Vincht's debilitating stare set the man on his heels, and Stephen sheepishly cast his eyes to the floor. Willa simply sat quietly. The raven-haired soldier wondered if she'd known exactly where this exchange was headed from the beginning, even if he was just now wising up to the ramifications of Stephen's incomplete healing. Her subtle, backhanded remarks gave her away, though he could never tell if she was helping guide him to the truth, or attempting to goad his temper.
“Willa,” he began, softening his gaze but keeping his attention focused on the nervous, balding mage. “Did I ever tell you of my older brother?”
A sly smile colored the corners of the older woman's lips. “You have, but I'm certain Stephen should like to hear of him.”
If he did, the man didn't say so, but Vincht didn't particularly care what the man wanted at that very moment.
“His birth name was Garrett, but outside the inner circle of the aristocracy, everyone called him Dex. A nickname given by his rivals in the sword ring. Get trounced enough, and hate has a way of morphing into respect, even admiration. He eventually gained a reputation as one of the most skilled young swordsmen the city had ever seen.
“You see, Garrett had a way about him. A natural grace, a litheness, an agility. Supernaturally so, some would say. A rare gift that granted him the ability to pick up nearly any blade within reach and become almost instantly deadly with it. Curved or straight, long or short, for cutting or for piercing, it didn't matter. He had true talent, and worst of all, he knew it. Garrett was always involved in some form of scandal, usually involving some of the other noble families' daughters.”
He scowled, shifting his legs until he rested on his knees. “And in some cases, their sons.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “The man was infuriating. At two years my senior, Garrett thought it good sport to publicly humiliate me - his younger, less experienced brother. Knowledge of the sword was a requirement for men of both wealth and privilege, but I hadn't a single drop of the god-touched talent my brother possessed.
“As members of the upper class, it was nothing for us to draw steel and spar in the streets, so when Garrett found himself in a foul mood, he'd often seek me out. And for the first few years, he took it easy on me. A bloody nose, a bruised rib. Nothing too serious, but as his accolades and reputation grew, so did his cruelty and the frequency of these...'lessons'.
“The first time his blade pierced my flesh, I knew things had changed.”
Vincht gestured to a narrow, diagonal scar just above his left hip. The glossy patch of flesh was about the length of his palm and had faded considerably since receiving it years ago. “My parents thought it a waste of money to employ a proper healer, even going so far as to imply the wound was a badge of my personal incompetence as a swordsman. Garrett never apologized either. He simply promised that the days of going easy on me were long behind us.”
“A scar...” Willa began, pausing dramatically before continuing. “...never truly fades.”
“Indeed.”
Vincht slowly rose to his feet, flexing his toes against to floor to get a better grip on the constantly shifting wagon bed. Worse than sailing. He drew back his shoulders and cracked his neck. “Garrett rarely practiced. He had no need of it. I, however, threw myself into my studies. I hired an expensive tutor with some shils I'd squirreled away. I invented reasons to accompany my father's associates to nearby towns in order to interact with their warriors, learn from their scholars.
“I ate, drank, and slept swordsmanship. None worked harder than me. None worked longer than me. None hungered to grow stronger more than me.”
He ran a hand through his tangled, wavy locks and took a deep breath in through his nose. He closed his eyes and flexed each arm in turn, finally arching his back as he released a long, deliberate exhale.
When he opened his eyes, Vincht shot forward and snatched Stephen by the collar of his robe.
The man recoiled, but Vincht held tight, dipping his head to bring the two face-to-face. When he spoke again, his voice was a low, menacing whisper.
“On my fourteenth birthday, my parents presented me before the nobility of Vadderstrix as a man of House Morfren, and made public their decision to name me – and not my brother Garrett – as heir apparent to our esteemed family. The news created chaos amongst the nobles, and rightly so. Usurping the eldest son in favor of a younger sibling wasn't just scandal, it was practically heresy. However, Garrett's indiscretions had earned him a reputation as somewhat of a loose cannon, and many were relieved to know he wouldn't be in charge of leading such a storied house down a similar path.”
His wry smile did nothing to dispel the glimmer of violence shining in his eyes. “And embarrassing them all in the process.”
