***

The morning had dawned, and a touch of cold mingled in the air, bearing greeting to the beginning of a new winter season. Unease and excitement lingered in the sky as the village of Alakta awoke early, readying themselves for the event to transpire within hours.

In a secluded corner of the village, Geoffred and Alexander were already training with their swords, pale wisps of breath escaping from beneath their helmets with each swing.

"This blade," said Geoffred, holding a metal long-sword with a glow similar to that of moonlight. "Isn't just an instrument of flesh. What is it?"

"It is a brush," answered Alexander, holding a blade of his own. With precise control, he sliced through the air in demonstration. "The sword is my brush, and I, the artist."

Geoffred nodded. He fingered the hilt of his sword. "And the battlefield," he held the blade firmly in his hands. "What is it?"

"It is a canvas." Alexander lowered his knees, digging his feet into the frost-encased grass below. His hands were skyward, with his sword bent. "I'm the artist who paints the canvas with his brush."

"Then paint for me - strike!" Geoffred commanded, raising his sword in challenge.

Alexander lurched forward, sparks ringing out as their blades met. Beneath his armor, sweat beaded on his brow as he poured all his focus into pushing Geoffred back. When that failed, he broke away and began probing swiftly from all angles - left, right, overhead - searching for an opening. But Geoffred countered smoothly, effortlessly turning aside each attack.

A few years ago, Alexander would have been consumed with frustration, lashing out blindly at the air. Now he was calm, his strikes faster, his senses heightened, his body moving fluidly like a dancer's. When his slice from the left was parried, Alexander used the momentum to crash into Geoffred shoulder-first. Caught off guard, the older knight stumbled back with a grunt and fell hard on the frozen earth.

"Today," Alexander stood over Geoffred with a grin, blade leveled at his throat. "With this brush, I, the artist, draw upon the canvas a painting of my victory."

Geoffred stood with the help of his ward. He took a long breath, the helm on his head taken off, allowing the early air to bite at his skin. "You… fought adequately," he said, his lips suppressing a prideful smile. "I must be getting old."

"You hadn't noticed?" Alexander asked with a grin playing on his lips. "Come, let us eat once more before I depart."

"We will, but first, I must show you something." Geoffred said, stepping into their small hut.

The building was warm and tidy, courtesy of the crackling hearth. Aside from a plain wooden table and chairs, the only other furnishings were a small kitchen area and two simple sleeping quarters opposite it. However, Alexander's attention was drawn to a sturdy oaken door set into the back wall, bound with iron and secured with three heavy locks. His guardian had never permitted him to enter, and Alexander had respected his privacy, but now Geoffred was guiding him inside for the first time.

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

The room was an armory, filled with racks of swords, axes, hammers, and other arms. Some blades were elegant and bejeweled, others weathered and wickedly sharp, but all looked well-used and lovingly maintained.

Shelves along the walls held paintings and other mementos from Geoffred's younger years. In one image, he was depicted in resplendent shining armor crafted from shards, the rarest and most valuable metal in the realm. Alexander's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Geoffred, you–," started Alexander, but Geoffred paid no attention to his voice.

Geoffred stood in front of a sword, the only one sheathed inside the entire armory. It wasn't taller than the rest, nor the shortest, but it was the only one that held his guardian's gaze. The man had a blank expression on his face, the same one he always had when he was in deep thought. Slowly, he reached out and grasped it. His fingers touched over the sheath momentarily before looking at Alexander.

"Life as a knight is more difficult than you may think," said Geoffred with a low voice. "Not all knights will be as honorable as you. Some will be ambitious, willing to do anything to defeat you. But you must not sway your ways."

Alexander nodded, absorbing each word with care. Geoffred always told him not all knights were honorable; a notion Alexander thought as impossible, but no matter, he listened.

Geoffred grasped the weapon's leather-wrapped hilt. "Some trained longer than you," he said, slowly unsheathing the blade, revealing lustrous golden steel that seemed to radiate with the essence of light itself. "While others trained less." With care, he offered it to Alexander, who welcomed it with shaking hands. "But you must never allow that to sway you from doing what is just."

Alexander's pupils dilated in awe. The sword in his hands was magnificent. It resembled the nurturing rays of the sun and the lethalness of its heat. The hilt was colored a crimsoned hue sprinkled by specks of yellow. It illuminated the dimly lit hut with a radiant glow.

"I pass Lightbringer to you now," Geoffred proclaimed, and for a brief instant Alexander thought he saw sadness in his mentor's eyes.

"It is... incredible," Alexander exclaimed, unable to tear his gaze away from Lightbringer. He could see his reflection on the polished blade. His golden eyes and hair shone as brightly as ever, accentuating his prominent cheekbones and the glimmering gold scar on his face. "Geoffred, I don't know how to thank–"

"Do not thank me with words," Geoffred replied firmly. "Thank me with deeds. Wield Lightbringer with courage, compassion, and honor."

Alexander smiled and stood taller, gripping the sun-bright sword. "The sword is my brush, and I the artist," he quoted.

"Aye," said Geoffred, a proud twinkle in his eye. He paused. "What is your level?"

"I haven't checked in a while," admitted Alexander. "Kálese!"

Upon his incantation, a book materialized out of thin air. It was bathed in a vibrant golden shade, one that befitted Lightbringer's glow. The book appeared thin, with only five pages inside.

"Let me see," muttered Alexander. He flipped the book to the first page, and a set of data showed, written in calligraphic font.

[Name: Alexander]

[Sponsor: Ra]

[Skill(s) Unlocked: 3]

[Level: 3]

Alexander scanned the illuminated text. "Level three."

"That may be sufficient," Geoffred said, almost to himself.

"It'll be fine," Alexander assured. "With Lightbringer, I won't lose."

A smile tugged Geoffred's lips. It came away as fast as it arrived. "I have one last question for you," he said, his voice grave.

"Anything," Alexander replied, eyes bright with confidence.

Geoffred met his gaze directly. "What is honor?"

"Honor?" Alexander contemplated for a moment. "To give respect?"

Geoffred flinched as if he had been stabbed, pain and disappointment flashing across his craggy features. Slowly, he lowered his eyes. When he raised them again, they glistened with emotion.

"If only I had more time," he whispered. Then, wordlessly, he turned and shuffled from the chamber, his footsteps echoing mournfully against the stone.

Alexander watched him go, confusion and hurt welling up inside him. The radiance of Lightbringer still filled the room with its warm glow, yet to Alexander, it was as if all light had vanished, leaving him alone in the cold darkness.

***