An old man and a little boy sat in a courtyard and snacked on seeds. The former placed them in his mouth one at a time, chewing slowly and deliberately, while the latter stuffed a fistful in his own mouth and munched energetically, small morsels falling to the ground. The pair shared two traits in common: jet-black hair and stormy gray eyes.

“Rory,” he began, “What do you think it means to be a noble?” Before the boy could speak, he raised one hand to stop him. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” he admonished, “finish chewing before you speak.”

The boy nodded, crunching and chomping before swallowing with an audible gulp. “It means you’re important, right, Grandpa?”

Boris chuckled deeply. “Important? You can say that. But why do you think I’m important, little one?”

“All those people come to visit you and give you stuff,” explained Rory confidently.

“And why do you think those people come to give me things?”

The boy blinked slowly, thinking over the question. “You said ‘nothing’s free’. They want something from you, right?”

Boris nodded encouragingly. “That’s right, Rory. They come up all the way here ‘cause they want something from me. But … why me? What could I have to offer?”

Rory’s nose scrunched up as he thought over the question, giving his grandfather a casual once-over. He scratched his head, struggling to come up with an answer. Then his eyes lit up and he dipped his hand into the bowl, raising up a handful of seeds. “You’ve got this, right?”

Boris slapped his thigh and laughed. “They wouldn’t want those, Rory. Think ‘bout it. What else could I give ‘em?”

Rory looked over his grandfather again in confusion. “But Grandpa … you don’t really have anything else, right?”

A vein on the old man’s forehead throbbed. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean, brat! Forget it, you’re not wrong. Compared to the other nobles, we’re not exactly rich. Even most merchants are richer probably than us. But we’ve got something no merchant has. You know what that is?”

The boy shook his head. He wanted to answer ‘poverty’, but he had the feeling that his grandfather would get mad again.

“At the end of the day, no matter how much money those merchants have, they have to follow the law. But for us nobles, in our own territory, we make the laws!” he explained. “In all of this land here—sure, there’s not much here—but everyone has to listen to me.”

“But…” Rory ventured hesitantly, before trailing off. Seeing his grandfather nod encouragingly, he continued, “didn’t you say that all the rich nobles in Cinnabar paid for their titles …?”

The vein on the old man’s forehead throbbed again. “Never mind that! Cinnabar isn’t even Korsan! Just a bunch o’ pretentious merchants. Anyway, I have the power to make the rules here, right?”

Before his grandson could say anything to interrupt his flow, he ploughed on, “And not just that. All of the people who live here, they have to pay tax to us, right? So how come they have to pay us and listen to whatever we say?”

This time, Rory answered immediately, “I know, Grandpa. It’s just like ol’ Pader—he takes care of the mog, but they have to listen to him an’ give him wool, right?”

“You brat! What did I tell you about hanging out with Pader? He drinks too much! Still, you’re not wrong—we have to take care of the people here, understand? Just like how Pader has to protect his mogs from wolves or other animals, we have to protect our people too.”

The old man noticed a cheeky grin on the boy’s face and felt a growing sense of dread.

“But Grandpa, you drink every day!” Before he could admonish his grandson, Rory continued, “by the way, Pader told me that wolves almost never attack people, unless they’re starving and can’t find food. So you don’t need to worry ‘bout that!”

Boris Wilbor turned a heavy gaze at his grandson’s small frame and sighed, then reached over to grip Rory’s shoulder tightly.

“One day, you’ll understand.”

----------------------------------------

Feeling my shoulder being gripped tightly, my eyes snap open and I reach for my blade, only to come up empty. What is a swordsman without his weapon? Pathetic.

In any case, it’s only a kindly, middle-aged man shaking me awake. “We’ll be arriving at the next village soon,” he says. It’s a stark reminder of how defenseless I am—how my situation has changed. For the time being, I must watch my own back, and to do so, I’ll need to acquire a new blade. Unfortunately, I don’t have enough coin on hand, but the family heirlooms must be worth something. As shameful as it may be, it should be possible to pawn my signet ring in Dorban to a reputable merchant like the Scarone Trading House for enough coin to last me while I travel south. It’s a bitter reminder of the price of pride—if only I had taken the pouch of coins from my uncle …

In any case, it’ll only be until I reach Cinnabar, where I can ask my allies for assistance—to pay off the debt and head back north to oust my usurping uncle. As much as it pains me, I have no other choice. Grandfather would understand … right?

