Jacob walked until the narrow corridors opened into a broad, high-ceilinged hall, its stone floors, walls, and roof all bearing the same cold, unpolished weight of age. He would have liked to imagine it resembled the grand training chambers described in novels, where deep, jagged scars in the floor spoke of great battles fought and prodigious strength unleashed, but here there were no such marks, no tangible proof of power.

The stones were smooth and untouched, save for the faint dust of neglect, a quiet reminder that he himself was still far too weak to carve even the smallest line into them, even when he called upon his aura.

That, however, was hardly surprising. The aura of a Skydrid was not the kind that lent itself to striking blows or raising impenetrable defences. It was Dominance, a strange, absolute force that, in its rawest form, could not be used directly to attack or shield. Like all auras, it enhanced strength and endurance, but only at the most minimal level. And yet, despite its apparent limitations, the Skydrids were feared and respected across the battlefield.

The reason was simple: Dominance was not about raw force, it was about control. To a Skydrid strong enough to wield it, Dominance meant rendering an opponent's aura or mana useless, stripping them of their most vital tools before the first blow had even landed.

It was absolute authority over the flow of battle, the ability to manipulate one's own aura perfectly while denying the enemy the chance to use theirs at all. That, more than any brute strength, was what made the Skydrids so formidable.

Stepping into the centre of the hall, Jacob drew his sabre and gave it a few slow, deliberate swings, the sound of metal slicing air echoing faintly against the stone. His thoughts, as always, turned to the same point of comparison, 'while I'm here, Arthur and Abel are becoming even greater mages.' His lips pressed into a thin line. 'And I only know a single rune.'

He reminded himself of this every time he trained, not to break his own spirit, but to keep his priorities sharp. 'If this is what I've chosen to focus on, then I have to push it to the point where it can put me on equal footing with them.'

The idea of becoming a magic swordsman had once seemed laughable. He had no natural aura, no inclination toward combat. By nature, he was a scholar, a peaceful mage who would have preferred to spend his life in quiet study rather than in the clash of steel and spell.

But being that way had made him weak.

Out in the courtyard, whenever he passed among the people of the household, there was laughter. Sometimes it was subtle, murmured comments just loud enough for him to hear, other times it was open and unrestrained.

His juniors laughed, his seniors laughed, even the servants and maids allowed themselves to smirk without fear. There was no punishment for such things; in this house, strength was the only shield, and Jacob had shown too often that he did not have it. Without strength, he was not owed protection.

The importance of strength had been driven into Jacob so often and in so many ways that it now felt less like a lesson and more like an unavoidable truth, without strength, pain would find him easily, without strength others could push him aside without consequence, and without strength he would remain nothing more than a convenient target for laughter.

What once seemed an abstract concept had, over time, taken on a sharper edge, until it felt almost foolish, idiotic even, to believe he could live as a scholar alone and still expect to stand unscathed.

The problem, of course, was time. How long would it take before he would learn more true runes? How long would Yggdrasil's endless chain of tasks stretch before the knowledge was finally given to him? He would be a scholar, yes he would learn the runes eventually, but if strength was to be his shield in the meantime, then he could not rely solely on the path of a mage.

He was not like other mages; he could not study in the same way, not without access to the runes that formed the foundation of his craft. And so the answer, reluctant as it was, had begun to take shape: he would become a magic swordsman, someone who could master both the sword and the runes, and in doing so earn the right to remain a scholar in peace.

Jacob swung his sabre in measured arcs, shifting his stance between strikes. His movements were quick, the kind that suggested effort rather than instinct, fluid enough to pass at a glance, yet clearly shaped by observation, by mimicry, rather than by the natural ease of someone who had learned through experience.

Before long, heat built in his muscles, sweat ran down his brow, and the weight of the blade began to feel heavier with each repetition. Still, he could not ignore the difference: he was stronger now, his frame carrying just enough muscle to hint at the work he had put in. He still looked thin, but there was substance where before there had been none. If he kept at it, if he maintained this pace, then perhaps within the next month he could finally beat Dawson. Probably.

"Jacob… you haven't listened to me for an entire month. I'm bored. Spar with me." The voice came from the doorway, light but insistent, carrying the sort of exaggerated whine that was impossible to ignore. He froze mid-swing, the blade stopping abruptly in the air, and a dull cramp pulsed through his fingers as he turned to look at the source.

"Jessica, how many times am I going to tell you no?" he asked, already knowing it would make little difference. For the past month she had made a habit of interrupting him like this, turning up with the same request and wearing the same stubborn expression.

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When she had first heard about his duel and what it had cost him, she had been concerned, earnestly so, before offering to train him herself. He had refused then, and had refused every time since, but that seemed only to have made her more determined. She had even begun skipping her own lessons, choosing instead to train nearby so she could pester him at every opportunity.

"Come on… just once. One spar. Please." She crossed the room in a few quick steps, her voice pitched higher in mock desperation, and leaned into him with both arms wrapped around his chest.

It was impossible not to notice how much easier their conversations had become over the month, how the distance between them had quietly shrunk, though he would not admit aloud that the time spent with her had been one of the better changes in his routine. Still, he had kept the habit of tempering any enjoyment with the self-imposed severity of his nightmares, as if to ensure he was never allowed to feel too comfortable.

