Chapter 11: The Spearman's Consortium

The late afternoon sun bathed the stone courtyard of the Spearman’s Consortium in a warm, golden light. Daniel Gailor stood at the entrance, his heart pounding as he took in the sight before him.

The Consortium was an imposing structure, its high walls covered in ivy, giving it a blend of majesty and antiquity. The sound of clashing spears and the rhythmic chanting of trainees echoed through the air, a symphony of discipline and martial prowess.

Merium Seda had insisted that Daniel needed formal training to truly understand the art of combat and earn greater wages. After weeks of handling minor tasks and learning the basics of Sylvara's society, she’d arranged this meeting for him—a chance to prove himself among the ranks of the Spearman’s Consortium.

Despite her encouragement, Daniel couldn't shake the nervousness gnawing at his insides. He had never been the warrior type; his previous life had revolved around a desk, not a battlefield.

As Daniel approached the entrance, a tall figure loomed before him. Broad-shouldered, with streaks of grey running through his short-cropped hair and a jagged scar slashing across his weathered cheek, Aric Veldorn radiated the kind of authority that came from years of battle.

His eyes, sharp and piercing, gave away his no-nonsense nature, and every movement he made seemed deliberate, almost as if time itself bent to his will. This was the leader of the Spearman’s Consortium—stern, unwavering, and feared by many.

“You must be Daniel,” Aric said in a deep, commanding voice, extending a hand. “Merium speaks highly of your character.”

Daniel grasped the hand, feeling the strength in Aric's grip. “Well that's very kind, but I've never stabbed someone with my character before,” he replied with a nervous chuckle. “I’m here to learn, but I’m afraid I’m starting from scratch.”

Aric nodded, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Everyone starts somewhere, Daniel. What matters is your dedication and willingness to improve.” He released Daniel's hand and turned toward the training grounds. “Follow me. The trainees are just finishing their drills.”

As they walked, Daniel’s eyes darted around, taking in the sight of the trainees sparring in the courtyard. Each of them moved with precision and confidence, their spears slicing through the air with deadly accuracy.

The clang of metal against metal rang out as they practised, the intensity of their movements a testament to the rigorous training they endured. Daniel desperately tried to restrain a nervous tic, pretending to simply sort out his hair as he disguised a slap accompanied by a muffled squeak.

Aric led Daniel to the edge of the courtyard, where a group of trainees was gathered. A few of them paused to glance at Daniel, their expressions ranging from curiosity to mild disdain.

Among the trainees, one figure stood out: an elf of noble bearing. Tall and lithe, his silver hair seemed to shimmer like spun moonlight, and his piercing blue eyes were sharp enough to cut through any false confidence. His posture was flawless, every movement precise, but it was the cold smirk on his lips that drew attention.

He moved with the arrogance of someone born into privilege, a predator sizing up weaker prey. His gaze swept over Daniel, and the faint curl of his lips spoke volumes—barely-concealed contempt.

“Faelar Aewyn,” Aric called, beckoning the elf forward. “This is Daniel Gailor. He will be training with you from today.”

Faelar’s smirk widened as he stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over Daniel as if evaluating a piece of merchandise. “A... pleasure,” he said in a voice laced with condescension. “I hope you’re ready to be shown what real skill looks like.”

Daniel forced a smile, even though his brain was screaming, 'Oh, you absolute bitch-weasel.' His teeth clenched a little harder as he tried to swallow the sarcastic retort that danced on his tongue.

"You certainly do look incredibly comfortable handling a shaft," he remarked, forming the most innocent and wide-eyed smile, fresh out of the Diana Playbook of Getting out of Trouble.

Faelar momentarily adopted a look of confusion as he tried to discern whether or not that was a genuine compliment or an attack, before shrugging and tending to his equipment.

Aric gestured for the other trainees to gather around. “Daniel is new to our fair city, and he has much to learn. I expect all of you to help him as best as you can. Now, Helena, where are you?”

