Celestial Blade Of The Fallen Knight

A faint, insistent heat radiated from the base of Soren's left palm—barely a tingle, more memory than sensation. He angled the blade, squared his stance, and focused on the task Valenna had once described with the casual cruelty of someone reciting a multiplication table: "If you cannot command the Aura, then the Aura will not obey."

He'd never done it right at the Academy. Faked a pass or two with clever timing and a borrowed trick from the twins. Even Mira, in her early years supervising drills, had shrugged off Soren's lack of sword-light as the kind of deficiency that would either correct itself or be corrected in the field.

Now there was no field and no audience, just his reflection in the washed-out glass of the waystation's window, and the steady, pulsing urge from the fragment embedded in his wrist.

He tried again. Let the mind go blank, the way Valenna preferred. Focused on the cold, the quiet, the exacting geometry of the stance. Pushed the will outward, as if by letting it leave his body the sword might agree to catch it.

Nothing, except a twitch in his forearm and a wave of embarrassment so sharp he almost expected the woods themselves to laugh.

'This is pointless,' he thought.

The voice arrived, unhurried, patient: "Again."

He gritted his teeth, set the edge, and moved. This time, he pictured the line not as a weapon, but as a boundary: a wall to keep everything else out. The world faded, no wind, no ache, no Mira's boots circling at the far edge of the yard. Just the blade, and the breath, and the single impulse to see something change.

The steel trembled, a vibration running the length of the sword into his fingers. For half a heartbeat, a shimmer caught the winter sun, hazy and blue, the barest hint of an Aura, but then it guttered out, leaving only the burn in his tendons. Soren let the sword fall, exhaled so hard his vision blurred.

He said, under his breath, "Why isn't it working?"

The answer, cool as snow on a fever: "Because you want it too much. Aura is discipline, not desperation."

He wanted to throw the sword. Instead, he reset, shoulders down, grip loose, eyes fixed on the invisible horizon where the forest broke open into sky. He tuned out the sound of Mira, who was definitely watching now, probably amused, possibly worried he'd lost the plot completely.

He tried Valenna's way: breathe, open the back, pull from the spine, let the sword catch the motion like an echo instead of a command. "Loosen your hand," the voice said, "and lower the shoulder. Again."

He did, and this time something caught, a thread of possibility, a hum at the edge of hearing. The world slowed, the air thickened, and the sword's weight shifted from mere steel to something else, something balanced between bone and memory. He let the impulse run, and on the extension, the Aura flared: a line of blue-white, so thin it might have been a trick of light, but so cold and real it iced his knuckles.

He held it for a count of three. The Aura flickered, then receded.

His breathing came back in a rush. Hands shaking, but not from exertion.

Valenna's voice, for once, sounded pleased. "You see? It's only ever the line."

He wanted to laugh, or cry, or punch something, but instead just stood there, letting the cold settle back in.

At the edge of the clearing, Mira finally spoke. "You planning to sword the air all night, or do you want to come inside before the Lady eats all the bread?"

He sheathed the blade, flexed the last of the tremor from his hand. "Just needed to clear my head."

She squinted at him, not buying it for a second, but shrugged. "You're on first watch."

Inside, the Lady had arranged the room to suit her needs: bench angled for the best view of the window, shoes drying by the stove, a notebook open and annotated in two languages. Soren kept to his side of the table. He poured a cup of weak tea and spent the next hour staring at the wall, replaying the moment of Aura over and over, trying to decide if he'd imagined it.

He didn't sleep. Instead, he listened to Mira breathe on the cot, listened to the Lady's pen scratching at her notes, listened to his own pulse as it slowed with the night.

He watched the sword across his knees, waiting for the next chance to try.

The morning came with no warning, just the sound of boots on the plank floor, and the sudden reek of Mira's coffee burning on the stove. He dressed, checked the sword, and did a quick walk around the perimeter. No tracks but their own, and the only movement was the slow collapse of snow from the roof under the pale sun.

He met Mira at the threshold. She eyed the blade, then him. "You're getting serious about this," she said.

He shrugged. "Better than the alternative."

She grinned. "Never thought I'd see you go full ritualist. Next thing, you'll be reciting the old swordsman's hymns."

He nearly smiled, but then the Lady stepped out, boots laced, hair braided back, the coat's collar turned up against the wind. She looked at Soren, and for a second, he saw the same calculation in her face as when she'd first measured him back in Meridian.

"Are we ready?" she asked.

He nodded, and they started out across the frozen yard, Mira in front, Soren at the rear. The Lady set a brisk pace, never looking back.

They crossed the river by a fallen log, boots slipping on the frost, and climbed the opposite bank toward the next checkpoint. It was early, the world blue and empty, and Soren felt the residual hum of the Aura in his hand every time he gripped the hilt.

He wondered if it would come back when he needed it.

At the first bend in the trail, Mira slowed, signaling caution. Soren scanned the brush but saw nothing; still, the air felt different, crisper, full of the kind of tension that only made sense if you expected something to happen.

They crested the hill. The checkpoint was a squat outbuilding, manned by two guards who looked like they'd been grown out of the local stone. Soren let Mira handle the approach, hung back with the Lady.

She leaned in, voice low. "You're distracted, Vale."

He shook his head. "Not enough to get you killed."

She gave him a sideways look, then said, "Good. Because I'd hate to have to walk the rest of the way without an escort."

The guards waved them through, barely looking up. Soren watched the Lady's profile as they passed, trying to read what she wasn't saying.

He thought of the line Valenna had drawn through the air, the way the Aura shimmered just for him. He wondered if it was enough.