Soren entered the training room, its stone walls lined with an array of daggers, staffs, and bows.

Alaric whistled behind him. “You could open a smithy with the amount of steel in here.”

Soren nodded. “I’m looking forward to trying out some of these weapons.”

Raz stood waiting in the centre, arms crossed, his scarred face an expressionless mask. “Forget your weapons for today. Steel can fail you. Flesh can be far deadlier, in the right hands.” He gestured for them to take their positions.

Raz began to move. His elbow connected with the throat of a nearby practice dummy, the impact echoing through the room. In the same fluid motion, he swept the dummy’s legs, sending it crashing to the floor. “Unarmed doesn’t mean unarmed if you know where to strike.”

Alaric stepped forward, a grin on his face, and righted the dummy. He planted his feet, falling into a boxer’s stance. “I’m not useless without a weapon, you know.” He threw a flurry of quick jabs against the dummy, each punch well-placed and powerful.

Raz watched, a half-smile playing on his lips. “You’ve got some skill Alaric. But brute force alone won’t always save you. Your opponents won’t always fight fair.”

In a blur of motion, Raz intercepted Alaric’s next punch, twisting his arm behind his back.

Alaric grunted as Raz shoved him away.

“Always assume they’re faster, smarter, and more dangerous. You adapt or you die.”

Soren’s throat went dry as he realised it was his turn. He stepped forward, acutely aware of how stiff and awkward his movements were compared to Alaric’s. He threw a punch, but even to his own eyes, it was hesitant and weak.

Raz sniffed. “Too rigid. Too slow. You’re thinking too much.” He stepped closer to Soren, demonstrating a punch that stopped just short of contact. “You’re treating this like it’s something separate from what you know.”

“Alaric’s the one who’s trained for this.”

Raz began to circle him, his gaze intense. “Fighting is no different from sculpting, Soren. It’s about control, precision, understanding your materials. When you sculpt, you don’t force the stone. You shape it. You see the art in it.”

Soren shook his head. “This is different.”

“No. There’s artistry here too. You learn where to press, where to carve, and you break it apart with as little effort as possible. You’re an artist, Soren. This is the purest art.”

Soren’s brow furrowed as he tried to process Raz’s words.

Raz grabbed his hand, placing it against his own shoulder. “Here.” Raz indicated a spot near the clavicle. “Press. Harder.”

Soren applied pressure to the point Raz had shown him.

To his surprise, Raz winced.

“See? Not about strength. It’s about knowing where to apply it.”

Something clicked in Soren’s mind, the frustration giving way to focus as he began to see the parallels Raz was drawing.

When Raz attacked again, Soren managed to sidestep, using Raz’s momentum against him. It was clumsy, but there was promise in the movement.

“It’s like working the stone,” Soren said. “You don’t just attack it—you guide it.”

Raz nodded. “You’re learning. This isn’t about brute strength. It’s about knowing your opponent better than they know themselves.”

As the lesson continued, Soren found himself approaching the techniques with a newfound perspective. He began to see the human body as a complex sculpture, each muscle and bone a potential point of leverage or vulnerability.

Raz demonstrated a series of strikes and holds, each one precise and effective. “The key is to disrupt your opponent’s balance. Once you’ve done that, even the strongest fighter becomes vulnerable.”

Soren watched, picking up on the subtle shifts in weight and alignment that made each move work.

When it was his turn to try, he found that thinking of it in terms of sculpting and anatomy helped him move more naturally.

“Better,” Raz said as Soren successfully executed a throw. “You’re starting to understand. But understanding isn’t enough. You need to make these movements instinctive.”

For the next hour, Raz drilled them in a series of katas. Soren’s muscles burned with exertion, sweat dripping into his eyes as he repeated the same moves over and over. But with each repetition, he felt his body adapting, the movements becoming more fluid and natural.

“It feels wrong,” Alaric said after Raz corrected his stance for the third time. “Everything I’ve been taught says to keep my guard up.”

“And that’s exactly why you need to change,” Raz said. “Your opponents will expect a certain style of fighting. The moment you deviate from that, you gain an advantage.”

As the training session wore on, Soren found himself more engaged in the process. There was a complexity to hand-to-hand combat that he hadn’t appreciated before. Each technique was like a puzzle, requiring the right application of force at precisely the right moment.

Raz signalled for the pair to stop. “Let’s see how you fare against each other. Soren, attack Alaric. Alaric, defend.”

Soren hesitated, glancing at his friend.

Alaric raised his fists. “Don’t hold back.”

Soren nodded, trying to recall everything Raz had taught them. He settled into a more relaxed stance, avoiding the rigid posture he’d started with earlier.

Alaric launched forward, his first blow a powerful jab, aimed straight for Soren’s face.

Soren slipped to the side, letting Alaric’s fist whistle past his ear. The movement felt natural, almost like he was flowing around the punch rather than avoiding it. “You’re supposed to be defending.”

“This is how I defend.” Alaric followed up with a series of quick strikes, each one powerful and well-placed.

Soren found himself on the defensive, circling and weaving, making himself a difficult target.

“You’re faster than you look,” Alaric said, throwing another jab that Soren barely avoided.

