The Shattered Crowns

Akash grabbed his stomach as it gave an involuntary growl, the sound almost louder than his footsteps in the stillness. The walk back to camp was cloaked in silence, the weight of the day pressing down on him. Vyn and Veneres parted ways once they reached the edge of the practice grounds, each disappearing into their own corner of the night.

Akash sighed, glancing at Elys beside him. "Go on, get food. I'll eat later," he said, waving the tiger off. "Just don't try to eat a person."

Elys tilted his head, clearly hesitant to leave. At the mention of food, his ears perked up, but he didn't move. Akash made a shooing gesture. "Go! I'm fine. Just... try not to scare anyone." With a low rumble of acknowledgment, Elys bounded off into the dark, his tail swishing like a banner.

Akash turned his attention to the training grounds. His nerves jittered in anticipation of his first real sword lesson. The soft sand clung to his boots, brushing against his skin as if to remind him of the endless heat. His clothes were sticky with sweat, and he spat a small clump of gritty sand from his mouth. If he didn't find a veil soon, this cursed sand might actually kill him.

His gaze swept the grounds until it landed on a lone figure sitting beneath a tree. Jassin sat with his back resting against the trunk, his eyes closed. The scene might have been peaceful if not for the intensity that seemed to radiate from the man even in stillness.

"You have come," Jassin said, his voice breaking the silence without even opening his eyes.

"I wouldn't miss this lesson for the world," Akash said, his words tinged with eagerness.

Jassin stood in a single fluid motion, his movements as precise as the blade at his side. His clothes shifted with the faint desert wind, and as he removed the veil from his face, his sharp eyes settled on Akash. He reached behind him and picked up a practice sword, pressing it into Akash's hands.

"We will test that enthusiasm in the coming hours," Jassin said, his tone flat and without warmth. The wooden blade brushed against Akash's boot as Jassin stepped back.

"You will learn the way of the blade—the way of the killing stroke," Jassin said, his voice as measured as his movements. "Every strike you make must carry the full weight of your craft. Blademasters," he added, his tone devoid of emotion, "are not good people."

There was no regret or pity in the words, just cold truth. He unsheathed his Annealed Blade, the weapon humming faintly as it caught the fading light. Jassin let it rest gently on the ground before reaching for a blunt steel sword.

"You will understand the full depths of your blade," he continued. "Every swing should feel as though it could shatter another weapon—or sever a limb—with grace you didn't know you possessed."

"I'll be your best ward," Akash said, gripping the wooden sword tightly. His voice was full of determination. "The best swordsman you've ever trained."

Jassin studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You don't understand the weight of what you've just said," he replied, "so I won't hold you to it—yet."

Akash straightened his back, his chin rising slightly. "I meant it. I'll be the best ward you've ever had. I promised to become a blademaster, and I don't break promises."

For the first time, a smile flickered across Jassin's face, though it was not a kind one. There was hunger in it, an edge as sharp as any blade. "Good," he said. "That drive will serve you well in the ways of Cordia."

He took a step closer, towering over Akash as his presence seemed to grow heavier. "I will not lighten my swings because you are untrained. Your enemies will not show you mercy, so neither will I. Your pain will be the fire that tempers the steel I will use to reforge you."

Jassin's hand shot out, gripping Akash's chin and tilting his face upward. His gaze was piercing. "The way of the blade is one of malice. It is an obsession twisted by its own nature. You will crave perfection in the sword, and that craving will consume you. Knights may preach honor and purity, but a true blademaster understands: to take up a sword is to walk the path of damnation."

Akash's throat felt dry, but he forced himself to speak. "But if I can protect someone—"

His words were cut short as Jassin roughly shoved the practice sword back into his hands. "Silken words," Jassin said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Are you a coward, Akash Dorher?"

"No!" Akash barked back, his grip tightening on the wooden sword.

"Then don't hide behind pretty phrases," Jassin said coldly. "A blade is not a shield. It is not meant to protect. A blade exists for one reason alone: to draw blood."

The words struck like a hammer. Jassin took a step back, the blunt steel in his hand flicking up to point at Akash. "We are to be the blade. The monster in the night. Preying on carnage and blood. I will not tolerate a ward who does not understand the truth of the sword."

