The meadow of the Forest that the Tears had claimed as their own was filled with the sounds of wood clacking against each other. The day had begun with a heavy rain, but by afternoon, it had softened to a drizzle—not enough to stop Isyd and Kewin from meeting for their special training session. Both young men held rudimentary palcat and were exchanging fast-paced blows. Kewin was the one on the offensive, trying again and again to break through Isyd’s perfect defense. He tried to outpace him, to faint or to take him by surprise, but every time, Isyd’s wooden staff would meet his midair and push him back.

  Kewin’s brow was wet from the sweat and the rain. He wiped it with a hand then readjusted his grip on his palcat. Isyd’s dark, unreadable eyes followed him, their intensity making Kewin shift uncomfortably.

  During their palcaty practice, one was supposed to only attack while the other simply defended the best he could, and then they exchanged roles. The time was not split evenly; Kewin was more often than not the attacker. And not even once had succeeded in striking Isyd.

  Kewin shifted his footing, feeling the wet soil slipping underneath his sole. Then, he pounced. His blow came from above, his palcat drawing the arc of a circle towards Isyd. Isyd swatted it away before it could connect. Kewin followed by a sweeping blow to his flank.

  Parried again effortlessly. Kewin kept on the pressure, shifting right, shifting left and trying to find an opening in Isyd’s defense. The pace of blows quickened but without success. Isyd only used a minimum of movement and force. When he parried the attacks, sometimes their palcat clashed in their middle, sometimes Isyd smacked it closer to Kewin’s grip and sometimes at its extremity. This difference in the strength of the response left Kewin breathless and on his toes, as if he was the one on the defensive. At times, Isyd struck back his palcat with such strength, Kewin had a hard time keeping it in his hand, and at other times, the light parry he used turned Kewin’s own momentum against him and made him stumble. All the while, Isyd was silent and focused, his face betraying nothing about how or what he felt.

  Feeling his arm growing numb, Kewin aimed to end it quickly. He tried two quick attacks, then fainted with another one aimed at the right collar. Isyd raised his palcat to meet his, but before it could connect, Kewin spun on his heel and swung his staff at Isyd’s left side.

  Kewin’s palcat only met the air. It’s had stepped out of reach at the last moment, leaving Kewin out of balance. In response, Isyd swung down his staff and Kewin closed his eyes and clenched his teeth in anticipation. The blow never came. When Kewin opened back his eyes it was to see the wooden staff a mere inch in front of him, and Isyd smirking.

  “You should really stop flinching at every instance,” he said, giving him a slight tap on the brow.

  Kevin sighed and let his palcat fall to the ground. His fingers ached from gripping it so tightly.

  “I know… It’s just harder than I thought.”

  Kevin knew that Isyd wouldn’t hurt him, but his reactions were reflexive. Truth be told, he’d been familiar with palcaty before. As a child, he’d seen the other children in his village play the game to practice make-believe swordfighting. Kevin had never liked those games, or any other games that involved the threat of violence, even if only in sport. He’d already been familiar with his father’s wooden stick at home to enjoy it once outside. Still, he hadn’t shared a word of it because the last thing he wanted was for Isyd to take him for a wuss. So, he gritted his teeth and practice with the palcat, trying his best to get over his reticence.

  “Are you done for today already ?” Isyd asked him. “You still haven’t hit me once.”

  “You don’t make it easy.”

  “The pace you impose on your last exchange was good, and I will come back to it a bit later, but first I want to talk about your eyes.”

  “My eyes?”

  “Rather what you focus your eyes on,” Isyd clarified. “In swordfighting, the question eventually arises: what should be the focus of your attention, the weapon or the wielder?”

  Isyd paused, expecting an answer. Kevin scratched his head and shrugged.

  “I… I don’t know, actually. The weapon maybe since, you know, it can kill you…”

  “Goos thinking. But if your eyes only follow the weapon, it is easy to fall for faint or be taken by surprise by quick maneuvers. The response is actually neither. Or rather both.”

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  “I’m supposed to watch both at the same time?”

  “The premise of the question were wrong from the beginning, actually. It supposed that while in a swordfight, there’s a difference between the weapon and the wielder. In fact, they turn into one and the same. For a good fighter, the weapon becomes the very extension of the wielder. You said that the weapon is what actually kills you but note that it is only from the person that wield the blade. Plus, what if they knew the Arts? What if they had an Arcane on them? Only focus on the sword in one hand, and you may miss the hidden knife in the other.”