Vincht poked at Stephen's plump nose. The man flinched, but didn't retreat. “But Garrett, you see, he blamed me. Me. As if I was somehow responsible for our parents' decisions. I pleaded with him, tried to get him to listen to reason, but my brother was having none of it. In his mind, I was the orchestrator of his downfall as favored son. For well over a year I'd successfully avoided him in public, but it took less than a month after my namesday for he and his...cronies to catch me alone at the edge of town. He drew his sword and, with little fanfare or grandstanding, challenged me to duel.
“Not for sport, this time. This time, Garrett challenged me to a duel for the position as heir to the House Morfren.”
He smirked. “To the death, of course.”
Stephen pressed his shaking hands together and bowed his head. “Why...why are you telling me all this, my lord?”
Vincht ignored the question, reaching out to squeeze the man's shoulder until he winced in pain. “You see, Garrett entered into the duel thinking that nothing between us had changed. He'd never truly been challenged by another warrior, not really, not once in his entire life. People recognized in him this god-touched talent and...gave up. They practiced, sure, but not enough to overcome that which came naturally to Garrett, and everyone that entered into combat with him did so expecting to lose.
“But, you see, I...I possessed something greater than talent. I possessed unshakable resolve. Unlike Garret, I could manifest my own destiny through sheer force of will. In truth, my brother never stood a chance. He lacked the vision necessary to even compete.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Within four moves, I had him on his knees. I gave him only enough of a break for the full extent of his defeat to register in his feeble, undisciplined mind...before I ran him through.”
Stephen finally peered up into his eyes. “You...you killed him? But how? He was your brother.”
“Oh, no no no. You misunderstand.” Vincht looked on him with pity. “Garrett killed himself. He choose his death when he refused to evolve beyond his talented birthright. Had he given himself over fully to his craft, none could have stood against him, but because he lacked the will necessary to embrace discomfort, to steep himself in uncertainty...he doomed himself to death.”
In a instant, Vincht lashed out and gripped Stephen by the throat. The balding man's eyes bulged in their sockets. He wrapped his hands around Vincht's wrist. A glimmer of light flashed within his dilated pupils, and the air vibrated with an intense, growing energy.
Vincht increased the pressure on Stephen's windpipe, his smile vanishing in the wake of a furious scowl. “Release your soul, you worthless cretin, or I'll tear your throat clean from your neck.”
The man's eyes widened considerably, but the tingle of magic shivered, then vanished from the air.
Vincht's smile returned. “That's good. Now we're getting somewhere.”
He continued. “You see, talent is wasted on those without purpose. It breeds hubris, and stunts a person's true, organic growth. Force of will, you see, is ultimately superior, as one can overcome the few individuals blessed by the gods through measured, intentional practice. I overcame my brother through intensive training...though sheer force of will.
Vincht pulled Stephen close. “But your own admitted lack of will has ruined me.”
Stephen blinked. “What? No! That's not fair! I healed you, my lord. You live due to my efforts, my capabilities. Without me, it's likely you wouldn't have survived the night.”
Vincht nodded. “And yet, without you, this form would not be cursed to walk the face of Stragus covered in grotesque and inhuman scars. While I'm grateful to not be dead, you have doomed me to a life of hideousness, due solely to your pathetic lack of will.”
“No...I-”
“No!?” Vincht buried his fist in Stephen's stomach. The older man folded into the blow, slinging drool across Vincht's taut bicep. “Did you not say it yourself? You're a Dabbler. You don't possess the natural skill necessary to generate flesh anew. You can only fortify and empower the existing regenerative systems. You lack the will necessary to repair me completely.”
“No will, no talent,” Willa mused from her corner. “How valuable can such a man truly be?”
Stephen coughed, his shaking hands cradling his midsection. “I'll try again! I'll do better this time, I promise! Just give me the chance!”
“You've already proven you don't have the skill or strength necessary to finish what you started, and I'm not giving you free reign to use your stunted magic on me now. You have no real incentive to grow, no real need to improve. As it sits, you're likely the only mage in Comelbough the Breathers allow to exist due to your relationship with the Baron. Without competition, what need do you have to better yourself? I suppose I could threaten your life-”
“Don't kill me! Please, I'll do better, I swear!” Thick tears rolled down the man's blood-swollen cheeks as he begged, dripping off his chin and onto Vincht's wrist.
“-but we both know the Baron would skin me alive if I deprived him of his one and only mage. And lastly, you've no family to speak of, so I can't even hold that over you.”