Akash swallowed hard, the weight of Jassin's words sinking in. The faint clink of Jassin's blade breaking the silence was like a judge's gavel. "You will learn the teachings of the Kuraokami bodyguard," Jassin continued, his tone sharp. "But before we even touch those techniques, you will master the basics. Only then will we speak of the Cold Winds."

Jassin raised his steel sword. "Your first lesson is simple," he said.

The steel blade came down in a swift arc, and Akash barely managed to raise his practice sword in time. The impact sent a jolt through his arms, and the wooden blade groaned under the weight of the blow. Akash stumbled, his feet sliding in the loose sand.

Jassin didn't stop. He attacked again, each strike faster and more precise than the last. Akash could do little more than raise his sword in defense, and even then, he was too slow. The dull edge of Jassin's blade grazed his arm, leaving a faint cut that stung as sweat dripped into it.

The blows kept coming. Akash's arms screamed in protest, his muscles burning as he tried to keep up. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his vision blurred from the effort. Each strike forced him back another step, the sand shifting treacherously beneath his feet.

"You're running," Jassin growled, his voice sharp and biting. "If you're too afraid to strike, then maybe you should join the Wardens with their shields. Step forward, Akash. Strike at me. Be a sword."

The words ignited something in Akash. Gritting his teeth, he swung the practice sword with everything he had. The effort was clumsy, and Jassin easily batted it aside, his movements almost casual. But Akash wasn't done. He swung again, faster this time. The wooden blade arched through the air with desperation, only to be swatted away once more.

Jassin stepped into his guard, his elbow slamming into Akash's chest. The impact sent him stumbling back, a faint grunt escaping his lips as he struggled to keep his footing.

"No wonder you couldn't save your friends," Jassin said, his tone cruel. "You can barely stand against a squire. Blocking and running—that's all I see. You lie to yourself, and you expect to win? A person who can't face the truth about themselves will never craft anything meaningful."

The words cut deeper than any blade. Anger surged through Akash like fire, burning away the fatigue and doubt. He lunged, his snarl spreading like a crack through his composure. His muscles screamed in protest, but he didn't care. His shoulder slammed into Jassin's chest with raw force.

"You have no right—" Akash spat, swinging the wooden sword down with all his might. The weapon splintered under the force, the sharp crack echoing through the training grounds.

Jassin moved with effortless precision, his blade coming to rest lightly against Akash's throat. The lesson was over.

"Your movements are sloppy," Jassin said, his voice calm but cutting. "You let your emotions control you. I can use obsession, Akash. I can't use someone who doesn't think."

Akash sneered, his chest heaving. "Like I care. Kill me and end this farce of training."

Jassin sheathed his sword, placing a hand on Akash's shoulder. The gesture was not comforting, but firm. "It was necessary," he said simply. "I needed to see if you had it in you. You do. And I can train that.

"There was no need to go that far," Akash growled, wrenching his shoulder away from Jassin's hand.

Jassin arched a brow, his tone turning cold. "You hold an Impresa mark, Akash."

"And what does that matter?" Akash shot back, the anger still burning in his chest.

"It matters because of what it means. My ward has lost all his sense, it seems," Jassin said, shaking his head with a sigh. "Do you think that mark is some ordinary decoration? The Impresa is a symbol of power, of raw potential. It is an announcement to the world that you have the capacity to be more than just a swordsman—you can surpass every limitation, carve a path through legends themselves."

Akash gritted his teeth. "You taught me nothing tonight. You just attacked me."

"I tested your tenacity," Jassin countered without hesitation. "That tenacity will be forged into strength. You will become well-acquainted with the horrors of battle. My goal is to teach you not just how to swing a blade, but how to endure, how to sharpen your mind as much as your body."

He leaned in slightly, his gaze unrelenting. "The Cold Wind styles of Cordia are not for the faint of heart. They are slow lessons—brutal, agonizing—but you will learn. And you will rise to that potential. That is why Dante assigned you to me."

Akash wanted to argue, to push back against the words, but something in Jassin's voice silenced him. He could feel the weight of the expectations placed upon him, the enormity of the journey ahead. His fingers curled tightly around the wooden hilt of his practice sword, the splinters biting into his skin.

Jassin's tone softened just slightly, though his intensity never wavered. "Each strike you swing should be as formless as the wind and as relentless as the snowstorm that buries entire villages. You will be quick, adaptable. Your full might is a last resort—speed and precision are what will carry you to victory."