“I appreciate it,” I say, thanking the travelling peddler. “By the way, I don’t believe I caught your name.”

The middle-aged man turns to give me a broad smile, his bright white teeth a stark contrast to his sun-beaten, bronzed skin.

“I never gave it, young man. You looked exhausted earlier, but you look much better now. You can call me San.”

“San? My name is Rory. Thank you for giving me a ride—I’m ashamed to say that I can’t compensate you. Some scoundrels … took advantage of me. My purse is empty. But if you find me later, I can pay you back.”

The peddler laughs and shakes his head. “What use is coin, my friend? I have no need for it. Your companionship is payment enough.”

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My cheeks flush and I look away. Amidst the snake den that is nobility, such words would comprise thinly-guised ridicule. But here and now, they reveal a simple, honest character from a free-spirited man. After a moment, I answer in kind. “Then I shall endeavor to stay awake and make talk with you.”

He smiles again. “Then, would you care to listen to a story of mine?”

“It would be my pleasure.” His request does not surprise me—besides the peddling of basic goods and necessities, peddlers like these are one of the only regular sources of news from other places for remote villages. Some peddlers develop this skill further, teasing shocking wisps of gossip or spinning elaborate tales of fiction. No doubt he has told this story a thousand times, but it would do no harm for me to listen.

“Tell me,” he begins, “what do you know of the Tessent Order?”

“I’ve heard of them. They serve Korsa, guardians who preserve order.”

“Guardians? Is that what they call themselves now?” The peddler barks in laughter. “And what else do you know, then?”

“I … not much. Their blade arts—the Tessent Blade Style is legendary. Some say … it is unrivaled. Peerless.”

The man’s eyes soften and he nods slowly, as if lost in thought. “Indeed. I do not know of any that surpass it. Then … do you know the covenants of the Tessent Order? What vows they swear?”

I frown. “With all due respect, it appears that I am the one telling the story.”

“I’m just trying to establish how much you know about the setting for this story,” he explains, “without the context, it’ll be difficult to follow.”

“I see.”

“Before I exhaust your patience,” continues the peddler, “let me ask you one last question. Have you ever heard of the Temmus Order?”

“It sounds familiar,” I say hesitantly, “but I can’t quite place it.”

“No more questions, then. Listen closely. The Tessent Order that you know today was not always so. Before your time, they had no formal affiliation with Korsa. In fact, they were very proud of their independence—they acknowledged no authority but their own! And what authority, you may wonder, did they impose on their members? None but the pursuit of the blade. You called it unrivaled. Peerless. What do you think made it so? Countless Blademasters devoted their efforts to hone it, to sharpen it to perfection. And finally, a Grandmaster emerged!”

“I thought the true Tessent Style lost …”

“Indeed. Grandmaster Zenis perfected the Tessent Style. Or perhaps it should be said that that only his swordsmanship was recognized as the Tessent Style, and all others were dismissed to be crude imitations. There was no better proof than his achievements. Zenis was undefeated in battle! Three Grandmasters challenged him, and three Grandmasters were defeated!”

“If Zenis was undefeatable,” I ask, “then how was his Sword Style lost?”

“Undefeatable in battle. Alas, he was betrayed … stabbed in the back. Nobody knows who did it. But he was killed while asleep, surrounded by those he called friends and comrades. Who else could have done it but a traitor?”

My stomach shifts and I cannot help but feel pity for this legend. To have become a Grandmaster, and yet be felled by betrayal, stabbed in the back by a comrade … it is unthinkable.

“Some even say … that Zenis’s swordplay defied the very heavens, or that he used forbidden techniques, enraging Renol to strike him down as punishment. Of course, that is mostly nonsense, but the fact remains that Zenis was like the sun, and when night fell, the Tessent Order fell apart.”

“Fell apart? The Tessent Knights are widely respected in the whole of the Korsan Empire,” I protest.

