Luckborn

For the first semester, Combat Basics was not a course he enjoyed. It was hard, sweaty, and often painful work. And he wasn't very good at it. But then he picked up a rapier, and things began to change. Not the hard, sweaty part, but the difficulty. He found he could hold his own and not feel completely outmatched by the other students. Plus, the routine and predictability of it had grown on him. The stretching, warm-ups, pair drills, and sparring rotations—it was something he had unexpectedly come to appreciate.

Since becoming a Luckborn, Otter had felt more at ease holding his rapier. But Instructor Horvan was not happy with the change. He constantly barked reprimands at Otter to watch his form, to "tighten up", to stop being so sloppy, but the results were undeniable.

Otter was no longer barely able to keep up. He could now not only hold his own against most of the Fighters, but he could consistently beat some of them in a sparring match.

After one such match, Jasper pulled him aside. "Listen, Otter, I'm not going to say you've gotten good with that thing, because you haven't. Not really. Your form and technique are still pretty crappy. Better than they were, but people are starting to wonder what's going on. You look like you stumble into a hit more often than you earn it."

"That's because I do, Jasper. +4 to hit based on my Luck stat, remember?"

Jasper nodded. "Yeah, I remember. But if you want to keep a low profile, you might want to at least look like you know what you're doing."

"I'm not that bad, am I?"

Jasper waggled his hand back and forth. "No, but I want you to watch Gerry today. He's had just as much training as the rest of us, but he practically dances with that blade of his. I hear he's got a high Dex score."

"Okay, what am I watching for?"

"How he moves. He has a natural talent that others recognize. Then compare it to how you fight."

So Otter spent the next half hour focusing on Gerry.

It was obvious once he started looking. Gerry didn't just attack—he flowed. His transitions were seamless, his footwork never out of place. He spun away from lunges and retaliated in the same motion. There was no moment when you could see him decide. He just did.

When the time came for Otter's next match, he tried to mimic that smoothness. He adjusted his grip. Tried to roll his shoulders back. Hoped maybe he could fake his way to elegance.

It didn't work.

Three steps into the bout, his off-hand flinched involuntarily as his opponent's sword arced toward his hip—and his rapier snapped up in a graceless jolt, knocking the blade off-course. His foot slipped. His other foot caught it. He stumbled forward.

And his opponent's chest practically ran into his blade.

He pulled the blade back and stood awkwardly, blinking at the message.

Horvan let out a long, nasal sigh. "Gods above, Otter. I don't even know what that was. Again."

Otter tried. He really did. He focused on his stance, his form, his footwork. All the things he'd been learning. And for a time, he felt like he was doing things right. He parried thrust after thrust, shuffled forward and back, and leaned aside at the right time. His opponent scored a couple of hits, but he caught Horvan nod in approval a few times out of the corner of his eye.

Otter realized that as long as he fought defensively, he looked like a competent swordsman. He was no Gerry. He never would be. But he didn't draw attention either. He ended up losing that spar. After the first point, he'd given up on attacking.

Afterwards, Jasper pulled him aside again and asked what he noticed. Otter told him what he'd learned. Jasper scratched his chin. "Interesting. So your Luck only applies when you attack. That should make things a bit easier during practice. Just focus on defense and only go for an attack when you see a really good opening. Horvan will probably see what you're doing, but I doubt anyone else will. I know you've been practicing on your own, and I think it's time for me to help. In a real fight, you use every advantage you have. Fighting fair or hesitating is the fastest way to get yourself killed. You and I can go all out. See what you can really do in a fight."

Otter grinned. "I like the sound of that."

That evening, after dinner, they slipped into one of the auxiliary training rooms tucked beneath Ironside Keep's west wing—a rectangular chamber with mirrored walls on one side and a row of weapon racks on the other. The stone floor was worn and uneven in places, as if a hundred years of practice bouts had slowly carved it down. The lanterns were dim, casting long shadows, and the stale tang of sweat clung to the air.

Jasper peeled off his tunic and tossed it over a bench. "Stretch. I want to see what your footwork looks like when you're not being watched by an Instructor."

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Otter obliged, though his joints ached from earlier drills. His legs were stiff, his shoulders tight—but there was an energy buzzing in him now, something electric that hadn't been there during class.

Jasper circled, barefoot on the stone, sword tip held high. "Okay, time to go all in."

They tapped blades, took three paces apart, and began.

Jasper struck first. He was a lion pouncing. His sword arced down, rebounded off Otter's hasty parry, and came around again, faster. Otter blocked low, retreated two steps, then stumbled over the uneven stone and nearly lost his balance.

"Too slow," Jasper called. "Reset."

They circled again. Otter adjusted his stance. The second round lasted longer. He parried twice, ducked a feint, and made a timid thrust that Jasper batted away with one hand. In the third round, he didn't even get that far. Jasper looped around his guard and tapped him on the chest. "You're thinking too hard."

Otter's breath was coming faster now. Sweat traced a line behind his ear. "I'm trying to move like Gerry."

Jasper made a face. "Stop that. You're not Gerry. He's got his own advantages. You've got yours. Forget everything I said in class about keeping a low profile. In a real fight, you have to use everything you've got."

