NOVEL NEXT Book 2: Chapter 17 - Humility [Part 2]
Book 2: Chapter 17 - Humility [Part 2]
"Better," the instructor stated simply, though her expression still held that polite condescension. "But you're letting your chest and arms do all the work. Put your hips and legs into it. Use all of your body to generate speed as well as power. Don't be afraid to pivot—"
Before she finished that instruction, Seraphina narrowed her eyes, funneling her Strength in a swift overhead smash filled with all of her frustration that hammered dangerously close to Melisiandre's left shoulder. The older woman twisted, deflecting the blow with an elegant parry of her right sword. One painted wooden blade tapped Seraphina's ribs in passing—another bright red mark.
"How many is that now?" Melisiandre mused, assessing the paint lines on Seraphina's jacket. "Five? Six? Next time, try to keep your guard while you attack."
A ripple of laughter spread among the onlooking boys.
More embarrassment churned in the young girl's gut. She stared at the scuffs of red paint marring her sleeves and torso, each one a sign of a strike that would have ended a real match. It dawned on Seraphina that the instructor was intentionally trying to drive home a lesson: that brute force, on its own, wasn't enough if the opponent knew how to maneuver. It was doubly embarrassing for the blonde girl had learned this lesson many times before in her previous life.
Instructor Melisiandre de Vallieres of the Meridian Academy looked over at the young woman who had disrespectfully challenged her. In a fencing match, it was clear that de Vallieres would have been declared the winner many times over. The instructor studied Seraphina, noting that everywhere she had struck, the young girl would have been covered by thick armor if she had been wearing a plate harness. Grudgingly, she had to admit that Kellan had trained her well; the girl had never even bothered to defend in those areas, trusting in her armor to protect her. It was a shame that her attitude was so terrible, de Vallieres thought grimly to herself.
The instructor spun her wooden blades in quick circles. "You've got raw potential," she said, tilting her head in that almost mocking, teacherly way. "But you're letting your emotions drive you. Combat requires control."
Seraphina swallowed. She couldn't deny the truth in those words. Every attempt of hers to overpower her opponent had been turned against her. Another wave of bright anger surged in her chest, but she forced herself to focus, flexing her fingers around the handle of the war club.
"All right, then." She inhaled through her nose, letting the tension flow out as she exhaled. Melisiandre nodded as if noticing her steadier bearing. "Let's try again."
This time, Seraphina advanced with a more careful approach. She did not simply leap in for a smashing blow. Instead, she edged closer, feeling out the distance, trying to gauge how far Melisiandre's swords might extend. She started to imagine two circles, one of the range of her weapon and one of the teacher's. The young noblewoman feinted a high strike, then shifted her feet to deliver a mid-level hit.
Melisiandre parried but found herself needing a half-step back to avoid the swift second follow-through. Seraphina pressed forward. She tried to mimic some of Kellan's footwork, pivoting fluidly to bring the club up in a short, snapping motion. Clack! The wood hammered the older woman's crossed swords near the hilt, dangerously close to forcing them back into her face. A flurry of exclamations rose from the class at this near success.
"Good!" Melisiandre actually sounded pleased. "Stay in motion, keep me reacting—"
But her words turned into a razor-sharp counterattack. Her swords blurred with a series of stabs and slashes, small but precise, forcing the young de Sariens to yield ground. The first few, Seraphina parried well enough, mindful not to overextend. A flicker of triumph lit in her chest—maybe she could hold her own after all.
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Then, abruptly, Melisiandre shifted inside Seraphina's guard, hooking one wooden blade around the club's haft and twisting. Caught off-balance, Seraphina felt the war club jerk from her grip. She managed to keep hold by her raw Strength and stubbornness, only to have the second blade flick across her midsection in a final, humiliating slash of paint. Another bright red streak blossomed on her arming jacket.
"Time!" one of the male students declared as he rang a bell twice, signaling the end of the bout.
A grimace on her face, Seraphina glared at the bright red slashes all over her training clothes. Seven, eight, nine—lost count. She comforted herself by thinking that, were this a real fight to the death, she would have been able to win by simply wearing her opponent out. As if to confirm, the girl glared at Melisiandre, who looked as though she'd enjoyed a mild warmup.
"What a shame," Melisiandre teased, pointing at her with one of her training swords. "I do believe I got you in… oh, perhaps a dozen places. You've power, girl, but your form is dearly wanting."
Seraphina's jaw tightened, a final surge of defiance spurring her. She saw that the wooden sword in Melisiandre's left hand was just a hair too far out. With a sharp motion, Seraphina raised the war club in both hands and smacked that sword clean out of the instructor's grip, sending it spinning across the hall.
A collective gasp went up. Gravens and the other knights broke into grins; even Miriam's eyes widened. Seraphina suppressed the urge to cheer for herself, but she couldn't stop the small flash of satisfaction sparking in her emerald eyes.
Melisiandre retrieved the sword calmly, shaking her head with something that might have been a wry smile. "You waited for me to drop my guard," she said. "Clever. Now imagine if you'd channeled that patience from the start, instead of letting your temper rule your arms."
Seraphina said nothing, pride warring with a grudging respect for the older woman's skill.
"You handled yourself better than the average first-year boy would," Melisiandre announced to the hall, "though you have a long way to go. Armsmaster Kellan trained you well— I can see the foundation there. You've got potential worth honing." Her gaze raked over the bright red slashes covering Seraphina's training attire. "But you will not always be in full harness," she warned.
Seraphina dipped her head, acknowledging the point even though her pride still rankled. She glanced at Gravens, Smith, and Gascoigne, all of whom gave her subtle nods of encouragement. This was no true defeat— it was a lesson.
Melisiandre continued, "Return to your own class, little lady, and let me teach these whelps in peace. If you'd like me to train you personally, I might be able to find the time if you clear some of my tabs— but only if you stop barging in on lessons you don't belong to."
Seraphina's cheeks warmed, but she found she could endure the older woman's sardonic smile without snapping back. The bitterness of losing gnawed at her, yet she also felt the undeniable spark of wanting more. To improve, to surpass, to dominate. These were the things that drove Seraphina in this life and her last.
The instructor pivoted to address everyone else. "That's enough gawking. Get back to your forms and footwork drills—class is over in another half a turn of the glass, and I expect a solid finish."
The boys, who had been watching with rapt fascination, jumped back into place. Their eyes darted occasionally toward Seraphina, some with grudging admiration, others with lingering amusement at her paint-stained uniform. Ignoring the stares, Seraphina hefted the war club onto her shoulder and walked to where Gravens and the other knights waited. She handed the heavy training club to them.
She paused at the door, turning back to Melisiandre. The instructor met her gaze, a faint quirk lifting the corners of her mouth. With all her haughtiness and cold composure, there was something undeniably compelling about the older woman's presence—that coiled energy and calm confidence. Miriam hurried close behind, relief evident on her face.
"Maybe, I'll take you up on that offer," Seraphina said, her melodic voice ringing in the near-empty hall. If she could not best such strength and skill, she might as well utilize it.
Melisiandre nodded, unspeaking. Perhaps there was the faintest flicker of approval behind those predatory gold eyes.
With that, Seraphina de Sariens turned on her heel, her sweat-soaked hair damp against her forehead, the red paint stripes marking her clothes in stark evidence of her defeat. But her chin was high, her heart alive with a new resolve. And though the bell had signaled the end of her bout, she couldn't deny the exhilaration that flared in her veins.
Through bruised pride, the young girl, or woman, really, was learning humility. The heir to the Sarien's Duchy did not like it and swore never to taste its like again.