“And you’re slower than you think.”

He saw an opening and took it, ducking under Alaric’s guard and pressing his fingers into the pressure point near Alaric’s collarbone.

Alaric grunted, stepping back. “Lucky shot.”

He feinted left, then came in with a powerful right hook.

Soren saw it coming and tried to use Alaric’s momentum against him. But his timing was off. Instead of redirecting the blow, he caught the full force of it on his shoulder.

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Pain exploded through Soren’s arm, and he staggered back, gasping.

Alaric pressed his advantage, closing in with a flurry of punches.

Soren skipped backwards, desperately trying to create space.

“Not so cocky now, are you?” Alaric grinned, landing another solid hit to Soren’s ribs.

As Alaric came in for another attack, Soren dropped low, sweeping his leg out in an arc.

Alaric’s feet went out from under him, and he crashed to the ground with a heavy thud.

Soren pounced, trying to pin Alaric’s arms.

For a moment, they grappled on the floor, each trying to gain the upper hand.

Alaric bucked his hips, throwing Soren off balance.

Their positions reversed, Alaric pinning Soren to the ground. “Nice try, but see how you get out of this one.”

Soren struggled, but Alaric’s weight had him trapped.

With a twist of his body, Soren managed to hook his leg around Alaric’s neck, pulling him into an awkward position.

For a tense moment, they were locked together, neither able to gain a clear advantage.

Alaric released his grip. “Enough.”

Chest heaving, Soren scrambled to his feet. He winced, feeling the ache of newly forming bruises, but extended his hand to Alaric. With a grunt, he pulled his friend up.

“Excellent work. You’re beginning to understand.” Raz clapped his hands. “Again.”

Taking a deep breath, Soren centred himself. He circled Alaric, noting the way his friend’s weight shifted, the subtle tensing of muscles hinting at his intentions.

Soren moved in, his left hand darting out in a feint.

Alaric’s eyes followed the movement, his guard rising.

Soren dropped low, aiming to sweep Alaric’s legs.

Alaric sidestepped, his feet dancing across the stone floor. In the same fluid motion, he countered, a lightning-fast jab shooting towards Soren’s face.

Soren flinched, feeling the air displaced by Alaric’s fist as it stopped mere inches from his nose.

“Good reflexes, Alaric,” Raz said. “But you’re still thinking like a boxer. Those ingrained habits will get you killed against an opponent who knows what to look for.” His gaze shifted to Soren. “Try again. This time, remember what I said about disrupting balance. Don’t just attack—control the flow of the fight.”

Nodding, Soren reset his stance. He circled Alaric, slower this time, his mind racing to recall Raz’s earlier lessons.

Alaric struck first, a powerful right hook.

Soren ducked, feeling the whoosh of air above his head. He placed a hand on his friend’s back, guiding him past.

Alaric stumbled. His guard dropped.

Soren’s fingers found the pressure point near Alaric’s shoulder.

Alaric made a sharp intake of breath. His arm went limp, hanging at his side. “Damn.” He glanced at his arm, shaking it out. “That’s nasty.”

“But effective,” Raz said. “The human body is full of such vulnerabilities—learn them, exploit them, and even the strongest opponent becomes manageable.”

On Raz’s signal, Soren darted in, aiming for another pressure point.

Alaric pivoted, using his good arm to deflect Soren’s strike. In the same motion, he hooked a foot behind Soren’s ankle.

Soren teetered, but managed to roll with the movement. He came up in a crouch, narrowly avoiding Alaric’s follow-up kick.

The two continued to exchange blows, their movements becoming unpredictable.

Soren was still no match for Alaric’s raw strength, but he was learning to adapt. Where once he would have tried to meet force with force, now he redirected, evaded, turned Alaric’s power against him.

But Alaric adapted too, his boxing guards giving way to a more open stance, his movements becoming more chaotic.

Alaric grabbed Soren’s arm, attempting to force Soren to the ground.

Soren twisted his body and Alaric’s grip slipped, throwing him off-balance.

Soren swept Alaric’s legs, sending him crashing to the floor.

Before Alaric could recover, Soren was on him, applying pressure to a sensitive nerve cluster in his neck.

Alaric tapped the ground, signalling his yield. “Alright, alright. I give. Where in Creation did you learn that last move?”

Soren released the hold, helping Alaric to his feet. Both were breathing hard.

Raz raised a hand. “You’ve both shown improvement. But there’s still much to learn.” He approached Soren. “You’re beginning to understand the principles, but you’re still too hesitant. In a real fight, that hesitation could cost you your life. You need to commit fully to each action.”

“I will try harder next time.”

Raz turned to Alaric, “And you, you have the opposite problem. You’re too eager to engage, too reliant on your strength. A clever opponent will use that against you. Learn to be patient, to wait for the right moment to strike.”

“I’ll try.”

“Now.” Raz took a step back, “I want you both to come at me. Together.”

Soren and Alaric exchanged a glance.

“Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you…too much.”

Soren and Alaric moved in tandem, Alaric leading with a flurry of punches while Soren tried to circle behind.

