Chapter 50: Beyond His Door (Edited)

Chapter 50: Beyond His Door

Rovan’s staff was longer than Silas remembered.

Standing beside an equipment rack, it had looked manageable. Across the practice lane, with the wolfkin holding it between both hands, Silas began to appreciate how much of the floor Rovan could reach without moving his feet.

He turned the padded shortblade in his grip and checked the straps of his bracers.

Ferrow inspected both students’ equipment before admitting them to the lane. Tier One guards were permitted. Blunted practice weapons, reinforced chest panels, two clean touches to the marked torso areas. No head strikes. Either student could yield, and the instructor’s command ended an exchange immediately.

Silas fastened the chest panel over his shirt. Across from him, Rovan tested his footing and rolled the staff between his palms.

A few students gathered beside the adjoining lane. Silas heard his surname, then a low remark he couldn’t make out. He kept his attention on the staff.

There was no home advantage here. Nim was asleep back at the studio, and both movement Talents would remain unused. He’d entered this assessment to prove what he could accomplish without explaining abilities nobody was supposed to know about.

Remote Grasp was enough to work with. He just had to stop wishing his blade were several feet longer.

Ferrow signaled them to begin.

Rovan advanced with the staff angled across his body. Silas moved to his right, testing the edge of its reach. The padded end followed him without wavering.

He caught the shaft with Remote Grasp and pressed it aside.

Rovan resisted long enough for Silas to feel the strain, then slid his hands along the wood. The weapon shortened between them. Silas stepped in, expecting to have passed the dangerous end, and the opposite end struck his chest panel.

"Point to Kest," Ferrow called. "Separate."

Silas stopped with his blade still raised.

The touch hadn’t hurt much. His pride was considerably less comfortable.

Rovan backed to his mark and waited. Silas walked to his own, resisting the urge to glance at the students watching.

He had closed the distance. He’d also let his guard fall while doing it, treating a staff as though only one end mattered.

Good. Learned that cheaply.

He raised his weapon again.

Rovan came forward more confidently on the second exchange.

Silas kept his blade between them and gave ground. A short thrust met the edge of his bracer instead of the chest panel. He turned with it, letting the padded tip slide past rather than trying to take the force squarely.

His forearm still felt the impact. Vessa hadn’t promised otherwise.

He used Remote Grasp on Rovan’s belt, testing a sideways pull.

The wolfkin settled immediately. Mana gathered through his legs as both feet pressed into the mat. Surefoot held him steady, and the pull cost Silas more than it accomplished.

He released it.

Rovan didn’t bother hiding his satisfaction. He withdrew the staff a little, inviting Silas to try closing again.

Silas stayed where he was.

The next thrust came lower. He caught it on his practice blade and stepped away before the other end could turn toward him. Rovan followed. For an instant, the wolfkin’s weight shifted onto one foot while the other moved forward.

Silas pulled at the belt again.

This time, Rovan had to put his advancing foot down early. Surefoot caught him before he stumbled, but the staff moved with the hurried correction.

Silas stepped inside that opening with his guard still raised. When Rovan tried to shorten the weapon, Silas checked the shaft against his left bracer and touched the marked panel with his blade.

"Point to Rooke," Ferrow said. "Separate."

Silas backed away before allowing himself to grin.

He’d felt the opening and reached it. No sudden burst of borrowed speed, no shadow beneath the wall carrying him closer. His own step had been enough.

Rovan looked down at the mark, then at Silas’s left arm.

The wolfkin’s ears angled back. His grip shifted farther apart on the staff.

He had noticed how Silas stopped the return strike. The same opening wouldn’t stay available simply because it had worked once.

The last exchange took longer.

Rovan kept his advances shorter, planting his feet before committing to a strike. Silas couldn’t repeat the pull without wasting mana against a prepared stance. He tried once, lightly, and abandoned it as soon as the resistance returned.

The staff gave Rovan control of the distance. Its tip moved toward Silas’s shoulder, dipped, then drove at the center of his chest.

Silas barely caught it in time.

The impact ran through his guard and into his elbow. He retreated too quickly, crossed his feet, and had to wrench the next thrust aside with Remote Grasp while he recovered. ℴ

That mistake cost him mana. A few weeks earlier, it might have left him with too little for another useful attempt.

Now he could feel enough remaining to continue.

He settled his breathing and stopped chasing an immediate opening. He could afford to watch one more attack. He could afford to move without trying to win the exchange on every step.

Rovan struck again, then drew the staff back across his body to cover his retreat.

Silas followed the movement with his eyes.

The wolfkin expected him to pull at the belt during a step. His stance tightened whenever Silas began closing, but his weapon still had to move between attack and guard.

On the next advance, Silas made a brief, light pull at the belt and let it go.

Rovan braced. Both feet stayed firmly planted.

Silas caught the staff near its center instead.

He didn’t try to tear it from Rovan’s hands. He pressed the shaft sideways while stepping toward the opposite side, making the wolfkin turn the weapon farther to keep it between them.

Rovan corrected, bringing the nearer end around.

Silas met the shaft with his raised left bracer. The fitted guard stayed clear of his wrist as he turned it outward. For a moment, wood pressed against metal and both boys leaned into the contact.

Silas let the first grip go and caught the far end of the staff.

He pulled it toward himself while pressing the nearer section outward with his bracer.

The opposing forces turned the long shaft across Rovan’s grip. Rovan had to release his forward hand or let the movement drag his guard open. He released it and began stepping back.

Silas was already close enough.

His padded blade touched the chest panel before the staff could come between them again.

"Stop," Ferrow called. "Point to Rooke. Bout finished."

Silas stopped moving. His lungs kept trying to continue the fight without him.

Rovan lowered the staff and looked at the point of contact. Then he breathed out sharply through his nose.

"Your arm all right?" the wolfkin asked.

Silas flexed his fingers. "It’s going to complain later."

Rovan nodded, apparently satisfied that the exchange had cost him something.

Ferrow’s first comment concerned Silas crossing his feet.

Silas had hoped to enjoy the victory for at least another minute. He listened anyway. He knew which mistake the instructor meant, and he knew how close the following thrust had come to ending the bout.

The recommendation came after the correction.

"Shortblade technique course, with Talent integration," Ferrow said, entering it on the assessment sheet. "Supervised admission. You’ll start with the movement you’ve just shown me you need."

Silas read the line before handing the sheet back.

A place, access to a Tier Two weapon art, and an instructor who would teach him to use it. Silas had earned the recommendation himself.

Rovan received a recommendation for the polearm course after a separate discussion of his recovery and dependence on a planted stance. Losing hadn’t erased the control he’d demonstrated. Silas was glad of that, though he would have found it harder to be generous if their scores were reversed.

As they left the lane, a student waiting beside the rack asked Silas about the last exchange.

"The belt pull was a feint?" the boy asked.

"Yes," Silas said.

The student looked back at the lane, considering it, then made room for him to pass.

Silas collected his things. He was sweaty, his arm ached, and there would be another lesson to fit into his week.

He opened the course registration anyway.

This was work he’d chosen. He wanted to see what it could make him capable of.