Otter smiled. "Okay."

"Good." Jasper took his stance again. "Try not to get in your own way this time. Let's see what happens when we pull out all the stops."

Otter barely had time to raise his blade before Jasper lunged. They blurred. Metal clashed against metal, boots scuffed across stone. Jasper drove forward, relentless, pushing Otter back with every strike. The swordplay was no longer structured. It was vicious, fast, unpredictable. Otter blocked a diagonal cut, ducked a sweep at his shoulder, and lashed out on instinct. He missed.

Jasper spun and countered. Otter barely dodged. A second blow followed—sharp, precise—forcing Otter into a wild retreat, blade raised in panic.

He was losing. Again.

He needed an opening. But he couldn't wait for Jasper to make a mistake. He had to make an opening.

Something flickered to life inside Otter. He felt a tug on his soul, like he was pulling on the fate of the world, and it was pulling back. For a split second, everything froze. In that space between heartbeats, Otter saw a double image of Jasper, one layered on top of the other. Somehow, Otter knew these were images of the future. Not far away. Only half a breath from now. But they were slightly different. In the first, Jasper's guard was perfect. There was no way to slip a blade through. But in the second, he saw a half-inch gap. Just there, Jasper's blade was slightly too high. A clear path to his right shoulder. Otter reached out, seizing on the opportunity, and chose that future.

The world slammed back into action, and he struck.

Not with finesse. Not with elegance. But with precision born of knowing, not guessing. His rapier slipped past Jasper's guard and tapped him squarely in the shoulder.

Jasper recoiled, blinking.

"Point Otter," he muttered, rubbing the spot where he'd been hit.

Otter stood panting, feeling the buzz of adrenaline, partly at his success, and partly because he had just altered fate. He hadn't reacted faster. He'd seen it sooner. The opening. The angle. He had reached into possibility and grabbed the one where he had a chance.

Jasper was watching him now with more caution than curiosity. "That didn't feel like a fluke."

"It wasn't," Otter said, still trying to catch his breath. "I saw it—before it happened. I chose it."

Jasper raised a brow. "Interesting."

Otter gave a shaky laugh. "Yeah. I think I just figured out how to Bend Luck. That's one of my new abilities."

Jasper let out a low whistle and stepped back, resting the flat of his blade on his shoulder. "Alright then. Again."

Otter didn't think he could do it twice. He thought back to the ability's description.

Bend Luck – You gain a number of Luck Points per day equal to half your level (rounded down). You may spend a Luck Point to gain advantage on any roll.

For the moment, he was pretty sure he could only do that once a day. And that one attempt had left him drained—not physically, but somewhere deeper. He rolled his neck, loosened his shoulders, and reset his stance. Jasper gave him a moment, then lunged again.

This time, Otter didn't try to force it. He focused on the rhythm, the flow of movement between them. Parry, dodge, retreat. Keep breathing. Stay alive.

But the tide had shifted.

Even without tapping into that strange stillness again, Otter was quicker on his feet. His defense tighter. The memory of what it felt like to fight with foresight gave his reactions a strange fluidity, as though his body was trying to approximate the precision his mind had tasted.

Jasper grunted after a particularly narrow dodge. "You're adapting. That's good."

"I'm guessing you're not going easy on me?"

Jasper smirked. "I don't know how to go easy."

The next exchange was brutal—Jasper came in high, feinted low, and nearly caught Otter's knee. Otter stumbled, flailed for balance, and lunged.

He hadn't meant to. It wasn't the right moment. There was no frozen time, no twin futures layered over one another. Just his instincts, sharpened by fear.

His blade missed by a mile.

Jasper punished the error with a swift, clean tag to the ribs. "Point Jasper," he said, breath steady. "Again?"

Otter nodded, sucking in air. "Again."

They went three more rounds. Otter lost two, managed one more hit—clean, solid, but earned. No magic involved. Just good timing and a lucky angle. When it was done, both of them were slick with sweat, blades low, hearts hammering in their chests. And Otter was sore.

"I think I'm done," he panted. "You hit hard. I'm going to have bruises for a while."

"Better than the alternative."

"True, but if that had been a real fight, the ground would be soaked in blood. Most of it mine."

Jasper nodded. "It seems your Luck isn't helping with defense."

"Yeah. What do I do about that?"

"Armor," Jasper replied. "The best you can afford. Do you have any bonuses for Dex?"

Otter shook his head. "That would be a big fat no. It's really no surprise I keep tripping."

"Then you'll have to rely on armor. Or protective spells. A good breastplate can soak up a lot of damage."

Otter slumped onto the bench with a groan. "You're saying I should dress like a walking bell tower."

"I'm saying you should stay alive," Jasper said, grabbing a towel and tossing one to Otter. "You don't need to look good. You need to not die."

Otter caught the towel and slumped forward, elbows on his knees. "Alright. Heavy armor. Solid offense. Minimal elegance. I'm sensing a theme here."

Jasper grinned. "Good. That's called knowing your role."

They sat in the warm quiet of the training room, catching their breath as the last of the daylight faded, shadows stretching long across the scarred stone floor.