TO&FQ: Book 2 - Chapter 17 (RAW)

Chapter 17 - Humility

Humility is the solid foundation of all virtues.

- Confucius.

“Start the time,” instructed the golden-eyed woman.

Her heart pounding in her chest, she decided to take the instructor at her word. With a stamp of her foot that shook the floor, Seraphina charged. In her mind, she pictured smashing the twin swords away in one strong sweep.

She swung the club in a wide arc, swiftly enough that there was a rush of air. Her strike was fueled by a Power Strike with the aim to kill, her frustration ignited by Melisiandre’s dismissive attitude. But the older woman merely glided to the side, one sword angled to intercept. A loud crack echoed through the hall as wood met wood. The club’s momentum was diverted and then stopped, the instructor’s poised guard absorbed it with unnerving ease.

The blonde girl may have had raw Strength on her side, but the older women knew how to divert it.

“Relying on brute force alone to win?” Melisiandre remarked lightly, her gold eyes flashing. “Tch, Tch, no style, no measured focus. When sparring, you must bring all of the skill and speed, but only one tenth of the power.”

Seraphina de Sariens bristled. More than once, she’d been taught the fundamentals by the old Armsmaster Kellan back at her father’s castle. She wasn’t someone who had never held a weapon. Yet, Melisiandre’s tone suggested she might as well have been.

“Again,” the golden-eyed woman instructed, though her tone was goading.

This time, Seraphina tried to remember her stances, stepping forward with her right foot and letting the club swing in a diagonal arc. A proper blow. She aimed for the instructor’s hip, hoping to catch her with enough force that it would knock the wind from her. But again, one of the twin swords circledd downward, deftly redirecting the head of the club. The sudden shift in momentum threw Seraphina off-balance, forcing her to almost stumble.

At this, there was a mild chuckle from the onlooking gallery of boys.

“Not bad,” Melisiandre said with a small nod, “but the chosen angles of your strikes are wide and predictable.”

Suddenly, the older woman struck back swiftly, a flick of her right wrist sending one sword arcing for Seraphina’s left shoulder. Seraphina heaved the club upward, blocking in the nick of time—only for the second sword to whack into her right thigh. Red paint streaked across the thick breeches. The sting was more from wounded pride than physical hurt, but Seraphina grit her teeth, refusing to cry out.

“One point,” Melisiandre declared flatly. “If this were a real fight, you’d still be moving, but your stance would be compromised. Keep your feet beneath you, evenly balanced. You’re leaning all your weight into your first attack as if expecting that to finish the duel with your first attack.”

Ignoring her own embarrassment, Seraphina shook out the tension in her arms and tried again. It was true, she did have a habit of using overwhelming power in her first attack, well, with everything in her life. It was a strategy that had, until now, mostly worked.

This time, she pivoted, aiming to sweep her opponent’s legs. But the instructor hopped back with feline agility. That wry grin never left her face. Melisiandre looked cool and composed, whereas Seraphina’s cheeks had already begun to heat.

“You get so easily flustered,” Melisiandre noted, stepping in to deliver a series of brisk strikes, “but that can be expected from one so young.” Each time Seraphina blocked one blade, the other flicked toward some unguarded angle. The result was a collection of red-streaked paint lines forming on Seraphina’s arming jacket and breeches. Forearm, elbow, and ribs—each blow an embarrassing slash of the color red. “Don’t forget your footwork. Use your reach advantage, keep me at the distance where your club can dominate.”

The words might have been educational, but the older woman’s tone was rife with amusement. Seraphina’s frustration flared even hotter. She swung again, this time with a sudden feint at Melisiandre’s left side, then reversed the arc mid-swing to slam down toward the right. For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of approval in Melisiandre’s gold eyes. The instructor twisted, forced to cross her swords above her head in a bracing motion. Bang! The force of Seraphina’s blow vibrated through the entire floor, causing onlookers to gasp. The impact threatened to buckle Melisiandre’s stance, but she angled her swords outward, letting the club’s downward momentum skim past her, rather than meeting it head-on.

“You’ve got power,” the instructor said, drawing back a few paces, “but it’s clumsy. Clearly, fast and strong, you are your father’s daughter, but not your mother’s. Even were she unarmed, I would not have been able to touch her,” she commented. “Oh, you’re practically telling me where you intend to strike with every blow by winding up too far. Next time, keep your movements tighter. ”

Seraphina ground her teeth, the woman was really getting to her. She almost resented the older woman’s calm, instructive tone more than she did the humiliating red marks. She drew in a sharp breath, forcing herself to pause, to think. Her father’s Armsmaster always stressed that a real fight depended on adjusting to each moment, not blindly hacking. Kellan had tried to hammer that lesson into her countless times.

She stepped to the side, circling with the instructor, trying not to let the frustration rule her. The older woman merely watched, swords held in a relaxed guard.

“Here she goes,” Gravens muttered quietly to himself, while several others gawked in anticipation.

Seraphina lunged with a Power Strike—her arms coiled and unleashed faster than before. Melisiandre parried it skillfully, but the slight narrowing of the older woman’s eyes told Seraphina she’d gained at least a half-breath of improvement. She followed with a second blow to the instructor’s flank. Crack. The golden-eyed woman guarded in time, but Seraphina managed to shift the angle at the last moment, forcing the older woman to actually step away to avoid taking a hit.

You have learned Power Strike (lvl.3)

“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 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.

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 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 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. 

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 Sariens Duchy did not like it and swore never to taste it again.