Quinten's experience with magical items had been limited to the Proving Grounds and the healing tubs used in the Infirmary during his time at the Academy. Walking into the Quartermaster’s domain, the trio were gifted with a sight to behold.
The heavy doors of the hall creaked open, revealing a sprawling open-aired space that hummed with activity. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with heat and the clang of hammer on metal, tinged with the acrid scent of burning coal and the hot tang of oil. A red glow emanated from craftsman’s tools while the pieces they worked appeared lit from within by a blue light imbuing the metal with their Gifts. Enormous shelves, stacked high with spear or stave blanks, armor, and miscellaneous equipment hung from the walls running the length of the room. Workers moved in an unknown dance, each step choreographed to shift the craftsman around their workspaces at need.
“New members of the Core, eh?” A gruff voice asked, breaking through their amazement.
Quinten, Cedric, and Ronan turned to see a broad-shouldered man watching them. He stood out with his caramel-colored skin and salt-and-pepper beard that indicated either his age, or lack of interest in having a Healer keep them appearing young. He wore a well-used and often repaired leather apron that was currently coated in soot. His arms, thick from years of hard work, were crossed over his chest as he sized them up. His eyes, sharp and observant, stopped on each of them, clearly judging their worth.
Grunting at what he saw, the man introduced himself. “I’m Master Zekial, the Quartermaster.” Stepping forward, the man held out his hand to Quinten, palm open as if he meant to trade grips.
Reaching to take the extended forearm, Quinten was taken aback when, as fast as a snake, the thickly built man gripped him with both hands. He pulled Quinten forward and tilted his hand up to his face, shifting it left and right as he took in the calluses. He was released a moment later, with Quinten stepping back on reflex, scowling at the man before him.
The Quartermaster just raised an eyebrow in return. His eyes were almost mocking in their challenge.
Quinten continued to frown, but chose not to comment. Master Zekial gave a small nod before turning and walking away, leaving Quinten more than a little confused.
The Quartermaster made it to the next station before stopping and peering at them over his shoulder.
“Are you lot coming, or not?”
The trio exchanged a look, but hurried after the man that continued to talk as he walked.
“Gossip says that you were booted from the Academy. Since you didn’t make it far enough into the second year to test how your Gift reacts to manadrite, we’ll do that now.”
He led them deeper into the hall. Approaching a reinforced metal door, Quinten picked up on a faint humming sound. Looking around for its source, the buzz continued to grow, and it took him a minute to realize where it was coming from. They stood before the large door, the air practically thrumming in intensity.
Master Zekial unbolted the iron door. Swinging it open, a wave of energy poured out like a dam breaking, revealing the magical armory that lay within. Long intricately carved wooden staves, the kind commonly seen carried by mages, were hung along the walls in neat rows. Velvet lined boxes ran down the center of the room, were smaller rods, rings, and even a crate of short swords were placed, their gray-blue metal glittering in the light of the overhead crystals.
“Everything in here is imbued with manadrite. Even the wood pieces have a core of the stuff.” The Quartermaster said, rapping a staff hung on the wall near him with his knuckles. “In case none of your instructors explained it. Manadrite will either boost your power or speed up your casting. For some, it can even do a bit of both, just to a lesser degree.”
The man’s cobalt blue eyes, made all the brighter by his darker skin, bore into the three. “Manadrite is rare and these are only issued on loan during your service to the realm. They will be returned when you leave the Core.” He said, his tone making it clear how serious the Core took the matter.
Turning to Ronan, he said, “You look like a Healer.” To which the older boy nodded in agreement. Master Zekial picked up a simple but elegant ring and held it out to the young man. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, Ronan examined the metal band. It would have looked like tarnished silver if it weren’t for the shimmering notes of manadrite worked into the base material.
“You’ll need both hands free if you are going to be running around healing people. Go ahead and put it on. Send just a trickle of your Gift into the ring and the band will resize itself to fit you.”