Akash frowned. "But how can I cut through armor or defend myself without using all my strength?"

Jassin gave him a hard look, then stepped forward. He tapped Akash's temple with a finger. "If a blade cuts here," he said, then moved his hand to press against Akash's chest, "or here, which do you think will kill you faster?"

Akash blinked. "Both," he answered after a moment.

"Exactly," Jassin said with a nod. "So why waste the energy to drive your blade through someone's chest if a single slice across the neck will do the job just as well? Efficiency, Akash. Let others waste their strength. You will learn to use only what you need."

The simplicity of the logic struck Akash, leaving him momentarily at a loss for words. Jassin took advantage of the silence to press his point further.

"Most sword fights," Jassin continued, "are over in moments. Whoever strikes first usually walks away alive. The speed of your draw, the precision of your movements—these are the true weapons of a swordsman."

He moved forward and guided Akash's hand, showing him how to adjust the angle of his grip. The practice sword moved through the air with surprising smoothness, as though it were an extension of his arm.

"When you accept the flow of the blade," Jassin said, his voice taking on a reverent tone, "your body will attune to it. Your muscles will respond, your instincts will sharpen, and you will understand the language of combat."

He stepped back and unsheathed his own blade with a quick, fluid motion. The sound of steel against leather was almost musical. "I am ready," Jassin said. "Draw your sword."

Akash blinked, staring down at the practice blade in his hand. "I already have it in my hand."

"Resheath it," Jassin instructed, his voice firm. "And then draw it again. Properly this time."

Akash frowned but obeyed. He slid the wooden blade into the makeshift sheath at his side, then gripped the hilt tightly. With a yank, he pulled it free—but the motion was clumsy, the sword wobbling awkwardly in the air.

Jassin shook his head. "Again."

Akash grit his teeth and repeated the motion. Again, the blade came free, but it was unsteady, the draw lacking the finesse Jassin demanded.

"Again," Jassin snapped.

And so it began. Over and over, Akash drew the blade, each attempt slightly better than the last but still far from perfect. The sun dipped below the horizon, its golden light replaced by the pale, shifting hues of the Lunar Storms. Elys returned at some point, settling beneath the tree with a lazy yawn, his glowing eyes watching Akash's efforts.

Hours passed. Akash's hands grew raw, the skin peeling away as splinters and blisters formed. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes and soaking his clothes. His arms trembled with exhaustion, every muscle screaming for rest. But Jassin didn't relent.

"Again," Jassin commanded, his voice as sharp as the blade he carried.

Akash clenched his jaw, summoning the last dregs of his strength. He drew the blade one more time, the motion finally smooth and precise. The practice sword flicked through the air and came to a stop, perfectly aligned with his target.

Jassin held up a hand. "Good," he said, the faintest trace of approval in his tone. "Now, fifty more like that, and you can rest for the night."

"Fifty?" Akash repeated, incredulous. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Does it sound like I'm joking?" Jassin said, his expression unreadable. "Begin."

Akash groaned but obeyed. The first few draws were sloppy, his fatigue showing in every motion.

"That doesn't count," Jassin said coldly. "Focus, Akash. Do it right, or don't do it at all."

"I've been doing this for hours," Akash snapped, his frustration boiling over.

"And you think your enemies will care?" Jassin retorted. "Do you think they'll let you rest because you're tired? Draw the blade, or go back to whatever pitiful village you came from."

Akash's grip tightened on the hilt. He sucked in a deep breath, steadying his resolve, and drew the blade again. And again. And again. His legs trembled beneath him, and more than once, he nearly collapsed, but he refused to stop. He wouldn't give Jassin the satisfaction of seeing him quit.

By the time he finished the final draw, the Lunar Storms had swept fully across the sky, their pale, shifting light casting an eerie glow over the camp. Akash dropped to his knees, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

Jassin didn't offer him a hand. He simply said, "From now on, before every training session, you will draw your real sword twenty times. It will prepare you for what's to come."

Akash pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily on Elys for support. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Can I get food now?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Yes," Jassin said. "But don't take this break lightly. Our next session will be at the same time tomorrow. Soon, we'll train twice a day. Prepare yourself."

Without another word, Jassin picked up his Annealed Blade and walked away, leaving Akash standing in the practice grounds, his body aching and his mind spinning.