  “I see… It makes sense, but I feel it is easier said than done.”

  “Everything is! Practice makes perfect. The unity between the weapon and the wielder is something you should internalize in your own practice. Do not see the palcat separate from you, but an extension of you. This gain awareness will remove the inefficiency and fluidify your movements.”

  Isyd picked up Kewin’s palcat and handed it to him. Kewin accepted it and ran his fingers along its wet surface. No longer able to feel it, he could still imagine the sensation of the smooth timber on his skin.

  “The second point I wanted to mention was about the pacing of our exchanges,” Isyd continued. “You have noticed, haven’t you? The rhythm, I mean. In our case, it is slightly artificial because we have defined our roles beforehand. You attack, I defend. Back and forth. In and out. It is akin to tidal waves crashing against the shore. A dance, a rhythm.”

  To illustrate his point, Isyd successively tapped the left side then the right of Kewin’s palcat with his own, swinging it back and forth. Kewin followed the movement with his eyes, as if hypnotized.

  “Now, All humans are ruled by rhythms—the beating of your heart, the rise and fall of your breath, even the blink of your eyes. In swordfighting, rhythm is imposed by the exchange of blows, quick and deadly. The attacker sets the pace, and it’s difficult for the defender to break free. You fall in line: they attack, you defend. Back and forth. In and out. It feels natural, doesn’t it? But that’s where the danger lies.

  “By following the rhythm imposed by your opponent, you will evidently always be one step, one beat too late. Then, only one sudden change pace, one faint, and you will be too slow to react. One mistake is often all it takes. So, how can you hope to win? As I’ve said, against a skilled fighter, it is very difficult to take over the pacing of the fight. Instead, you should try to disturb their rhythm. Fast when they go slow, slow when they go fast. This is helped when you are fully aware of the pace they're trying to impose on you. Instead of being caught by the rhythm, you insert chaos and uncertainty. You’ll have the occasion to see that the best swordfighter are good at improvising.”

  “That’s what you did when you stepped back suddenly…” Kewin muttered, finally understanding.

  Isyd nodded. “You imposed your rhythm and I followed it. But then, I suddenly decide to break it and you lose your footing and advantage. This is the easiest example, but each fight will be different. I suppose that’s the lesson for today: be quick and cunning! We will resume tomorrow; I’ll expect you to put in practice what we just discussed.”

  Kewin scratched the back of his neck. “I will try my best.”

  Isyd looked up to the sky to judge the sun’s position. “We still have some time before we have to meet Jadwia and Oliwer. In the end, could you see her yesterday? I left her a note for today’s meeting just in case, but I’m curious.”

  “No, I couldn’t,” Kewin sighed. “I can’t enter the women’s quarters, so I had to ask Tatyana, and she said that Jadwia is still in cooped up in her room. They say she is sick but...”

  “But you’re thinking there me another reason she doesn’t leave her room,” Isyd finished.

  “She was really stressed about the Lightsphere you gave them, you know? Oliwer managed to turn it in, but not her...”

  “Don’t worry too much about her! She will figure it out eventually on her own!”

  Kewin didn’t seem convinced so Isyd continued.

  “Jadwia is more talented than anyone give her credit for, even herself! The problem is that she often gets trapped in her own head, dragged down by the weight of her own poisonous thoughts. Once she is past that, there’s nothing stopping her from improving drastically. This is why I’m confident.”

  “And you don’t plan to give her even a hint?”

  “None! It is important for both Oliwer and Jadwia to find the solution on their own. You on the other hand...”

  Kewin’s eyes went wide. “Me?”

  Isyd had moved to where they had left their bags and while Kewin thought it was to fetch their waterskin, Isyd instead walked back with a Lightsphere in hand. The same type of Lightsphere he’d given to Oliwer and Jadwia.

  Isyd tossed it carelessly to Kewin, who caught it and held it like hot coal between his fingers.

  “This one is yours,” Isyd said. “Just like them, you should try to turn it on.”

  Kewin’s neck turned red. “But... I can’t use the Grace... I can’t activate Arcanes!”

  “And yet you can turn this Lightsphere all the same! Trust me on this, Kewin. Contrary to the other two, I don’t expect you to figure it out on your own. So, this evening at the inn, I’ll show you how this Lightsphere functions and how you, even though Disgraced, can activate it.”

  Kewin, flushed and speechless, could only nod.

  “Come on,” Isyd said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s meet up with the others.”