Kael was on him in an instant. There was one problem presented to him that Tyr hadn't the foresight to consider. Well, multiple, actually. First – the challenged set the rules of the duel. Just like in Haran, and the rules therein were 'until first blood'. Which meant no abusing his ability to heal and remain standing when he shouldn't be. He'd made the challenge without considering the fact that he'd be subject to Kael being given the right to define it. Thankfully, somewhat, the professor hadn't been entirely unfair. It was a duel of swords, but the use of infusion magic concerned him, he didn't know any spells like that. The fire dance served as something similar to an infusion, but it was slower than any normal spell.
Second was the location. He'd expected to fight in the sparring hall, not here surrounded by thousands of students and professors. His anxiety shot through the proverbial roof. Considering that the arena was open to the sky above it felt necessary to make one aware that there was no roof. So it was like... Metaphorical, or something. A metaphorical roof, not a real one. There wasn't a roof on the structure of the area. Uh...
Hmm... There is no roof.
The third and final problem was the spira. Kael had been an adventurer, his spira was far denser than the average person. As with all living things, humans especially, those who killed would steal a shred of power from their victim. Whether they be monsters, humans, or otherwise. Kael had absorbed quite a bit, and his blows were far beyond that of a relatively inexperienced man like Brenn. It wasn't the strength either, but the inhuman speed that troubled him the most.
Tyr had never been forced into such a disadvantageous retreat, and Kael was merely playing with him from the start. He could tell, clashing with the professor – it was clear that the man sought to make a point rather than to stomp him effortlessly. Their strength was surprisingly equal, but not so for their skill.
If Kael had challenged the knights of Haran, he would have found himself the superior compared to most of the guard. No, not most, all, Tyr had beaten Regar – even if only by getting lucky given that his cousin hadn't actually wanted to wound him – but Kael was a step ahead in all respects. Fast. Graceful. Agile. You name it, he had it, and a mind to match his movements as he skillfully pushed the prince into a losing battle right from the beginning, all the better to embarrass the boy, or so it would seem.
From Tyr's perspective, noble or not, he saw Kael as little different to the showboats on the tourney fields. He wanted to prove his dominance over the younger man for his own vanity. Not entirely true. The professor simply wanted – as mentioned – to prove a point. He saw great talent in the boy and wanted him for himself, to make him a part of his legacy. Kael was a very vain man and part of his agreement to teach here at the academy was predicated on growing his fame and power. Adventuring could only take him so far, and he felt like he'd hit that ceiling that all mages did, far younger than the others. Achievements or not, he wanted to go higher, to make connections and build his repertoire.
The young could do that. A master passing what he knows onto the student and learning from a new point of view.
Unfortunately, few humans had proven receptive to thunder style swordsmanship, but Tyr might be. He wasn't sure just yet, but the boy was performing far better than expected. To the prince, he was clumsy and awkward before the precise hammer-blows of Kael's two handed messer, but to the students and the aforementioned professor...
“Holy hells...” Brenn was aghast, staring at their bout in wonder. From an experienced pair of eyes, it was true that Tyr was clearly the inferior, but his movements were like something out of the old tales. Moving like water to dodge what he could not parry, and turn aside blows that threatened his guard instead of blocking them outright. Dancing and twirling with an almost feline grace, using the natural flow of his hips and thighs to force greater momentum into his counters.
Kael's movements in comparison were rigid, hard and full of purpose. He moved far less than Tyr but every stroke carried intent and singular purpose. They were complete opposites, one steady at the root and the other literally dancing on the field. Flitting like quicksilver in concentric circles, his long hair glinting in the afternoon sun, showcasing his incredible dexterity.
He was playing with me... He blushed. There was an honor in him, and he'd assumed Tyr his superior – something he was fine with, but only now was their gap in talent revealed. Brenn had not gotten Tyr's best, and it hurt at a part of him that felt almost shameful. Forcing him to swear a vow of solidarity, to train harder to equal what he saw as a true rival.
Slowly, the jeers and boos from the crowd began to lessen until they ceased in their entirety. It was strange, here at an academy, to hear of a duel without magic. Yet all men, mage or not, found the art of the sword pleasing in the aesthetics. Even the women, who would normally laugh at such a masculine show of force, found themselves stunned at the gracefulness of the 'dance'.