"You're lucky, Elys," Akash muttered, scratching the tiger's ears. "You've got those big fangs, and you don't even have to train with them."

Elys huffed, his warm breath ruffling Akash's hair. The tiger nudged him with his massive head, urging him forward.

"All right, all right. I'm moving," Akash said with a wheezy laugh. "You probably just want more food."

With slow, unsteady steps, he made his way toward the mess tent, the promise of food the only thing keeping him upright.

The mess tent buzzed with low murmurs and clinking bowls as Akash pushed open the canvas flaps, the scent of faintly spiced broth and charred meat wafting over him. A duo sat at one of the long wooden tables, deep in conversation. The first man sat hunched over, his fingers combing methodically through his thick, wiry beard. Akash squinted—he recognized him. It was the Sovran of the Wardens. His name was...Fabien.

Fabien's voice was steady but carried a grumble of frustration as he said, "Brox, he just isn't thinking straight. We take the Spire, and then what? Do we march to the Bridge and end up cannon fodder?"

The other man, likely Brox, was a shorter, stocky figure with a balding head that shone faintly under the tent's flickering oil lamps. Brox shrugged, his tone gruff but calm. "Fabien, you lead your Wardens, and I'll lead my Hearions as I see fit. I've gotten this far trusting Dante's judgment, and I don't intend to stop now."

Fabien leaned closer, his beard brushing the edge of his bowl. "And what of the Hopekiller? My boys are already whispering about him slaughtering the leader of the special infantry. We're meant to be the walls of this company, but none of us would last a minute against that...that monster. What's the plan for the Bloodless?"

Brox rubbed at his scraggly beard, his expression one of reluctant patience. "You must've smashed all sense out of your head with that hammer of yours. You know I'm no fighter, Fabien. Veneres said he'd handle the Hopekiller, and I believe him."

Fabien's lips curled into a scowl. "I try to get someone to see reason, and all I get is the same nonsense. My boys claim it's all for glory, but...all I want is for my sons to live long enough to see peace."

Brox's expression softened, his gruff voice lowering. "Let it rest, Fabien."

Akash grabbed a chipped bowl of cold soup and tossed a few chunks of gristly meat to Elys, who caught them in mid-air with sharp precision. With a wince, Akash settled onto a bench in the corner, intent on eating in silence. The soup was bland, but his hunger made it tolerable. He patted Elys absentmindedly with one hand while sipping with the other, the rhythmic chatter of the Sovrans filling the space around him.

It didn't take long for Brox's attention to shift to Akash. His sharp eyes flicked to Elys, then back to Akash. "You're Jassin's ward, aren't you?"

Before Akash could answer, Fabien leaned back in his chair, his laughter warm but sardonic. "Aye, he is. I met him yesterday. Looks like Jassin tossed you into the Red Sands and told you to claw your way back."

Fabien chuckled as he waved Akash over. "Come sit with us. Better to share some company than stew on your own while we scrape the bottom of the pot."

Akash hesitated for only a moment before sliding onto the bench beside Brox. Elys padded over and lay down on the floor, his massive form earning a wary glance from Brox, who fidgeted with his hands.

"How was it, then?" Fabien asked, his curiosity laced with mischief. "Training under the Shieldbreaker? Or better yet, the Demon of the Blackthorn? I'd wager Jassin had you crawling by the end of it."

"Awful," Akash muttered, flexing his blistered hands for emphasis.

Fabien smirked, leaning forward as if to share a secret. "The new recruits love their stories. They say he survived a week in Cordia's winter with nothing but his sword and his wits. They call him the Demon of the Cold Wind. Heard him mention it once—something about clouds freezing midair. Poor bastard, growing up in a place like that."

Brox grunted, his tone skeptical. "Old wives' tales, most of it. I was there when Jassin walked into Murn. Took down the whole Ranzet Gang on his own, but he still got hurt. He's just a man. A tough one, sure, but not invincible. The Koriuth Coven didn't bother dealing with the gangs back then, either. Too busy squabbling over land and hoarding wealth."

Fabien waved a hand dismissively. "Let the recruits have their fun, Brox. Without stories, what do they have to hold onto? Just sand and blood."

Akash's grip tightened around his spoon. "I believe both. He—"

Fabien interrupted with a hearty laugh. "I don't know anyone who could best Jassin in a duel. But if you tire of his abuse, the Wardens are always recruiting. You've got the muscle for a hammer and shield."

