Echoes of the Forgotten Blade

Pain greeted Kaelen before consciousness fully returned. A dull throb pulsed across his ribs, and a sharper sting bit into his shoulder where Ser Caldus's blade had found its mark. He opened his eyes to the dim light of an unfamiliar chamber, stone walls adorned with faded tapestries depicting ancient battles.

"The dead rise at last," came Ser Thomund's gruff voice from beside the bed. The aging knight sat on a wooden stool, grinding herbs in a small mortar. "I was beginning to wonder if Caldus had struck harder than we thought."

Kaelen tried to sit up, wincing as his body protested. "How long was I—"

"Just a night," Thomund answered, mixing his concoction with water from a clay cup. "Drink this. Tastes like piss, but it'll help with the pain."

The bitter liquid burned Kaelen's throat, but he drank it without complaint. "He was faster than I expected."

"And you were slower than you should have been," Thomund replied without mercy. "You borrowed his style without understanding it. A dangerous game."

Kaelen frowned. "It's worked before."

"Aye, against village brawlers and common foot soldiers." Thomund set the cup aside and leaned forward, his weathered face serious in the candlelight. "What you have, boy—this gift of House Dareth—it's not to be taken lightly. Your bloodline's not the first to manifest such abilities, but it's the only one that refined it into something approaching mastery."

"There were others?"

"Few and far between. Most went mad." Thomund's eyes grew distant. "The last one I knew of was a woman from the Eastern Provinces. Could watch a master archer for mere moments then replicate their shots perfectly." His voice lowered. "Found her hanging from a rooftop one spring morning. Left a note saying she didn't know which thoughts were hers anymore."

A chill ran through Kaelen that had nothing to do with his injuries. "What happened?"

"Mimicry without discipline leads to madness," Thomund said simply. "You absorb not just movements but intentions, instincts... eventually pieces of who they are. Without a core of your own to return to, you become a collection of borrowed parts."

Kaelen stared at his hands, remembering how naturally they had moved in patterns his mind had never practiced. "Is that what happened to my house? To Varathen?"

Thomund's silence was answer enough.

Three days later, when Kaelen could walk without wincing, he found himself drawn to the Keep's archives. The room smelled of dust and forgotten knowledge—shelves of scrolls, maps, and bound manuscripts lined walls of rough-hewn stone. He had come seeking distraction from his healing wounds, but something else pulled him deeper into the stacks.

In the farthest corner, behind a shelf that hadn't been moved in decades, Kaelen discovered a small iron chest. The lock had long since rusted through, and inside, wrapped in oilcloth, lay a half-burnt manuscript bound in leather the color of dried blood. On its cover, barely visible beneath char marks, was the unmistakable sigil of House Dareth—a falcon with mirrored wings.

His heart quickening, Kaelen brought the manuscript to a reading table and carefully opened its fragile pages.

"The Echo Blade: Foundational Teachings of the Mirror Knights," read the title page in elegant, faded script. "Compiled by Master Haeron Dareth, Third of His Line."

Kaelen lost track of time as he turned page after brittle page. The manuscript detailed training exercises, mental disciplines, and philosophical approaches to combat unlike anything he had encountered. It spoke of "reflecting" an opponent's style not as mere imitation but as understanding, of absorbing technique to extract its essential truth.

"The body remembers what the mind perceives," one passage read. "But wisdom lies in recognition that all borrowed forms are incomplete. The true master does not copy, but translates—speaking the language of combat with his own voice."

On the final intact page, a warning was inscribed in a different, more urgent hand: "The Echo without the Voice is but a hollow sound. Remember Varathen. Remember the price."

The rest had been consumed by fire.

"Again!" Thomund barked as Kaelen collapsed to one knee, chest heaving.

Around the training yard stood four knights of varying builds and ages, each clutching a different weapon. For the past two hours, they had taken turns attacking Kaelen, forcing him to shift between defensive styles with barely a moment's respite.

"I can't," Kaelen gasped, his limbs trembling with exhaustion. "My body won't—"

"Your body isn't the problem," Thomund interrupted. "Your mind is. You're trying to be each of them completely." He gestured to the knights. "Ser Lowell's spear technique requires a man of his height. Ser Donal's axe work demands his shoulder width. You're breaking yourself trying to become them instead of adapting what they offer."

Kaelen wiped sweat from his brow, recalling words from the manuscript. "Translating rather than copying."

Thomund raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you've been reading the right things after all. Up."

This time, when Ser Lowell lunged with his spear, Kaelen didn't try to mirror the movement exactly. Instead, he captured its essence—the timing, the intent—but executed it at a distance suited to his own frame. When Ser Donal swung his axe in a brutal overhead arc, Kaelen borrowed the core rotation but modified the recovery to match his quicker footwork.

By sunset, his tunic was soaked through with sweat, but Kaelen stood undefeated, a different sword in his hand than the one he'd started with. The knights nodded with grudging respect as they departed.

"Better," Thomund acknowledged. "But you're still learning to crawl."

The ancient shrine lay buried beneath the foundations of the keep, accessed by a narrow staircase that wound deep into the bedrock. Kaelen descended with only a torch for company, drawn by something he couldn't name—the same instinct that had led him to the manuscript.

The chamber he entered was circular and domed, with a stone altar at its center. Around the walls, faded frescoes depicted scenes from House Dareth's history. Most were too weathered to discern clearly, but one remained vivid despite the centuries—a lone warrior standing before a burning city, his sword lowered as flames consumed towers and homes.