“Things are … different now. But after Zenis’s death, the Tessent Order lost its purpose. The blade had been honed to perfection, and yet the one who had done so had taken the method to the grave! A moment of unity, shattered before it could last. Even the Sunblades were lost! And in the chaos that followed, one Blademaster—second only to Zenis, a very distant second, but second nonetheless—took the Order in a new direction.”

“A new direction?”

“Guardians who preserve order, as you said,” he laughs again. “Blademaster Sarl convinced the Order to establish their roots in the growing Korsan Empire. To become its pillars, its foundation, he said. And so, they vowed loyalty to the Korsan Emperor.”

“But you said that they valued their independence. That they refused to acknowledge any authority,” I point out.

“Indeed, they did once. And so, there was discontent. Under Sarl’s leadership, the power and influence of the Tessent Knights grew. To challenge them was to challenge the Emperor himself! Who would dare to do such a thing? But not all were content with the new ways. And eventually, the Order … fractured.”

“Fractured?” I exclaim in astonishment. “You claim that the Tessent Order split? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“You think the Emperor would announce such a thing?” asks the peddler. “That all the gold in the treasury and the prestige of the Empire could not hold the loyalty of the famed Tessent Knights?”

“Ah, of course,” I smile in amusement. “It would be quite the scandal. If such a thing were true, of course.”

He looks me over. “A little before your time, I think. About a generation ago, when Korsa … conquered Pelos, and assimilated it into the Empire. A group of Tessent Knights resigned from the Order.”

“Resigned? Impossible! How could they resign?”

“How could they indeed,” he echoes. “But they no longer believed in the Order. And yet, the Order would not let them leave so simply. So, do you know what they did?”

“Could they have fought for their right to leave? A duel of honor?”

He snorts. “The opposite, actually. They threw down their swords, vowing never to touch the blade again.”

I shake my head. Any doubt that this is anything but a fanciful tale gone in an instant. No swordsman who has trained for a lifetime would simply throw down their blade in resignation. It is the first thing we are taught—no matter what, you do not let go of your blade. But however unrealistic it may be, it is a creative and amusing tale, and I will listen to the very end, if only to humor this peddler.

“And what then?” I ask, prompting him to continue. “Did they ever pick up the blade again? Or perhaps they vanished into the night, vowing to return one day?”

“Oh, no,” he beams again, with gleaming white teeth. “No such thing. They wander the land now, seeking only to help others.”

I raise an eyebrow skeptically. “It sounds rather difficult to help others without any power, you know. What do they do if they encounter bandits? Talk them out of fighting?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Talk them out of fighting,” he repeats my words. “If all you have is a sword, you think every obstacle must be cut down.”

“And what do you propose they do when negotiations fail? Let themselves be cut down? Not all are so reasonable.”

“Hmm,” he answers, “Even when words fail, one is not powerless without a weapon. If nothing else, you still have your body, no?”

“Ah, the warriors. Like the soldiers in the army.”

It is commonly accepted that Aura and swordsmanship go hand-in-hand. To train one is to train the other. When both are mastered, one becomes invincible in battle. But studying the blade demands a lifetime of effort, no small degree of talent, and the guidance of a Master.

For those lacking in talent and resources, there are other avenues to train Aura. Inferior, perhaps, but not completely meaningless. Grandfather mentioned that many in the army attempt to reinforce their bodies with Aura. While lacking the offensive techniques of Sword Styles, they can increase the strength and resilience of their bodies somewhat. The rare few who can reach Iron or Silver become true warriors, able to shield their flesh from arrows and blades with their Aura—at least until they run out. Of course, they pale in comparison to a swordsman at an equivalent level, and the gap only widens the higher you go. The so-called ‘Battlemasters’ are worth easily ten or twenty men, but cannot compare to even the weakest Blademaster.

To my surprise, San disagrees. “No, not like them. They hone their bodies differently.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The ones you speak of hone their bodies to fight,” he explains. “To punch and kick, to advance through arrows and defeat the enemy.”

“And these Tessent Knights of yours do not punch and kick? They turn the other cheek and endure, like stones?”

“They do not punch and kick, no. To fight without fighting. To resist without resisting. And you should know that they forfeited that name when they threw down their blades. They call themselves the Temmus Order now.”

Before I can retort, I notice a column of smoke drifting up into the sky from up ahead.

The village is on fire.