Following the man’s instructions, Ronan slipped the ring onto his finger, his mouth going slack when it shrunk to grip his middle finger securely. Just wearing the ring wouldn’t tell him what effect the manadrite would have on his Gift, but he was excited to find out.
Looking at Cedric, Zekial’s eyes traced the young man up and down once more. “What unit were you assigned to support?”
“Battle Mage for one of the calvary platoons.” He dipped his head towards Quinten and said, “I’ll be reporting to him as my Lieutenant.”
The Quartermaster nodded and handed Cedric one of the short swords. “You had some calluses. I think you’ll be able to put this to good use. Belt it on for now. You’ll get a chance to test it out soon enough.”
“Uhh,” Cedric said, not taking the weapon just yet. Eyeing Ronan, he asked. “Would a ring be able to shift with me like it adjusted to Ronan’s finger?”
The older man’s head pulled back and raised an eyebrow. “A shifter placed in a calvary unit? What were they thinking….” Shaking his head, the Quartermaster nodded to the box containing the rings. “Grab one of those. Doesn’t matter which, they are all pretty much the same and will stay with you as you shift forms.”
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Finally, he turned to Quinten. Frowning, Master Zekial gave him a once over as he rubbed his beard in consideration.
“I know who you are. You look enough like the Lord Marshall for me to recognize you. If the man hadn’t saved my life, and I didn’t know how strong your Gift was, I’d never even consider this, but…”
Trailing off, he spun on his heel and made his way to the back of the room, returning a moment later with a cloth-wrapped bundle in his hands. He gently set it down on the table beside Quinten and turned to face him, looking deep into his eyes as if in search of answers. “I’m going to give you two options. I can do what I’m supposed to, what I’d do for anyone else, and give you one of those short swords. Or…” Reaching over, he slowly unwrapped the cover.
Quinten's breath hitched at what lay beneath. Unlike the simple short swords stacked in the crate, the sword laying on the table was a work of art.
“This was forged at the King’s behest. It was intended for the Prince, but the energy demands of the blade were too high for him to wield it. She has been sitting down here in the dark ever since. Waiting for someone with the power and skill to bring her to life.”
Unable to stop himself, Quinten's hand reached out toward the sword, freezing just before the tips of his fingers touched metal. He forced his eyes away from the weapon and met the Quartermaster’s gaze, receiving a nod of permission.
The blade was sheathed in a wood stained so dark that it was nearly black. Its grey undertones showing through in a pattern that seemed random but came together in a stylized whole. Fit snuggly against the lip of the sheath, the metal cross guard extended outward like the wings of a soaring bird. A shard of manadrite was embedded on each side of the guard, ensuring its value would be known whether drawn or sheathed. The black, leather-wrapped hilt ended in a thick, rounded pommel, able to be used as a blunt weapon in its own right.
Quinten wrapped one hand around the hilt, the other gripping the sheath. He felt a pulse run through him from the blade and knew that this was a moment he would never forget. His eyes flicked to Master Zekial one last time, receiving a nod of encouragement in return.
Drawing the sword, an audible thrum reverberated throughout the room. Quinten was too focused to take notice, but it earned surprised looks from his friends and a raised brow from the older man.
The hand-and-a-half, or bastard sword, was breathtaking. The blade’s length coming in just under what’d traditionally be considered a longsword. It was perfectly balanced, and too heavy to be easily wielded in one hand without the use of one’s Gift. The blade was three fingers thick, with a deep fuller running down its center. Double edged, and ending in a wicked point, the glitter of manadrite gave the gray-blue blade an ethereal quality that Quinten immediately fell in love with.
He met Master Zekial’s eyes, a question written within. The Quartermaster laughed, shaking his head. “O, no. I’m not just giving her away. You need to prove you are worthy to earn such a beauty. Follow me,” he said. Grabbing a short sword before leaving the room, stopping to pull a shield off a nearby rack as they passed. Their journey through the main room attracted many curious gazes, with a small crowd gathering in their wake.
Crossing through the main area, they exited a door and entered into a room that was clearly used for testing. Several training dummies and other various contraptions were placed around the outer wall. Master Zekial's destination was a clear section in the middle of the room with more than enough space for a sparring match.