Smirking, Vincht kicked Stephen's legs out from under him, slamming him onto his knees. There was a wet popping sound, and Stephen cried out in pain. He tried to reach down and comfort his injured knee, but Vincht tightened his grip on the man's throat and tilted his head back until the whimpering mage was forced to look him in the eye.
“You see,” Vincht began, gently brushing the tears from Stephen's cheeks with a finger. “When I trained to beat my brother, I had incentive. I had purpose. I had a goal. What incentive do you have to grow stronger, to hone your craft, to become a better version of yourself?”
He shook his head sadly. “None. Your life is filled with the comforts of success, and no one grows without a little discomfort.
A wildness filled his eyes, an insanity the likes of which Stephen had never seen, but when he spoke again, his tone was as flat as a sheet of parchment.
“So allow me to provide you with said discomfort.”
Before Stephen could react, Vincht lashed out with a fist, sinking his knuckles into the soft flesh beneath his left eye. Stephen yelped and covered his face with his hands, shrinking away from the attack. In the confines of the wagon though, the man had nowhere to go. Vincht responded by going to work on the man's ribs, sinking blow after blow into his midsection until the man gasped for air and hugged his chest. Vincht then turned his attention back to his unprotected face.
Every time Stephen slumped to the side, Vincht renewed his grip on the man's throat and jerked him upright before continuing his barrage. Strings of blood arched through the air between them each time he drew his fist back for another punch, and the whimpers of pain quickly changed into cries for help before ceasing altogether.
And still, Vincht poured his fury into the man's limp, disfigured body.
Willa watched quietly from her corner as the the black-haired soldier's chest and arms grew redder and redder with Stephen's warm blood. The wet squelch of each blow drowned out the ceaseless noise of the road, but no one appeared from the front of the wagon to put a stop to the violence.
Finally, the mage's motionless form collapsed into the pool of his own fluids, burbling intermittently as he attempted to breathe through his ruined and nearly toothless mouth. Vincht cleaned himself up with one of the fur pelts that made up his pallet, carefully watching the pile of a man before him to make sure he hadn't gone too far.
To make sure he hadn't accidentally killed him.
“Willa,” he began, tossing the soaked and soiled blanket aside. “Wake him up. Focus him. Put him to work on himself.”
Willa smoothed the ruffles in her blue dress and rose to her feet, as graceful and controlled as if she were standing on solid ground. “I will do as you ask, but I'm not so sure he won't yet die from the beating he just received.”
Vincht shook his head. “Damn wizards don't die that easily. He's likely begun to heal already, even without conscious effort.”
Retrieving her lace handkerchief from a small pocket on her dress, Willa dabbed at a small collection of blood droplets on Vincht's shoulder. “You surprise me, young one. Something I'd thought unlikely after so many years.”
He shrugged her hand aside and began sifting through the pile of clothes set aside for him on the small wooden crate. He needed something rugged, resilient, an outfit that could stand up to the rough treatment he was about to subject himself to over a period of days. “How so?”
“You showed him mercy.”
Vincht barked a laugh.
“Mercy.” He pulled a shirt over his head. “You misunderstand. He cursed me to the life of a cripple through his own incompetence. I merely returned the favor. Now, should he fail to rise to the challenge I issued, he'll spend the rest of his life subject to the horrified grimaces and whispered curses his image engenders. Wherever he goes, revulsion will follow.”
Willa simply nodded, unphased. “And what will you do?”
The black-haired soldier ripped aside the green curtains at the back of the wagon, flooding the tiny enclosure with the sunlight. He winced at its suddenness, but faced the light head on, forcing his eyes to adjust on his schedule. “I'm heading to the capital on my own. Those who remain know to follow you in my absence. Push them, but not too hard. I'd rather the Baron finds out what I did to his mage after he does me one final favor.”
Vincht stared down the road behind them, reveling in the vast plume of inky black smoke stretching out across the western horizon. He ran his fingers through the gouges that ruined his perfect face, imagining those same fingers slowly peeling away the skin of Nevin's pet cat. His trembling fingers curled at the thought, his nails digging into the still-fresh scar tissue, raking hard enough to draw fresh blood from their passing.
Watching him from his side, the generally unflappable Willa failed to suppress a shiver.