Chapter 8

  Memories of previous combat lessons flooded into his mind. Stances, parries, reposts and combinations. The staff had ended up being one of his main offensive weapons the last time through, considering he could customize his staff to double as a mage’s focus, and his proficiency in spatial magic, and the depth of his pool meant he never had to worry about unwieldy size, or shape.

  Not seeing the need to significantly change his primary weapon Eli decided he would take these lessons as an opportunity to refine his technique into something more than mere ‘proficiency’.

  The sparring began like most true fights, without preamble or warning. Before Eli had even sunk into his own stance, his father had moved.

  The man moved like an adamantine golem; unceasing, untiring, and as relentless as a being that felt neither fear nor fatigue. Gabriel Raul Rodrigo was a man bred and trained for battle, and refined through true life and death engagements. He was training Eli not just on how to use a weapon to attack and defend, but on how to use it to survive.

  Every strike they exchanged rattled Eli’s smaller frame. Every block caused his arms to shudder as the shockwaves traveled through his weapon and down to his bones. Every clash was planned so that Gabriel’s strength just exceeded the strength Eli’s already exhausted body could bring to bear. Again, and again they clashed, again and again Eli was sent to the ground. Any space on his body that hadn’t been thoroughly tenderized by The Gauntlet was bruised, beaten or battered. Every single time he fell, he stood back up. Again, and again.

  Of course, if he flooded his body with mana, or used any of his considerable magical prowess, Eli was sure that he could overpower his father and come out the victor in this duel. Sure, it would strain his underdeveloped mana channels, and unless he planned to kill the man, he couldn’t keep up a sustained assault, but he had no doubt that even in this child body there were very few people on the continent who could outright kill him without serious preparation, or overwhelming numbers. He hadn’t been the last true Archmage left standing against the armies of the betrayers for nothing. All the time not spent honing his weapons skills had been poured into refining and increasing his magical proficiency.

  If all Eli wanted was to win today, in this moment, during this training match, he could. But that isn’t what the boy was seeking from this match. Archmage wasn’t good enough. Archmage would barely even keep him alive in the real battle. As of that final day, his planet, only had six people at the level of Primus, and all of them belonged to the Families. The invaders from beyond the sky had people who were more powerful than a Primus; he could sense them from inside the ships that idled like laconic spectators over the final war. He could feel them as they made a spectacle of the wholesale slaughter of the people on the planet Vereth. His planet. Eli’s people.

  Their genocide would not be made a spectator sport. Their subjugation would not be entertainment. He’d make sure of that or die trying.

  Dying, however was his absolute last resort. There was no guarantee that the same stunt would bring him back again, and there was no guarantee he’d have the opportunity to pull it off again either. Those overwhelming numbers were something he’d faced before – it was an experience he hadn’t survived the first time, and Eli wasn’t someone who would tolerate failing twice. He needed to be better than he had been the first time around. He needed to be better by a large margin if he wanted any chance to even live long enough to make a difference.

  Besides, they didn’t need to overwhelm him or even target him personally to subdue him. He had vulnerabilities that existed outside of his squishy body. One of them was the mammoth of a man currently working to see how many new places on his son’s body could be pulverised before the whole thing gave out.

  Eli needed progress, and progress required precision. Force was good, but power without control was at best wasteful. If war was good for one thing, it was teaching him not to be wasteful. So, Eli trained. Progress wasn’t the explosive increase he would’ve experienced if this was the first time he’d picked the weapon up, it was instead the steady, incremental progress of someone who was slowly transitioning from ‘good’ to ‘great’. Incremental progress was still progress, and despite how fatigued his muscles were, how his sweat soaked hair matted against his head, and how he could feel the burning in his lungs shortening his breaths, Eli did not relent.

  The condition of his body was long forgotten as Eli sunk into a place beyond thought. His eyes burned with relentless determination as the sound of wooden weapons clashing, grunts of pain and exertion, and the crunching swish of boots against gravel echoed across the training yard.

  Finally, Eli’s legs refused to move. He grunted, jaw set, eyes locked on Gabriel’s center of mass. His mind urged him to move, to fight, to block or hit or roll with the mounting pressure. Everything was trembling, and his vision had gone blurry at the edges, but still he tried. What was fatigue? Just a temporary state, just artificial weakness built up over time. He was the master of his body, he was a mage of time. He wouldn’t give in, wouldn’t give up. The threat was still there in front of him, and he wouldn’t rest until either he was eliminated or it was.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Move. He thought, and his arm twitched forward, pain screaming up his muscles as the movement was aborted. Move! He tried again. This time, his leg jerked a fraction, his thigh jolted, and the spasm caused his knee to buckle.

  No. No! He would not accept this. He could still go, still fight. He had faced worse, beaten back worse. Core drained, allies behind and enemies in front, his channels beyond strained and his reservoirs running on empty while fighting at his flanks.