"I said no," he replied, trying to pry her off without much success, "you're distracting me."

She tightened her grip in answer, unmoved. "No. Today I'm sparring with you no matter what."

He exhaled sharply, knowing he wouldn't win this particular battle. Jessica was stronger than him and she knew it; shaking her off was a futile exercise.

She was also the better swordsman by far, she could beat him with little effort, though he suspected he could at least give her more trouble now than he could a month ago. She wasn't quite at Dawson's level, but that was only because she had yet to learn to use aura. When she did, she would likely become every bit as formidable.

"Is it that important?" he tried one last time. "You should be training on your own instead of wasting time here."

She only shook her head, smiling in that infuriatingly sure way. "Spar with me. Spar with me."

Another sigh escaped him. She was not letting go this time. "Fine," he said at last. "We'll spar. Happy?"

Jessica stepped back with a startled little laugh, almost as if she hadn't expected him to give in. "Really? Finally! Let's start right now." She drew her weapon in one smooth motion, a longsword of plain iron, heavier than it looked and awkwardly matched to her build, though her familiarity with it meant she carried the weight as if it were nothing.

Jacob felt the imagined heft of it just from watching, and wondered, not for the first time, why such a weapon seemed so at odds with her frame yet so perfectly suited to her hands.

He lifted his sabre into guard, the blade angled slightly forward, and gave a short nod. "Alright. Start." Without hesitation, he lunged toward her, bringing the weapon down from high above with all the force he could muster, more speed than finesse guiding the arc of the strike.

The sound came sharp and metallic, clang, as Jessica's sword intercepted his in a single, effortless motion, deflecting it to the side with the kind of precision that suggested she had already predicted the attack before he moved. She used the momentum of the block to raise her own blade again, the point driving forward toward his chest while he scrambled to reset his stance.

'What now?' His mind ran through the possibilities with frantic clarity, recalling the countless bouts he had watched Arthur and Alex fight, mentally slotting their movements into place like pieces of a puzzle. 'Parry to the left? No, that's my weak side, she'll counter instantly. Better to the right? That's safer, I can—' But the thought took too long. By the time he had reached any conclusion, her sword was already a breath away, the air shifting with its speed, and in a flash of panic he raised his own weapon in a haphazard guard, nothing resembling technique in the movement.

Their blades met again, the impact jarring his arms, but he managed to shove her thrust aside. She didn't pause, her sword wheeled into a lateral swing, the motion fluid and immediate.

'Left side. I have to dodge. Roll? No, she'll cut down as I do. Step back? Too slow. I'll have to block and disengage at the same time.' The reasoning was sound, even quick by normal standards, but against her it was still a step behind. Her blade was already cutting toward him, forcing him into a clumsy duck and roll.

'Wrong reaction. If she drives the point down now, I'm done. I need to break her rhythm, move hard to the left, then strike into the opening before she recovers.' Once more, the plan formed with precision in his mind but faltered in his body; he barely twisted out of the path of her next cut, the edge missing him by the width of a finger, yet as he straightened he saw the flat of her blade already turning, the point aligning with his throat. There was no space to move, no counter left to make, if it had been a real fight, that would have been the end.

The tip stopped so close he could feel the faint tremor of her arm through the steel, the cool of the metal ghosting against the skin of his neck. Jessica's expression shifted, her voice quiet but edged with something between disappointment and concern. "You fight like a scholar who's memorised techniques."

Jacob frowned, not quite understanding what she meant. If he had memorised techniques, that meant he could use them, and if he could use them, then surely that made him strong, knowledge was, after all, another kind of power.

Jessica read the confusion in his face and gave a small shake of her head. "In the time it takes you to decide how to react, I could already have killed you. Warriors don't fight like that, you're wasting time." Her tone was calm but unyielding, and as her words sank in, he began to grasp what she meant, though part of him resisted the point; it wasn't wrong, he thought, he simply had to think faster.

But she shook her head again, more firmly this time. "You can't fight anyone like that. You need to face real opponents, over and over, until you can react without thinking, until your body moves before your mind does. What you're doing now, it's the wrong method."

"Who told you that?" Jacob replied, his voice quiet but edged with defiance. "No method is wrong. I can fight this way, I just need to improve, think faster."

"No, you can't," she shot back, her voice still even but sharper now. "Your body can barely keep up as it is, and the more you stop to think, the slower you become. Your reaction speed is worse than it was a month ago. You need to train with actual people."

He let out a dry laugh. "And who's going to train with me? The weakest Skydrid? They'd probably just want to use me as a punching bag, like Dawson."

"I will," she said, without hesitation. "Every day from now on, I'll spar with you."

Jacob frowned. "You need to train too."

"Sparring with you is training."

"Your teachers—"

"I don't care."

"I'm too weak to train with you."

"Then get stronger."

He stared at her for a moment, seeing the stubbornness in her eyes and realising there was nothing he could say that would change her mind. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"I'm not going to let this go."

Jacob shook his head and rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his trousers as if to signal the end of the conversation. "Alright," he said at last, the faintest trace of a smirk touching his lips, "it's your loss."

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