I didn’t have time to wonder about Florencia’s words for long. I had places to be.

While my sparring lesson with Enzo Carus was at three, I wanted to fit in a quick shift at the docks before then. I desperately needed a new pair of boots. For that I needed coin, and all of my current coin I spent on tonight’s dinner, and Florencia’s gift. The gift I intended to give her after the dinner, as an extra surprise.

I worked for Arne. He was the foreman at the docks, and he told me I was welcome for a shift at any time. They were often short on staff. Many young men nowadays didn’t want to work simple manual labor. They wanted to become accountants, or bureaucrats, or any other comfortable job they could do sitting down. I told him that in Darnel, there were plenty of young men who did this kind of work, and would happily move here if they knew what Arne paid us.

Lucky for me, I was already wearing my usual work clothes, so I got up from the stone bench, stretched, and left the Cappesand Academy grounds. I never really felt at home there, but as soon as I left the academy, and into Bessou, that changed. The city welcomed me with open arms, all the countless men, women, children, and the seniors. While I wasn’t the most outgoing person, and would rather stay away from crowds, they didn’t bother me in here.

Air in Bessou was thick with emotion. Something was going on everywhere. People here loved colors, and they loved expressing their individuality with them. Some streets here were ancient beyond comprehension. Especially the narrow ones behind the many churches or around the town hall. I could sense their age even without paying attention to the cracked stonework or worn-out stairs or entryways. I found it hard to fathom the true age of some regions of the city. And right beside them, were streets full of vibrant life pulsing through it.

The streets were paved perfectly and evenly, with rough stones on the streets and glossy yellow-grey toned stones on the sidewalk. They built the buildings out of dull white or yellow-colored stones, and some of them painted with vibrant pigments. It was the traditional style of Lienor - bright stonework, brightly colored flags and roof tiles.

Cobblestones echoed under the soles of my boots, and the sound of hooves and wooden wheels and the cracks of whips was a constant everywhere I went. While Bessou was in the mountainous region of Lienor, along with most of our large industry, we still enjoyed the benefits of finer culture. We had a little bit of everything imported from the world around us - imported teas, coffees, exotic spices, art, and everything that fit in between. Florencia especially loved the herbs and spices from Evilebp, and would buy them any change she got.

Bessou’s love for drinks of all kinds turned into a culture of small cafeterias and diners on almost any corner, that had space for it. They were in every nook and cranny of the city, except for the industrial areas more to the north, and the governmental district to the east.

The city was even more colorful than usual. Many people were busy preparing for the coronation celebrations of the new king, Gussario Landoros. Families hoisted the azure flags of Lienor high, decorated their doors with colors of blue and gold, or wearing the royal coat of arms of a double-headed lion wherever they could. The Bessou militia wore black cloaks when the old king, the great Danton Landoros, died. Now they wore a festive one of dark blue with gold trim, with gilded broaches pinned on their cloaks. While Danton Landoros died peacefully amongst his family, losing the great old king still saddened many all over the country.

My route to the docks of Thei took me through the art district, which was between Cappesand and the docks. The art district, sometimes called the artisan quarter, was a recent phenomenon in Bessou. Good money from industry and imports gave an opportunity for creative people of Lienor to come here and make a decent living. Sure, many came for fame, and failed. But there were some still that wanted nothing more than to support themselves with their art. The aristocrats and wealthy families loved the finer arts, and some talented musicians or painters became famous and successful.

On the streets of the artisan quarter, dozens of painters, sculptors, and musicians showed off their work. They set up their exhibits wherever there was space, happy to talk about a piece with the many passer-by. It was always an eye-catcher when a noble walked through the makeshift exhibits, looked at the displays with their critical eye and bought a painting which they liked.

While I had no artistic skill, I could appreciate the work that went into creating them. Sometimes I wished I had some more coin to buy a few paintings for myself or Florencia, but being a poor student didn’t afford me that luxury. Luckily, I was never pressured into buying any pieces of work on display. Their creators merely looked at me passing by out of the corner of their eye and nodded in appreciation when a piece of theirs caught my attention.

I couldn’t waste any more time in the art district, though. Not today.

Arne was a sixty-year-old man of lean muscle, short temper, and wispy black hair. He greeted me with a wide smile and commanded me to unload a cargo ship with his team of six young men. They were already unloading it since the morning, he said, but the youngsters worked slow and disorganized.

The next five hours I spent rolling fifty-pound barrels of exotic goods up the streets and into the warehouse I sometimes worked at as well. In the damp and cold warehouse, Arne and his assistant Leo would register the imported goods, and then send them off to be delivered to their destination.

