sword, the other on the shield. It takes years of practice to master, but once you do, it can be the difference between life and death. A Soldier who can split his Focus is a force of nature, my boy.”

Godfrey stared at Hawker, awe settling in as the implications of what he had just witnessed took root. “How do you… how is it even performed?” Godfrey finally asked, his voice a mix of curiosity and wonder.

Hawker’s grin faded, replaced by a look of frustration. He shook his head slightly, a deep sigh escaping him. “Godfrey, you’ve never once followed the methods we’ve taught you—not the way John, Tarlow, or I describe them. You’re not like us, lad, and that’s not a bad thing. But it means you’re going to have to find your own way.”

He placed a hand on Godfrey’s shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. “You’ve already shown that you can do things the rest of us can’t, so I’m sure you’ll learn how to do it, eventually. There’s also something to be said for teaching you too much too soon; that could be very suspicious to the wrong people.”

Godfrey clenched his fists in frustration, but he knew better than to argue. The logic was sound, even if it felt like a barrier he was desperate to break through. As they walked back toward Hawker’s cabin, the night air cool against their heated skin, Godfrey’s mind churned with thoughts of the battle they’d just had.

The ability Hawker had described, the splitting of one’s Focus, it nagged at the edge of his mind. There was something familiar about it, something that reminded him of… what?

XXX

That night, as Godfrey lay in his bed in Hawker’s cabin, he couldn’t stop replaying the brief exchange of blows from earlier. The memory of their fight morphed into a fairytale narrative in his mind, with Dream Hawker now cast as an evil wizard, his broadsword and shield glowing with dark magic. Determined, Godfrey tried again and again to split his mind, to make his steel move independently—whatever the hell that meant.

But each time he attempted it, his efforts were met with the same outcome: his head was swiftly and decisively removed from his shoulders. He tried to force a song to have the dissonant effect he had previously experienced, but trying to force a song to be a certain way ended in failure each time. Frustrated, he closed off his dreamworld, and slipped into true slumber.