Brox snorted, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Recruit poaching, are we? If you're making your pitch, I might as well make mine. You any good with your hands, lad? Carpentry, I mean."

Akash tilted his head, confused. "I helped my mom build a house once...though she did most of the work."

Brox stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I could teach you. Dante's demands are getting bigger, and I need more hands in the Hearions. Building war machines and portable bridges isn't as flashy as swinging a sword, but it's steady work—and safe."

Akash shook his head. "I'm better with a blade than a hammer."

"Shame," Brox grumbled. "Guess I'll have to sweeten the pot for the guild. No one wants to join the Hearions these days."

"That's because no one joins a mercenary company to be a grunt like you, Brox," Fabien teased, his grin wide.

Brox's eyes narrowed. "Grunt? We build the tools that win your battles. Safest job in the company, and you'd do well to remember that."

"No one sings songs about siege weapons," Fabien countered, his tone playful but biting. "The Wardens, though? We'll be the legends."

Brox sighed, his patience wearing thin. "And your lust for glory will leave you face-down in the sand. When that day comes, we'll still be there—hammers ready—to finish the fight."

Fabien laughed loudly, slapping the table. "And I suppose I'll beat an Ukari in a wrestling match, too?"

"You've got a death wish if you try," Brox muttered, shaking his head. "Those automatons would crush you."

The banter continued, Brox's gruff retorts contrasting with Fabien's lighthearted jabs. Akash found himself smiling despite his exhaustion.

Eventually, Brox turned to him, his tone shifting to something more serious. "Piece of advice, Akash. If someone's annoying you, ignore them. It'll save you a world of trouble."

Fabien smirked. "Already corrupting Jassin's ward, are you? Should've expected it."

Akash straightened in his seat, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. "I don't need advice. If someone gives me trouble, I'll let my sword do the talking."

Fabien leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "You sure you don't want to join the Wardens? We could use that kind of fire."

"No," Akash said firmly. "I made a promise to myself—I'll be the greatest blademaster."

Fabien's gaze softened. "That's a rough road ahead."

Brox nodded in agreement. "You'll need to be better than both Jassin and Veneres to reach that goal. A tall task."

Akash scowled, his tone sharpening. "I don't care about Veneres. He's just a pretty boy who relies on tricks. A retractable ax? That's not skill—it's a crutch."

Brox chuckled, though his eyes remained steady. "Veneres is the only knight in the company for a reason. Underestimating him would be foolish."

Akash tapped the side of his neck where his Impresa mark glimmered faintly under the dim light. "I have this. He doesn't stand a chance."

"Still him," Brox said simply, his tone unshaken.

The light mood soured, and Fabien pushed back from the table with a sigh. "Looks like I'm done for the night. Early morning for me, and my boys never wake up on time."

He left with a casual wave, leaving Akash and Brox alone at the table.

Brox leaned forward, his eyes glinting with curiosity. "My Vice-Sovran will kill me if I don't ask. Can I borrow your blade for a few weeks? I'll have a replacement ready for you in no time."

Akash raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Brox explained, his voice earnest. "He's a smith. Figuring out how your resin-infused blade was made would make his year. Might even inspire him to forge you some armor or knives as thanks."

Akash hesitated, then shrugged. "As long as the replacement is good quality."

Brox studied him for a moment, then chuckled. "You don't really know what a resin-infused blade is, do you?"

"I know enough," Akash replied, his tone defensive.

Brox shook his head. "Most wouldn't even let someone touch one of these. They sell for enough gold to buy kingdoms."

"Then don't lose it," Akash said bluntly. "Jassin will just tell me it's better not to rely on it anyway."

Brox's laughter was genuine this time. "Fair enough. Hearions pay their debts, Akash. I'll make sure you're taken care of."

He stood, gripping the blade reverently as though it might shatter in his hands. "Come by the Hearions' portion of camp tomorrow after training. We'll have a new blade ready for you."

Akash nodded. "I'll be there."

Brox gave him a final nod before leaving the tent, muttering about how his Vice-Sovran might faint when he saw the blade.

Akash pushed off Elys, who grumbled in protest. "Time to head back," he murmured, his voice heavy with fatigue. "I'll need every ounce of rest for tomorrow."

Elys huffed in agreement, padding alongside him as they left the mess tent behind.