Raz redirected Alaric’s punch into Soren, sending them both stumbling. Before they could recover, Raz had Alaric in a chokehold and Soren pinned to the floor.

“Never assume that numbers alone will save you.” Raz released his hold. “A skilled fighter can turn your teamwork against you if you’re not careful.”

As Soren picked himself up off the cold floor, it struck him that he still had far to go.

“That’s enough for today,” Raz said. “Practice what you’ve learned.”

As Raz turned to leave, Soren tugged his sleeve. “Wait!”

Raz paused, looking back with a raised eyebrow.

“I want to know more,” Soren said. “About how you do it. How you move like that.”

“That will come, Soren. Until then, rest is your friend.”

As Raz disappeared from the training room, Soren turned to Alaric. His friend was rubbing his throat where Raz had held him. “What do you think?”

Alaric shook his head. “I think we’re in for a world of hurt.”

Soren nodded, his mind already racing with the possibilities. He thought back to Raz’s words about sculpting and fighting. There was a truth there that he was only beginning to grasp.

The mess hall buzzed with the low murmur of conversation and the clinking of utensils as Soren and Alaric settled at their usual table.

Soren winced as he lowered himself onto the bench, his ribs protesting the movement. “I think I might have cracked a rib.”

Alaric grinned, rubbing his shoulder where Soren had targeted a pressure point. “You’re one to talk. I still can’t feel my left arm properly.”

As he mopped up the last of his stew with a chunk of bread, Soren leaned back. “I never thought I’d say this, but I actually enjoyed today’s training.”

Alaric raised an eyebrow. “Who are you, and what have you done with Soren?”

Soren chuckled. “I’m serious. There’s an artistry to it that I hadn’t appreciated before. The way Raz moves, it’s like he’s shaping the fight, guiding it where he wants it to go. It’s not so different from coaxing a form out of clay.”

“I can see that. For me, it’s like being on a ship in a storm. You can’t fight the waves head-on, but if you know how to read them, you can use their power to your advantage.”

“But we’ve still got a long way to go. Raz took us both down without breaking a sweat.”

Alaric grimaced. “Don’t remind me. I’ve never felt so outclassed in my life.”

“That’s why we need to practice,” Soren said, lowering his voice. “Not just during training sessions, but on our own time too. We need to get to a point where we can hold our own against him.”

Alaric nodded. “You’re right. But how? It’s not like we can just start brawling in the corridors.”

Soren glanced around, making sure no one was listening. “I’ve been thinking about that. We could use our room to practice some of the techniques. And I want to go back to the Vault, look at those anatomy texts again. Now that I’ve got a better understanding of how to apply the knowledge, I think I might pick up on things I missed before.”

“Good idea. And maybe we could find some books on different fighting styles? Might give us an edge if we can surprise Raz with something he hasn’t taught us.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.” Soren grinned. “There’s got to be something in that massive library that can help us.”

“Definitely.”

Soren ran a hand back through his hair. “There’s something else.”

Alaric frowned. “What do you mean?”

Soren hesitated for a moment. “I can’t help but think…what if there’s information about my father’s death in there somewhere? A ledger, or a record of contracts, or something?”

“Sor, I know you’re still looking for answers, but do you really think they’d leave that kind of information just lying around for initiates to find?”

Soren sighed. “Probably not. But I have to try.”

Alaric nodded. “I know. And I’m with you, whatever you decide to do. But we need to be careful. If Raz or any of the other masters catch us snooping around…”

“I know, I know. It’s just frustrating. We’re right here, in the heart of the Guild, and I feel no closer to the truth than I did when we started.”

“We’ll find a way. But for now, let’s focus on what we can control. Getting stronger, faster, smarter. The better we are at this stuff, the more freedom we’ll have to move around and find answers.”

Soren nodded. “You’re right. One step at a time.”

As the mess hall began to empty, Soren and Alaric made their way back to their room. The corridors were quieter now, most of the other initiates having retired for the night.

“So,” Alaric said as they reached their door. “What’s the plan for tomorrow? More getting our arses handed to us by Raz?”

Soren grinned. “Probably. But I was thinking we could get up early, head to the Vault before training.”

Alaric nodded. “Sounds good. But don’t forget, we need to be careful not to overdo it. Raz will notice if we’re too exhausted to keep up during training.”

“Good point. We’ll keep it short, just an hour or so. Enough to get a head start without wearing ourselves out.”

As they entered their room, Soren’s eyes fell on his sketchbook, lying untouched on his bedside table.

“You should take some time for that too, you know. Don’t lose yourself completely in all this Guild stuff.”

Soren picked up the sketchbook, running his fingers over the cover. “Maybe I’ll do some sketches of the fighting forms we’ve been learning. Might help me understand them better.”

As they prepared for bed, Soren’s mind continued to race with possibilities. He imagined combining his artistic skills with his newfound combat knowledge, creating a style of fighting that was uniquely his own.

But he still had no idea who had ordered his father’s death, or why. The Guild remained a maze of secrets and half-truths, and he was no closer to finding his way through it.

As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, Soren made a silent vow to himself. He would master every skill the Guild could teach him, become the best they’d ever seen. And then, when the time was right, he would use those skills to uncover the truth.