NOVEL NEXT WORLD Chapter 13: The Training Session: Part 2
The courtyard felt like a prison as Eogan swung the wooden sword with all the strength he could muster. His arms were heavy, his grip faltering with each strike, yet Lord Dubhan's voice rang out in his mind, demanding perfection. He could feel the older man's eyes on him, sharp and unyielding, like a hawk watching a faltering rabbit.
"Focus, Eogan!" Lord Dubhan commanded, his tone sharp as he stepped forward, effortlessly parrying Eogan's sluggish blows. "Let the weapon become part of you. Stop fighting it and find your flow!"
Eogan's breath came in shallow gasps as his muscles screamed for respite. His body was unaccustomed to this kind of strain, and his mind was elsewhere. Lord Dubhan's teachings were harsh, but they were only a distraction now, a noise that couldn't drown out the feeling gnawing at his gut.
It wasn't the swordplay that troubled him, though. It wasn't the sense of inadequacy that bubbled to the surface with every mistake. It was something deeper, something he couldn't quite put into words. Something about the weapons' presence and the strange feeling that had begun to crawl beneath his skin ever since Lorcan arrived.
His thoughts drifted back to the strange boy, the boy who carried the imp in his pouch, the boy who had some sort of bond with the creature that was... unlike anything Eogan had ever seen. He had noticed the way Lorcan's gaze seemed to linger on the metal swords, his unease palpable. The imp had not been its usual calm self either—Lorcan's little companion had recoiled from the weapons as if they were poison, its tiny form vibrating with discomfort. Eogan had seen how Lorcan reacted to it, and though he didn't fully understand it, a seed of doubt had been planted.
But now, as he lifted the practice sword for another swing, something stirred deep inside him, far beyond the physical discomfort of the training. A strange, ancient pull. It was like an echo in his soul, a whisper of something he once knew long ago.
He could feel it now, more than ever. The sword in his hands was wrong. It was too crude, too mundane. The fey lord who had once wielded blades of magic and moonlight felt the stark difference now. Back in his past life, the weapons of his people had never been mere tools—they had been extensions of their will, of their very essence. There had been no need for the clumsy weight of steel or iron. The fey had worked with the elements, with the flow of nature itself. Their weapons had sung with the resonance of magic, with the pulse of life. To wield a sword back then was to become the blade, to merge with the earth's and sky's power.
But this... this was nothing more than a dull piece of lifeless wood.
Another strike. His sword connected with the stone again, sending a jarring shock through his arms. Eogan staggered but regained his stance, wincing at the sound of his failure. He could hear Lord Dubhan's voice in the back of his mind, but it felt distant, almost hollow.
"Focus," Lord Dubhan snapped. "Let the weapon become part of you."
His heart clenched. How could he? The sword didn't feel like a part of him. It was foreign—alien. His true self recoiled from the idea of using something so primitive, so mundane. It was as if every strike and motion were a betrayal of who he once had been.
But it was more than that. The weapons that lined the far wall, gleaming with an unsettling shine under the morning sun, only amplified his discomfort. They were metal—cold, lifeless, and oppressive. Eogan couldn't shake the sense that these were not just tools of war; they were symbols of the destruction that had been wrought on the natural world, on the very magic that had once flowed freely through his veins.
He had once been a lord of the fey, connected to the land in ways beyond understanding. Now, standing here with this wooden sword, he felt... fragmented. His past life called to him, tugging at the very core of his being, but the world around him—this life—held him firmly in place.
It wasn't just about the sword. It was about the very essence of his identity.
Another strike. His hand faltered once more, the sword slipping from his grip. Lord Dubhan's eyes narrowed in disappointment, but Eogan barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere.
The imp. The connection with Lorcan. A sense of ancient magic began to coil within him, stirring with memories of power, beauty, and sorrow. How long had it been since he had felt that connection to the world's magic? How long had it been since he had stood in the realm of the fey, surrounded by the eternal pulse of nature?
He wanted to return to that. He wanted to feel the old power surge through him again, command the wind, and wield fire with a mere thought. But here, in this world, in this body, he was just a boy swinging a sword in a courtyard.
"Again," Lord Dubhan barked, his tone hard and cold. "You're distracted."
Eogan swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus, but it was like trying to swim against a current that kept pulling him deeper and deeper into the past. He could feel the magic, that ancient pulse, buried within him—something that could never be fully extinguished. But how could he reconcile that with the weight of the sword in his hand with the brutal, cold reality of this life?
The fey lord inside him screamed for release, for recognition. But this life, this reincarnation, had its own demands. His father's expectations. Lord Dubhan's lessons. The world's weight pressed on him, telling him that a sword was the only way forward. But what if it wasn't? What if the sword was just a distraction, a tool to keep him from the truth?
Eogan paused momentarily, his hand gripping the sword tighter, his knuckles white with strain. The metal blades on the wall seemed to mock him, their cold gleam taunting him. And yet, the memory of the fey lord he had been lingered in his mind, offering a path that wasn't bound to iron and steel.
The sword in his hand wasn't his destiny. It couldn't be. Not when there was magic in the air or the earth itself seemed to whisper his name. But how could he return to that power? How could he become the fey lord he was meant to be when all that was expected of him was to be a warrior with a sword?
"Take a break, Eogan," Lord Dubhan muttered, his voice softening slightly. "We'll continue when you've gathered yourself."
Eogan nodded absently, still feeling the weight of the ancient magic stirring deep within him. He looked toward the distant trees, the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves and the wind rustled through the branches. He could feel the connection to the land and the magic he had once ruled. It was there if only he could reach it.
But there were no answers here, not yet.
With a final glance at the swords—those cold, lifeless objects—Eogan turned away. A deep longing filled him. This was only the beginning, he knew. There was a much greater path ahead. And it would not be found with a sword in hand.