Hauling those heavy barrels was a sweaty job, made even worse by the weather we had. There was a constant sharp and icy wind blowing on the lake, while further ahead in the streets, the buildings blocked that wind off. This meant I had to put on my coat when unloading the goods, take it off when rolling the barrels up the street, and put it back on when I came back down. It was a headache for the newer workers, but I’ve gotten used to.

Those five hours earned me ten copper coins, ten cuenos, with an extra two for good pace and no whining. Arne’s newer hires, two young men from Caffria, complained the entire time and received no extra coins. Unsurprisingly, the thin and sad-looking boys complained about that injustice as well. Though I never found out why the two of them moved to Bessou instead of staying in Caffria because it was the largest port city on the south coast of Lienor, and had an active shipping route going through it. Some old sailors told me that the port was so immense, that you could walk all day and still not see all of it.

My shift took a little longer than I’d planned, and I had to rush to get to the fighting gymnasium. I knew Florencia would get mad if I came back with another bruise, so I aimed to take it easy that time.

In Espa Duverte, one could learn anything from street style boxing to exotic hand to hand combat, with some practises bordered on the mystical. Of course those caught my eye first, but getting accepted into them took effort, and the right connections. The school also taught fighting with knives, staves, sword and buckler, and simple swords.

While there were many independent schools which taught martial arts, Espa Duverte had a reputation of having fantastic teachers and a top-level training. It was purely due to luck I secured a spot there. It was on one evening that Enzo Carus saw me spar with a student of his and offered to teach me with his advanced group. He sought to train me for free, and I countered with five cuenos a month. The coins were merely a symbolic gesture, because I couldn’t accept his offer, generous as it was. So we settled for five coins. He didn’t argue against getting paid either, only a polite refusal at first, for there were many things to repair around the old gymnasium.

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The martial school was on the western border of Bessou, almost outside of the city limits. Most of the buildings here were large estates owned by the many aristocrats, and people of power, like the Cartorre or Pacitto family. They had built the mansions here low and luxurious. All around were spacious gardens dividing the estates. They had ancient, gnarled trees growing low and wide, having almost felled their leaves for the season. And below my feet were rounded cobblestones of dull yellow and red from the leaves, marking for certain the end of summer and the beginning of fall.

In between the many workshops and manor houses was a calm and peaceful place to live, with a delightful view of the lake.

The gymnasium was a large, circular, two-story building with an open courtyard in the middle where an old linden tree grew proud and wide. Most of the training happened in the courtyard, which we called the Pit, or the Ring. It was a simple oval-shaped pit of coarse sand and surrounded by old pillars.

I was finishing up some calisthenic exercises when Enzo Carus arrived.

He was a middle-aged man with a calm, almost hypnotically calming aura about him. He had short hair, an obvious scar on his ear, and a wide goatee, which was fashionable these days. While Enzo was calm, he had no patience to wait on other people. When he arrived and was ready, his students had to be so as well.

“Thank you for being on time, Jonas. Shall we begin?” he said with a gentle, but commanding tone.

“May I ask a question?” I said, as I grabbed a blunted training sword and stepped into the sandy pit. Enzo instilled a habit of always covering your hands with chalk before sparring. He said that it was a type of ritual that prepared you mentally before a fight. It was a method that he learned from his teacher many years ago.

“Yes. But not now. Now we fight,” he said, and put on his worn sparring helmet, which was impenetrable wire mesh and throat cover.

I stood wide, knees shoulder-width apart, and took a high guard. Enzo called it “the guard of the horn”. I had my battered training sword above my head and elbows flared outward. That way, I could react to a variety of strikes and immediately counterattack.

Enzo took a low guard, the so-called “guard of the bull”, with the tip of his sword pointed down, and his arms extended out. It was a more advanced stance, but had deceptively fast strikes, while also commanding large space in front of him.

Enzo struck first.

The tip of his sword whipped up and left, followed up by a slow strike with the crossguard towards my face. I saw the move coming and skipped back. Knees bent, I brought my sword handle down, blocked his pommel hit, and aimed for his face mask.

Enzo crouched down, deflected my hit with the strong of his blade, and jumped further back. He tripped over his feet before regaining his low stance, and I heard a loud exhale through the wired grille of his mask.

My counterattack had missed, but I felt like he barely reacted in time. Enzo was still caught off guard, breathing in deeply and regaining his balance. I attacked quickly. I feinted an attack to my right, stepped aside to strike his left shoulder, but my step forward was not in sync with the strike. The attack was slow and clumsy. Before I could even land my hit, Enzo side-stepped and thrust his blunted tip against my sternum.