There was no other word for it. A beautiful dance between two opponents and the flashing of steel so fast as to make one question what a human being was capable of without calling mana to their fingertips. All magic used within the arena was constantly monitored and neither man had used so much as a single spell just yet.
On his side of things, Tyr was growing frustrated. Even when he left himself open, Kael did not take the bait. Not because it was bait, but because he saw in the younger man a sort of meekness. A lack of the aggression or raw desire to win that he'd have welcomed... Tyr feared the crowd and had started off on the wrong foot, and for all his skill he might not have been able to give it his best because of it. Not something he would've expected from a primus, even a future one.
But it was true. Tyr was weak to it. Nothing in his movements communicated that he was hiding his power as some suspected. Enough to tell Kael that the boys talent lay not in magic, but in the sword. It was a singularity of mind, practically all Tyr had focused on so far. His studies in tangible magic had been practically halted before they'd even begun, but he'd been training with various weapons since he was old enough to walk. Few people could truly claim that they were prepared to kill, to end something with each swing, that was one of the great bottlenecks of being a battlemage or knight. Tyr had no such problem, every swing was full of murderous purpose. Whether they couldn't be killed in the arena or not was wholly irrelevant, it was the mind to see something done that made one great. With enough training, and a more appropriate move-set...
For the first time in such a long time, Kael was actually enjoying a fight.
“Panther style won't work against me, boy.” Tyr knew it was true. His weapon wasn't suited to it to begin with, the agile dashing attacks of the panther school of swordsmanship. One predicated around fast slashes unsuited to a straight sword. Whereas the style Kael used, with his slightly curved, single edge greatsword – the kriegsmesser; Was made for heavy, sharp, clean slashes. “What else did your so called master teach you?” Kael smirked.
He'd been waiting for Tyr to reveal all of his cards, whatever form they might take, goading him onward into either losing his composure or actually focusing on the fight.
Tyr would respond as best he could. Changing his bastard sword to widen around the fuller and flare at the tip. A konda, like that of Samson's people, just longer – maintaining the hand and a half grip of his bastard sword. He adjusted his stance ever so slightly to the fire dance, drawing his blade close and pulling a shortsword from his dimensional ring. The first he'd ever successfully made and only one Valkan had allowed him to keep.
With every step he took, his movements gained clarity, entering the realm of spira and allowing his perspective to expand. At this stage, his eyes became useless, so he shut them and let his mind submerge itself in all the colors of the world. Everything became lit with intent. The lifeless gray of the stone, the colors of every emotion capable of man rendered the crowd into watercolor frames of their physical body – and finally, Kael himself. His inner self was as still as a lake, and his sword remained equally as calm. Watercolors splashing all around, but none of the telltale signs that would allow an opponent with the ability to see a strike before it landed.
It confused Tyr. There was not a drop of negative emotion in the man, leaving him wondering why the professor had goaded him. If he felt no anger, shame, hate, or anything resembling anything else one felt when fighting, what was the point of baiting him into a challenge? Clearly, this is what the professor wanted. But it didn't stop Tyr from continuing through the motions, just an insignificant curiosity flickering in his mind.
Varinn had taught him control, but Abaddon and Valkan with their lessons on forging had taught him purpose that came through temperance. A way to measure his thoughts and feelings even when frustrated after his dozens of failures. To accept weakness and use his observance of flaw, knowing where to strike to beat it out of the steel. Both within and without. Calming, feeling the anger cool until it became a tool. Controlling his impulsive urges and letting them slip away, things that would destroy an artifact mid-craft if he couldn't temper them into a form that was useful.
Throughout it all, Kael observed carefully how Tyr moved. He had indeed been trained by a blade dancer, or at the very least a blade master. There was a difference. Even two masters could be worlds apart in terms of their style, and Kael had learned from a teacher of his own. Matching Tyr's motion and stepping away from his previously rigid style.
He met fire with water, becoming as calm and still as the surface of a lake. Tyr in comparison was violent, sliding his feet across the ground and moving in wildly unpredictable patterns. The speed of their bout increased to the point that they began to slide across the now scorched surface of the arena. Leaving Kael baffled at how Tyr was able to summon mana despite the dozens of wards over the place. It didn't technically break the rules, this was an aura which didn't contain an active offensive component. But it was surprising, the arrays should've made it impossible.