Varathen. The ancestral home, lost in some catastrophe the histories barely mentioned. Kaelen approached the mural, studying the warrior's face. Unlike the heroic poses in the other images, this figure seemed... remorseful. Broken.

Kaelen knelt before the altar, dust rising around his knees. No prayers came to mind—House Dareth's gods, like its glory, were long forgotten. Instead, he spoke from his heart.

"I don't know what happened to our house," he whispered, his voice echoing slightly in the chamber. "I don't know what price was paid, or what mistakes were made. But I swear by whatever remains of our blood and honor, I will not repeat them."

He drew his sword, placing it on the altar.

"I will not be a mirror that merely reflects what stands before it. I will not lose myself in borrowed power. I will forge something new from what I learn—something worthy of our name."

In the torchlight, it almost seemed as though the warrior in the mural straightened slightly, but perhaps it was only shadows dancing on ancient paint.

In the capital city of Lathien, a hundred leagues away, a message was delivered to a modest townhouse in the merchants' quarter. Its recipient was ostensibly a wine merchant, though few had ever seen his wares.

Lord Voryn broke the seal with a sharp thumbnail, reading the coded message with practiced ease. When he finished, he burned the parchment and summoned his steward.

"Send for Marek," he ordered, naming a man few knew existed and fewer still had seen face to face.

The steward bowed slightly. "The Warden-Killer has already been alerted, my lord. He awaits your instructions."

"Tell him the last Dareth heir has surfaced," Voryn said, pouring himself a glass of actual wine. "And tell him to bring me proof when it's done."

The steward departed silently, leaving Voryn to contemplate what this development meant for his carefully laid plans. The last living member of House Dareth—a nuisance he had thought eliminated decades ago—now threatened everything. The bloodline gift had to be extinguished permanently.

He savored his wine, untroubled by the death sentence he had just pronounced. By the time the snow fell, this problem would be solved, and the secret of Varathen's fall would remain buried with its last heir.

After a month of grueling training, Kaelen's body had transformed. Lean muscle replaced what softness remained from his village upbringing, and scars—both old and fresh—mapped his journey across his skin. But the greater change lay in how he moved, a confident grace that borrowed from a dozen styles without being beholden to any.

On the dawn of the first frost, Thomund summoned him to the training yard. The old knight wore light leather armor and carried a sword Kaelen had never seen him wield—an elegant blade with distinctive balance, clearly designed for speed over power.

"Your final test," Thomund announced without preamble. "Face me using the Dareth style."

Kaelen frowned. "I don't know the Dareth style. The manuscript didn't describe specific forms."

Thomund smiled thinly. "You're looking at it, boy. This was how your ancestors fought before the fall. I learned it from the last Dareth knight when I was younger than you."

He settled into a stance unlike any Kaelen had seen—balanced yet fluid, the sword held at an unusual angle across the body. As Thomund began to move through preparatory forms, Kaelen felt the familiar stirring in his mind, his eyes tracking and absorbing each nuance of the unfamiliar style.

When they engaged, it was like dancing with a ghost. Kaelen's body responded to Thomund's movements with identical counters, the mirrored forms creating a harmony of steel and motion. For every attack, a perfect defense; for every advance, a matched retreat.

They circled one another, neither gaining advantage, their blades meeting in perfectly timed clashes that echoed across the empty yard. Sweat beaded on Thomund's brow as he pressed harder, forcing Kaelen to respond with increasing precision.

Then Kaelen saw it—the pattern within the pattern, the rhythm beneath the steps. This wasn't just another style; it was a style designed to counter mimicry, to trap the mirror in an endless reflection.

In that moment of clarity, Kaelen broke form. Instead of matching Thomund's sidestep and rising cut, he dropped suddenly, sweeping his leg in a move borrowed from a dockside brawler he'd once observed, while simultaneously executing an upward thrust inspired by Ser Lowell's spear technique.

Thomund barely evaded the unexpected combination, his expression shifting from concentration to something like pride. Three more exchanges followed, each time with Kaelen incorporating elements from different styles into the foundation of the Dareth forms. The result was something entirely new—unpredictable yet coherent, powerful yet efficient.

When Thomund finally called a halt, both men were breathing heavily, but only one was smiling.

"Well done," the old knight said, sheathing his blade. "You've learned what your ancestors took generations to understand."

"Which is?" Kaelen asked, still catching his breath.

"That you're no longer an echo, Kaelen," Thomund replied, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're beginning to speak in your own tongue."

As they walked back toward the keep, Thomund added casually, "The king's tourney begins in a fortnight at Highcrest. I've entered your name."

Kaelen stopped in his tracks. "The royal tourney? Among the realm's greatest fighters? I'm not ready for—"

"You're not," Thomund agreed bluntly. "But readiness rarely coincides with opportunity. Sometimes you must step into the arena before you feel prepared."

What Thomund didn't mention was the message he had received that morning—rumors of a notorious killer seen on the roads heading toward their region, a man known for hunting specific targets with terrifying efficiency. If Kaelen remained in the isolated keep, he would be found eventually. Better to hide him in plain sight, surrounded by witnesses too prominent to ignore.

As they passed beneath the ancient archway of the keep, neither man noticed the raven watching from the battlements, its unnatural stillness marking it as something more than a common bird. It observed them with patient malevolence before taking wing toward the west, carrying tidings to its master.

The Path to Mastery had begun—but so had the hunt.