“That was too obvious, and slow!” he said. I agreed.

We took a few steps back and reset.

“You give away your attack before you even begin,” he said, and stretched his back. “Always have your blade move first. Demand space with your sword, then occupy it.”

“Yes,” I replied.

We went on and trained for an hour, but it felt like ten minutes. I was hypnotized and did not even notice myself getting tired, nor did I feel the sweat dripping all over my body. I always enjoyed sparring with Enzo. He won every time, and I could never even land a strike on him, but it’s always an enjoyable and exciting sparring session. They never devolved into a scrap fight, like it did with Lanzo or the rest.

“Very good session, Jonas. You had some excellent ideas and your counters are quick as always!” Enzo said while toweling himself off with some perfumed water. “But your engagements were slow and without creativity. Work on them. Nevertheless, very good counters.”

He put on his knee-length dark yellow tunic back on and threw his training shirt on a nearby chair.

“I have to say that your footwork is excellent. You have a good sense of spacing and timing. If you would drill some simple exercises, you could spar with my advanced class, I’m sure of it.”

We were now walking toward the courtyard, passing a few small groups of trainees doing knee-jump drills.

“You had a question for me?”

“It was just a passing thought,” I said. “I had an argument with Lanzo a few days ago about which kind of sword is best for self-defence. We went back and forth, but didn’t really settle on anything.”

“Those debates are meaningless anyway,” Enzo breathed out tiredly, watching the linden leaves sway softly in the breeze. “The answer is always - the weapon you are the most proficient in. But in my experience, most masters I talk to say that a good rapier is best for civilian self-defence. A good rapier, or an estoc if you’re old-fashioned. Some falchions or longswords are good, but a thrusting sword will finish a fight instantly.”

“Can’t sabers hack off limbs quick as well? And longswords have the advantage of leverage?”

“Yes, but the stabs,” Enzo said. “They’re fast and unpredictable. Your eyes can barely follow the tip when the rapier is in the hand of a master. Stick the sharp end in their stomach, and whoever you fought is down and out in seconds. And the wound will probably be fatal unless there's magical intervention.”

We stood in silence for a bit, just enjoying the cool breeze and the calmness of the evening.

“But enough of that. I have those discussions so often that, frankly, I grow tired of them. I have a question for you, Jonas. You said that you’ve never taken a fencing class before. I find that hard to believe. I’ve trained men and women for decades now, and you are no beginner.”

“That’s true, though,” I asserted. “I’ve never trained with a sword before. In fact, I’ve never trained in martial arts before last year. I discovered I can sweat off my frustration over my studies here. It feels good, so I keep coming back. I can’t explain it better.”

“Few can describe the thrill of combat,” Enzo said with a poetic rhythm in his voice. “It’s something you’re either born with or you’re not. There’s beauty in the simplicity of battle. A trial between two combatants with the highest of stakes. I think you have that appetite. Which is why I have an offer for you, Jonas. I think you could benefit if we increase our sessions to twice a week. If your academic pursuits allow that.”

Enzo’s words stuck with me. He was right. There was some kind of familiarity and completeness in combat, but I never noticed before Enzo mentioned it. I started combat sports only to fight off my frustration over what was happening in Cappesand. Now, however, those few hours in the pit are the reason I woke up for in the morning. I skipped classes purely to go there and spar with whoever I could find. Sometimes even doing calisthenic drills sufficed. I’ve never paid attention to just how much I enjoyed all of it.

Perhaps I should do this more frequently? Perhaps I should just, finally, accept my failure in the academy, and pursue a more martial lifestyle? That would make Florencia angry, though. Maybe so much that she would stop talking to me all together.

“I, uh, have to think about it. I’m definitely interested, but it’s… complicated,” I replied with a heavy dose of hesitation. Enzo seemed to notice it, and didn’t push further.

“Of course. Stop by any day if you decide. Same price, five cuenos. Or if you ever just feel like asking for advice.”

Yeah, why not? Enzo wasn’t the worst man to ask for advice from. I probably had more in common with him than with anyone from Cappesand, anyway. But I was more confused than anything. It seemed that I was stuck in a kind of limbo state for the entire year.

Perhaps it was time for a change?

Not wanting to mess up my head too much with this new thought, I cleaned the chalk off my palms, swiped the sweat off my forehead, and left the gymnasium. The sun was not yet low, but crept closer to the orange roofs. Time was getting late, and Florencia would soon finish her studies. I jogged through the crowded part of Bessou and reached my dorm in under half an hour, now again tired and sweaty.