Taking their positions in silence, they faced each other. Quinten gripped his new blade in both hands. The metal hummed what felt like a demand for him to channel his Gift into it. Hesitating briefly, he reached out with the faintest trace of his Gift. The moment it touched the blade, a force gripped his gift, sucking it into the sword. Quinten could feel his Gift Well draining as more and more energy was pulled from him. He started to panic, worried that it would drain him dry. Quinten focused with everything he had on the sensation, and on the sword, clamping down on their connection and shutting off the flow of magic.
Sweating, Quinten looked up and met the Quartermaster’s gaze. A small smirk dancing across the man’s lips as he gave a knowing nod. “She took a bite out of you, huh? You’ll need to be careful. Now that she’s had a taste of your Gift, she’ll always want more.”
Swinging his sword and shield to loosen up his shoulders, the man continued. “What you gain from using manadrite is paid for with increased energy usage. That one,” he said, pointing with his blade, “Is worse than most. If your Gift Well wasn’t so large, you wouldn’t be able to wield her. It’s the main reason she’s sat in the vault for so long.” Scratching his nose with the lip of his shield, he said. “Let’s get on with it. No Gifts, just strength of arms and skill. Show me you have the foundation needed to put her to good use.”
Master Zekial sprang forward with surprising speed for a man his size. Quinten parried the strike, shifting his opponent’s blade wide and spinning to avoid the rim of the Quartermaster's shield as he pressed his attack. They fought for several minutes, working their way through progressively more complicated exchanges. Quinten slowly found balance with his new blade, discovering its rhythm. He wasn’t sure if the sword was adjusting to fit him like Ronan’s ring, or if it was him growing accustom to the weapon’s weight and size. Before long, it felt like an extension of his body. He began to intuitively gauge its exact reach and anticipate the perfect angle of a strike, all of it coming together as instinct.
The Quartermaster’s movements were precise, his strikes powerful and efficient. The man clearly knew how to fight and he was relentless in testing Quinten's skill with the blade, but it wasn’t enough.
Sidestepping a lunge, Quinten pivoted right. Using his momentum to land a powerful two-handed blow on the boss of his opponent’s shield. The impact rocked Master Zekial back, stalling his counter. Quinten spun in the opposite direction, creating distance and allowing himself to make greater use of his longer reach. His blade stayed in motion the entire time. Using the rebound from his strike to rotate his weapon through a complex loop, bringing it back around, low to the ground in an upward stroke.
He expected the Quartermaster to block, allowing Quinten to follow through the attack, ending with his blade against the man’s neck, or at least—that was the plan.
When Quinten's upward blow struck his opponent's shield. A flash of blue light lit the room, momentarily blinding those watching the fight. It took a second for Quinten's vision to clear and when it did. He saw Master Zekial soaring through the air and across the room. Bits and pieces of his shattered shield flying in all directions.
Staring at the sword in shock, Quinten was brought back to reality by a shriek in the crowd. Worried he may have accidentally killed the Quartermaster, Quinten dashed forward but Ronan was already there, golden light radiating from his hands. The man lay prone on the ground, a trickle of blood ran down his head and his shield arm was bent at an unnatural angle.
A popping sound came when the broken bone visibly shifted back into place. A moment later, Master Zekial's eyes fluttered open, shifting around as he got his baring. His gaze finally settled on Quinten's concerned face. “Ay lad,” the man grunted. “I think she’ll do you just fine.” Laying his head back down, he said, “At least we gave you a chance to test that new ring of yours. Eh, Healer?”
Their conversation faded into the background as Quinten's focus became consumed by the sword in his hand. A surge of excitement pulsed from it to him as he ran his fingers along the cool edge of the blade, its power humming just beneath the surface. The possibilities of what it could do filled him with a sense of anticipation and wonder. Carefully, he sheathed the blade and secured it to his belt.
A quiet certainty settled over him—this wasn’t just a weapon or a piece of manadrite; it was the beginning of something extraordinary, and it was his.