“...Woah.” Sigi whispered, uncharacteristically speechless by the display. The two women beside her felt much the same, looking on in rapt attention as the bout continued. What they saw was Tyr, enveloped in a barrier of flickering scarlet energy, clashing rapidly against Kael's significantly more stable blue. Fire and water, and through that came thin sheets of mist rolling from the ground. Whistling steel within.
“Damn...” Micah coughed, gripping his chair with white knuckles. If Tyr won... My money...! “He's going to win! Holy shit!”
“No.” Brenn shook his head, and Iscari remained silent. “He's doing better than I might've expected, but this is over.” Even so, he'd never felt so motivated in his entire life, whispering an apologetic prayer to Vestia. He hadn't nearly felt so excited when he'd been given his fist star...
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Professor versus student, but the professor was tired – whereas Tyr was not. To the former, this was the greatest physical exertion he'd felt in years, but to the latter, it was his specialty if he had any at all. Kael might possess an advanced level of spira, but he didn't understand it. Couldn't absorb or cycle more of it to keep him fresh, and before long he began to flag under the constant pressure of Tyr's wild rotations and unpredictable, albeit ridiculous, attempt to dual wield.
A whirlwind of blades encapsulated the ground they stood on, letting the sparks fly from the clash of manatite and auronite. Now, there was no obvious winner, locked constantly in motion and matching the tempo of one another perfectly. The longer the fight went on, the blows from Tyr's blade began to grow monstrously in both speed and power. A true endurance fighter, and that was something Kael could celebrate, it was a good sign. Thunder style was so difficult to teach because of how hard it was on the body, and if he was this energetic even after a dozen minutes spent fighting...
Calm. Composed. Not bad with the blade, but the sword is clearly not the weapon best suited to his personality. Perhaps the spear or glaive. He doesn't thrust, only slashes, but he makes good use of his immeasurables. Always using his body in the right way. Decent balance despite moving more than he has to...
That was, in his own way, Kael's specialty. Keeping calm under pressure. Calculating, learning from his opponent until he could deal the finishing blow. He had always felt it funny that they'd called him the 'bringer of ash' when he'd always favored water magic – but nevertheless – he was growing too tired to continue grading the performance.
“I guess it's time to bring this to an end, kid.” Kael hissed, dropping into a low stance and moving up to land the spiked crossguard of his sword against Tyr's throat.
“Yes.” Tyr agreed. “Yes it is.” He finished the dance and struck with his own blow. The fire dance was a passable form of swordwork, but it wasn't made for it. It was a ritual, whether it was of martial significance was irrelevant. It's power lay in its ability to stoke at his internal energy until he was boiling with strength. An internal power that he could release at any time, and his did now. Every muscle burned with energy, pouring inhuman strength into his left arm.
Two whirling torrents of steel connected at the center of the arena. Kael, with his kriegsmesser. And Tyr, with his overlong konda, shortsword in the offhand, abandoning the latter and releasing the pent up force to send Kael flying across the platform, his fist propelling forward to crash against some unseen force. An impressive blow, but softened by the wards, the man sailed through the air in a pirouette, landing safely on his feet before collapsing to his knees with the wind knocked out of him. Tyr felt his hand shatter under the impact, all the way up to his elbow, turning more than half of his arm into a limp – red noodle.
“Winner!” Lernin announced. “...Uh... Ah! Kael Emberwind!”
Only then did Tyr notice the thin slice already in the process of healing on his neck. Equivalent to a paper-cut, it wasn't even painful, but it was enough to win a duel to first blood. People cheered, seeking their nearest bookie to collect their winnings, greedily rubbing their hands. Thankfully, at least for them, few had bet on Tyr. Thus, most people made something back, even if only a few copper.
“Wait...” Kael called out, gasping for air and raising his hand. Slowly, he opened his jacket to reveal a mark, a grisly bruising around it. Oozing dark blood down his chest. Several ribs were obviously broken. Internal bleeding didn't constitute first blood, but Tyr's ring seated on his now pulverized hand had broken the skin.
“...”
“...”