  Just before his knees hit the ground, a warm, sturdy weight caught him by the arm and hoisted him bodily upright.

  “Eli,” it said. The sound was familiar, nostalgic. Perhaps he really was tired if he was hearing things like this. “Elias!” The voice rumbled more firmly. The sound of it, so familiar, and yet so impossible, shocked him out of the headspace he’d been trapped in. Jerking, his head up was both a reflex, and a terrible idea as the muscles in his neck and back screamed in protest of any more sudden or jarring movements. The spasms caused by the motion nearly sent him to the floor once more, but the large hand held him upright. His mind, still primed for action slowly returned to the present.

  “Dad?” Eli croaked. The word was as unfamiliar on his lips as it was to Gabriel’s ears, and the rare display of emotion on his father’s face was enough to pull him all the way back from the place he’d been.

  “That’s enough,” his father said evenly. “You pushed too hard.”

  Eli just looked at the man who had so obviously been complicit in the state he was in. The two stared at each other as Eli bit down on a retort. His father’s words weren’t incorrect. Too much abuse on a child’s body would cripple him long term. There was too much documented evidence of this being the case for Eli not to take it seriously… However, was this man being serious? How much more shameless could someone be. He hadn’t seen someone dodge responsibility this hard since Lord Louis Kramer of the 2nd Step merchants house Kramer had been forced to acknowledge over 17 bastard children.

  If there was one thing the nobility didn’t take lightly, it was bloodlines, as powerful people made powerful children. With that at the forefront of his mind, Eli struck the only blow that had landed on his father during the entire sparring session.

  “I’m going to see mother.” The response was immediate.

  “Ah, my son. I have pushed you. Let’s see a healer before you retire. I’m sure your mother will understand the delay.”

  “And Aria?” Eli pressed while he had the advantage.

  “We will have someone collect that… butcher’s girl.”

  “Her name is Aria,” Eli said. Voice surprisingly firm for the state he was in.

  “Aria,” Gabriel agreed before ushering his son, limping and stumbling, across the yard and towards the Keep’s healer.

  Certainly, his mother could use some healing magic, but her knowledge in that field was more theoretical than the practical abilities of the Master Healer employed by house Rodrigo.

  The walk was surprisingly peaceful after the violence of the evening. Silence stretched, easy and gently between them, like the comfortable give of a well-worn sweater. The air was cool, and the small insects buzzed by, attracted to the bright sconces that illuminated the night.

  As they neared the gate that headed towards the healing wing – located conveniently closely to the combat areas of the keep, Gabriel’s eyes flickered sideways. Eli too busy focusing on not collapsing again missed it as the barest glint of pride flashed across his father’s face.

  Eli found his mother waiting once he’d made it back to his room. She dismissed Eli’s governess, the exacting woman who oversaw his studies and schedule most days, and made to wave away his personal aide-in-training, a pale boy of ten with floppy black hair and kind eyes before Eli cut in.

  Eli smiled faintly at the boy. “Caelan, I hear you’ve been training hard. It would be good to spar someday soon.”

  The boy flushed crimson, pride lighting his features, though he bowed his head as he replied.

  “If the young lord thinks me a worthy training aide.” It was clear he was seeking praise, and Eli just laughed as he waved off the kid who was technically older than him in body if not in memory. It was good to see him again. He had been one of the first people Eli had lost. Loyal to a fault, he’d died for his conviction.

  Grief flashed over his face before Eli had been able to tuck it away. His mother, mistaking it for discomfort, moved to hover over her son as the older boy bowed and left the chambers.

  Eli’s time with the healer might have sped up recovery, but it couldn’t erase the evidence of fatigue and intense exertion. Sela took Eli’s hand, her touch gentle. “Come. Let us see you all cleaned up.”

  Eli nodded, exhaustion heavy in his limbs, but no weariness in his eyes. As his mother helped him get ready for bed, Eli basked in the simple act of speaking with her. He told her about the obstacle course, or his rapid progress with the staff, of his defeat at the hands of the evil gauntlet, and of how his father had approved Aria for breakfast.

  He spoke mostly of his day with Aria. He couldn’t help it. Something about his exhaustion, mixed with the comfort of family, and the child’s body made him feel more open than he had been in decades if not centuries. Safe in the knowledge that his family would never betray him, and that the walls of the keep held secrets like a vault, in large part thanks to his mother’s dedicated enchanting work, he spoke freely and without guile.

  Gabriel had arrived at some point, no doubt looking for his wife, and his presence was ignored by both wife and son as the man lingered in the doorway. His gaze rested on the spark in Eli’s eyes, the way Sela’s presence steadied him, and he listened to the boy ramble about a tiny, doll like girl with huge eyes, gentle words, and a determination that rivaled any of the house's trained blades.

  He watched for a while longer before turning to leave. The scene lingered in his mind like a bite of good chocolate on the tongue.