A woman with a warm smile and a quick laugh stepped forward. Helena Windrider, the Consortium’s quartermaster, had a reputation for keeping everyone in good spirits, even during the most gruelling training sessions. “Right here, Aric,” she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’ll make sure he’s well-equipped and ready for anything.”

Helena handed Daniel a wooden practice spear, her grin never fading. “Don’t worry, Daniel. We’ll take good care of you. Just remember to keep your guard up—and try not to let Faelar’s... Um... Charm get to you.”

Daniel chuckled, feeling a bit more at ease. “I’ll do my best. Thanks, Helena.”

The trainees resumed their drills, and Daniel was thrown into the mix. The first few exercises were simple—basic stances, footwork, and strikes. But even these elementary techniques were a struggle for him.

His movements were clumsy, his grip on the spear awkward. More than once, he lost his balance, earning a chorus of chuckles from the nearby trainees.

“Feet steady, Gailor!” barked Captain Roderic Ironfang, the gruff Lycanys who oversaw the training sessions. Roderic's voice was loud and commanding, laced with sarcasm as he continued, “Or are you planning to roll your way through battle?”

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The trainees laughed, and Daniel flushed with embarrassment. Among the laughing voices, Faelar’s was the loudest, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he watched Daniel fumble with the spear.

“You’ll need more than enthusiasm to survive, human,” Faelar taunted, his voice dripping with scorn. “Or perhaps you’re more suited to a different kind of work—something less… strenuous.”

Daniel gritted his teeth, feeling a surge of frustration. He knew he was out of his depth, but the elf’s arrogance ignited a spark of defiance within him. He wasn’t going to let Faelar’s insults go unanswered.

“I may be new to this, Faelar,” Daniel said, his voice steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest, “but I'm sure if you can manage to achieve a good level with that spear stuck up your ass, I should be able to manage something whilst unburdened by that misfortune.”

Faelar raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. “Augh, how coarse. But I really rather doubt it,” he replied coolly before turning back to his own drills. Roderic displayed a wry smile for a second before reverting back to neutrality.

The afternoon wore on, and Daniel continued to struggle. His muscles ached, his breath came in ragged gasps, and his hands were blistered from gripping the spear. Every mistake he made seemed to attract Faelar’s attention, the elf never missing an opportunity to deliver a cutting remark or a smug glance.

Daniel noticed Roderic pull Faelar aside but was unable to ascertain the meaning of the discussion. He would be incredibly embarrassed if the stern captain was telling Faelar to stop being mean to him.

Whilst the remarks definitely got to Daniel, it wouldn't do to not be able to stand up for himself, plus it was a fantastic reason to get strong enough to forcefully extract teeth from the colossal asshole.

But something strange started happening as the days passed. Each time Daniel fumbled, he felt something new—a flicker of instinct he hadn’t noticed before. His body seemed to react faster than his mind could keep up.

The spear no longer felt like a foreign object in his grip, but more like an extension of his arm. Muscles that had never held a weapon before now subtly adjusted, shifting into stances that felt... right. 'Was this the Aether Merium mentioned? Or could it be "The Blood" that Dricus spoke of?' he wondered. It was as if his body remembered how to fight, even if his mind didn’t.

During sparring, Daniel would sometimes feel a tingling in his veins—a warmth that spread from his core to his fingertips. It was brief and fleeting, but in those moments, the spear became more than just a weapon.

His strikes grew sharper, his reflexes quicker. It wasn’t magic—not yet—but it was something. Something old, something primal. He wasn’t just learning through training; he was learning through instinct, through blood. And with each passing day, that feeling grew a little stronger.

“Don’t let him get to you,” a soft voice said beside him one day as he struggled with a particularly tricky footwork exercise. Daniel turned to see Seraphina Dawnlight, a human trainee with warm, brown eyes and a gentle smile. “Faelar’s just like that. He thinks being a high-born elf makes him superior to everyone else.”

Daniel nodded, appreciating the kindness in Seraphina’s words. “Thanks, Seraphina. I just wish I didn’t give him so much material to work with.”