“Correction.” Lernin cleared his throat. “The duel is... A draw?” He looked toward Kael for askance, with the latter nodding his assent. “A draw. The duel is a draw!” Suddenly, the arena returned to silence, people staring in awe at the professor, according to the monitoring array both blows had struck at the same time, within a thousandth of a second.
In all honesty, Tyr's fist had struck slightly sooner, but Kael would never admit it. So little seriousness had been given the ridiculous show by the other professors that nobody had cast proper wards, only those that would protect not Tyr – but Kael himself. Technically speaking, without the shielding array Kael would've been struck a bit sooner, if not for the brief reduction in impact it provided. Nobody knew when the ticking time bomb of a primus might be activated. And Lernin certainly wasn't keen on the idea of one of his best professors getting killed by a surprise awakening. This was a surprise, as was the infusion magic Tyr had presented them with, but it was still within the realm of human capability.
It stung at Kael's pride. He knew when to lose, and do so gracefully, but it would pose some impertinent questions. Better to leave it a draw and a mystery rather than reveal Tyr's identity or attract unwanted attention. At least for now, though it was a wonder how nobody had made the connection. The boy himself seemed very unconcerned with keeping up his alias, even announcing himself as a Faeron several times, either by mistake or design. People just thought it was a joke or some kind of solidarity between two well known houses of a good relationship. It was unlikely that the primus would take offense at the son of Astal Ebonfist, as per his file, claiming relation. They were, after all, bound by marriage.
Tyr bowed first to Kael, and next to the headmaster and other mages seated beside him, leaving many confused – Kael included. What they saw as a great humility and acceptance of the result, was really just him wanting to get out of the extremely uncomfortable position. Away from the eyes. He didn't like being watched like that, but at the same time... He loved it...? It made his skin itch, the duality of the emotion...
There were long hallways entering the arena, rooms at their sides with thick doors of cherry wood, and beyond that were the magical lifts that would lead one to the different levels of the tower. Elevators, dwarven technology adopted by humans. Tyr was alone, feeling his hands shaking, breathing heavily and near the point of breaking down under all the pressure. Pressure that went beyond just anxiety, he felt so much and it was all crashing down at him at once. The harder he resisted, the worse it got.
“You okay?” Someone asked. His blade was drawn before he knew it, pointed directly at the neck of Micah. Somehow, chair or not, he'd managed to make it here first before anyone else. “Don't point your sword at me, man, it's rude! Why are you here? You'll say that, but I'm a dimensional mage. I'm a cripple, how else am I going to get around? Well... Actually I just rolled here, I can't summon gates yet but uh... I'm very talented with that as well, rolling around, I mean... Savvy?”
Tyr snorted. He swallowed the panic rising in his gut. Something was wrong with him but it only came out sometimes. Typically when he was still and calm, his hands would begin shaking, but this was worse than ever before. It was a feeling akin to being in grave danger – a hard sensation in his gut that made him feel like something bad was about to happen. When they were in their room, Iscari would notice it and come sit by him, making him feel... Safe? It was a strange thing. Not a way a man should feel, and that made it even worse, trying to bottle it all up never helped. But he didn't know how to release it, how to unwind all those knots inside of him.
“I know another man named Micah. Back in Haran. You're a clown, just like him.” Tyr mused, thinking of Riverwood and the lumberjacks. Bizarrely, it calmed his mind. He missed them a great deal, that simple life they lived.
“I'm Harani too, it's a common enough name. Reckon he can walk though, all I got are these two twigs that magic can't fix.” Micah stared at his legs, dejected. Tyr wasn't sure if he was joking or not, having known him only about a week.
“One day.” Tyr replied. “I'll fix your legs for you. If not me, I'll find someone who can.”
Maybe this would've sounded heroic. Tyr would do it, make that a real blood oath, if only this guy would fuck off. He felt like he was about to explode at any moment.
“Course you will. You know how many times I've heard that? Everyone's got their pity but I don't need it. Anyways, man. You gotta come to the party now – don't leave me hanging friend. Please? Do you know how hard it is to get laid rolling around in this stupid chair all the time?”
“Absolutely not.” Tyr answered him as he was expected. He wanted to be alone, as soon as possible. If agreeing to that as well gave him some peace and quiet, he'd do it. But suddenly, the pressure lifted and he no longer felt so near to collapse.
“I need to buy you a drink, though.” Micah pouted. The drinks at a collegiate get-together were all free but... The thought counted, right?
“Oh?” Tyr raised an eyebrow, stamping down on the nausea. It was all a test, this was just a test and he was going to beat this thing inside of him. One way or another.
“Of course! You know I bet one whole sovereign on both you winning, and a draw! Technically that's illegal, but er... Anyways! I'm now absurdly wealthy! That's a gain of 1:2999, bookies privilege!”
“Fine.” Tyr growled, he made that promise to win against the rising dread, but he'd already failed. “I'll go.”
“Yes! Listen, I knew you were special. Always. Gods honest. You're my best friend!”
“No.” Iscari appeared suddenly, bending low to place his hand on Micah's shoulder. “He's my best friend. It's important to stake your claim early. I believe Brenn is available.” He knew Tyr well enough by now to know what was going to happen. Soon if he didn't do anything about it. He waved the others away and walked back to his room with the suddenly meek Tyr in tow, opening the door to give him some alone time.
It was like this at times. Iscari would wake to Tyr thrashing in his sleep, or wide awake in the witching hours to stare with glazed eyes at the wall or ceiling. It didn't take a genius to realize that something terrible had broken inside of his friend. He couldn't blame him. They'd both lost their mothers, but at least Iscari's had simply left rather than be murdered by assassins right before his eyes. She'd birthed a son and departed before he'd had a chance to grow attached. Octavian's way. Iscari didn't even know her name, or what she looked like.
Tyr entered the room, breathing deeply. Varinn had taught him how to center himself, and his other masters had done the same. But this, for whatever reason, was worse than normal. What wards he had surrounded himself with were rapidly wilting until he collapsed in the shower, gasping and sobbing. Iscari ignored his soaked uniform, brushing his friends hair back affectionately ensuring that he knew he was present. Just to be there, he knew it helped.
“This is not how a man should act.” Tyr hated himself for the weakness. Whatever this foul thing was, it pervaded his every waking moment. Wouldn't leave him, even when he slept, making it hard to do so. If his hands weren't busy, it would crush him from the inside out, and he had no defense against it. No amount of meditation or calm would help him, only silence would provide a balm. And then some noise, even a quiet one would come, and he'd jump out of his skin.
“Hush.” Iscari replied with a soft smile. “A man can be whatever he wants to be, and nobody can tell him otherwise. If they do, let me know, and I'll take care of them. I will always protect you. Like you said at the bridge. I would die a thousand deaths before I let anyone touch what is mine, isn't that what you said? We belong to one another, Tyr. And we always will, you and I. They do not understand the burden of duty we carry. Only I will ever know it.”
Whoever had done this to Tyr, Iscari wished he knew. He knew that he'd tear them apart and string them from whatever wall was closest and highest as an example. Weak of stomach or not, there were some things he could not abide by. All he could do now was continue his soft humming, gradually calming his friend until the fit had passed. It was so strange to him. Tyr was so... Solid. Not like a rock, but a block of steel. When it mattered, he showed up. Had showed up, to do what was necessary regardless of how many cracks he lay inside of him.
Stared in the face of violence and butchered a score of men without pause to protect those behind him. He hadn't wanted to, but they'd forced his hand, and Tyr had accepted the fact that those close to him might never look at him the same way. Later, he showed up – in the stomach of the beast prepared to kill them all no less, and killed it. Even in his weakness, he was strong. Weak. Some of the knights participating in the southron campaigns would return like this, changed men. Something he didn't know how to help with, but he could try.
“I dreamed of my mother last night.” Iscari said. Once Tyr was calm and dry, he attempted to break the tense silence in the room. “I've never seen her face before, so it was just blank. Everyone around her was so clear, except for her. Why do you think that is?”
“Because we have better memories than normal people. Perfect recall, or whatever they call it. At least, you probably do.” Tyr replied flatly. The fit was over and he'd returned to stillness, laying out his sword and meticulously cleaning it.
“Do you dream?”
“Everyone does. But mine are always the same.”
“Dreams hold great significance, Tyr. What do you dream of?” Iscari asked, brushing his hair with a whalebone brush and paying close attention to the answer.
“Wolves.” Tyr whispered softly. “I only dream of wolves.”