“You’re doing fine,” she reassured him. “Everyone struggles at first. Just keep going—you’ll get the hang of it.”

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, the trainees began to disperse, their training for the day complete. Daniel, drenched in sweat and utterly exhausted, leaned on his spear, trying to catch his breath. His body felt like it had been put through a wringer, and his pride had taken a few hits as well.

“Not bad for a first week,” said Tristan Riverton, another human trainee, as he approached Daniel. Tristan was a bit clumsy and nervous, but his heart was in the right place. “I, uh, tripped over my own spear the first time I trained, fell into Roderic and everything. His scolding still keeps me up at night...” he admitted with a sheepish grin.

Daniel managed a weak smile. “Sorry to hear it, but glad to know I’m not the only one who’s struggled. Your misfortune brings me peace, if that helps.”

Tristan laughed, the sound full of genuine warmth. “Well that's something then. We all start somewhere, right? Just keep at it.”

Despite his fatigue, Daniel felt a sense of camaraderie forming with the other trainees—except for Faelar, of course. The elf remained aloof, his disdain for Daniel and the others clear in every glance.

As Daniel made his way back to his quarters, he couldn’t stop thinking about Faelar’s smug expression, the elf’s words echoing in his mind. A part of him wanted to prove Faelar wrong, to show him that he wasn’t just some clueless outsider.

That desire fuelled him, pushing him to continue despite the pain and exhaustion. He could feel it becoming an obsession. Daniel was relatively carefree, often happy to be the butt of the joke, but there was an extremely competitive facet being tempered by the Elf.

Over the next couple of weeks, Daniel threw himself into his training with renewed determination. He spent hours practising his stances, refining his footwork, and honing his strikes.

The blisters on his hands turned into calluses, and his movements became more fluid, more controlled. He sometimes felt that his body was teaching him and not the other way around, the sensation was faint, but unusual to say the very least.

Each time he sparred with Faelar, he found himself at a disadvantage. The elf was faster, his strikes more precise. Daniel would barely parry one blow before the next was upon him, and more often than not, he found himself on the ground, breathless and soundly beaten.

“Too slow, human,” Faelar would say, his voice devoid of any sympathy. “You’ll never keep up at this rate.”

Yet Daniel noticed something strange as he trained. He could feel his body anticipating Faelar’s strikes and countering them with growing accuracy. It was as if his muscles were absorbing the lessons quicker than his mind could process them, each failure embedding the knowledge deeper into his being.

Despite his losses against Faelar, Daniel found that he could keep up with the other trainees, Seraphina and Tristan, during their sparring sessions. With them, his movements were more confident, his strikes more assured.

The awkwardness that had plagued him initially was fading, replaced by a growing sense of competence. But with Faelar, the gap remained.

Finally, one afternoon as the trainees gathered for their daily sparring practice, Faelar stepped forward, his eyes glinting with challenge. “Please don't bore me today, Gailor,” he said, twirling his spear with practised ease. “Mayhap you should find someone more suited to your limited capabilities?”

Daniel tightened his grip on his spear, his heart pounding in his chest. This was it—the moment he’d been waiting for. Despite the countless times Faelar had bested him, something in Daniel refused to back down.

“I’m not afraid of you, fairy boy,” Daniel replied, stepping into the sparring circle. “Let’s do this. You've been doing this longer, but I'm bridging the gap and that terrifies you and your delicate sensibilities.”

The other trainees gathered around, their eyes fixed on the two combatants. Even Aric and Helena watched from the sidelines, their expressions unreadable.

As Faelar advanced, Daniel felt a strange calm settle over him. His body moved with a fluidity he hadn’t felt before, the spear an extension of his will. The blood within him, the same blood that had apparently brought him to this world, was awakening.

The clash was inevitable. Faelar lunged first, his spear a blur, but Daniel met him head-on, their wooden weapons clashing with a resounding crack that echoed through the courtyard.

The duel had begun.