Legend of Ransera

Sivan knew that Rhydian had likely gone easy on him last time, but he was entirely sure of it less than a heartbeat into this combat. He had gotten better, and his foot rose in order to step on the low flowing blade, but he wasn't quite fast enough to catch it. Suddenly off balance, he leaned into it, letting his weight pull him to the side, not where he had been, hoping to require Rhydian's compensation.

He decided to use the style that had worked best against Laurevere, who was his better: Xiothur style. It was a reactive style, which ought to frustrate a Red Dragon, less so a Golden Gryphon. Named for minor eldritch spirits, he reacted to stimulus, but his follow-ups were chaotic, following no real logic. It was a rare style, oft derided by blademasters, but he understood it, most likely from his communication with eldritch spirits as a summoner.

After a few passes as such, Rhydian, at least, would sense a little flare of frustration from Ailuin. Not sembled, but known on a primal level, as one whose heart wanted to beat in time with the king's. This style defied observation until Ailuin looked deeper, sought more profound insight.

"How would you beat you?" Sivan asked suddenly. Laurevere blinked, wondering if this was a tactic or Sivan had just blurted it out in his own frustration. Rhydian's defense was nigh unassailable.

"A valid question," Ailuin allowed, amused. "How would you defeat Rhydian Val'Kor, my Strýchnos?"

Sivan had been frustrated and thus came the rhetorical question. That the king augmented it likely put him off his game more than it did Rhydian. The commoner elf felt the urge to apologize, but, knowing that the king's nightshade preferred duels underscored only by the sounds of steel, step, and breath, he kept it to himself. He wondered if he would ever be able to focus on violence as keenly as he did a delicate alchemical reaction; perhaps not, but he did believe he was getting better at it, better at something that he hadn't taken to as easily as magic. There was something to be said for such accomplishments. He wondered what it would be like to witness Rhydian battling himself to a stalemate; perhaps such a thing could occur within the Aetherium. Perhaps he ought to focus on the matter at hand...

Reaction and misdirection had seemed to work for a time, but Rhydian had adjusted.

He was simply outmatched. A few times, he was successful in that he seemed to push Rhydian into a more hurried defense than he had before, but whatever slim advantage he managed to claim, the prince reclaimed ever more quickly. Sivan was learning Rhydian's style, but not nearly so quickly as Rhydian was learning his, such as it was.

But then Rhydian seemed almost to stumble, and Sivan's training kicked in faster than the cleverer parts of his mind.

Sivan moved in close to strike with his wakizashi. His katana was placed well to protect him from certain directions, but not all. He had taken the bait for better or for worse.

Ailuin was nominally watching Sivan, and a part of him would always be drawn to Rhydian in any situation; he was also observing Laurevere, who was his original person of interest. The king was rather good at splitting his attention without seeming to lose his keen vision and insight. And so, he observed his beau's stragetem, the commoner's avid response, and the instructor's alarm all at once.

Sivan hadn't quite been able to translate his equanimity in the face of a seemingly insoluble magical puzzle into an equal serenity when it came to fighting an opponent he knew he had only the slimmest of chances to win, and that depending on said opponent making mistakes that he could monopolize upon.

The duel was not over, and suddenly he was stutter-stepping backward, trying to counter a style he couldn't name in the moment with an appropriate Fleeing Hare. There was a tap to his hip, and then a more violent, though not bruising, smack of his back against the wall. Then Rhydian did retreat, albeit only to await his acknowledgement. With a rueful grimace, Sivan straightened his posture, and bowed to the prince. Then, he bowed to his instructor, and then, lowest, to the king.

"I don't believe my lord Laurevere would forgive me if I wooed his blades," he said, attempting to soften the blow to his ego with humor.

"They are faithful lovers," Laurevere replied wryly, offering the sheaths that Sivan could put the blades away. Sivan bowed again for the use of those Val'Istra blades. "Thank you for the compliment, sir," he said to Rhydian.

Ailuin was, apparently, content; the room began to change back to its former arrangement. When nobody came to retrieve his blades, Laurevere secured them to his hip and regained his seat with a warrior's grace. Sivan, perspiring a bit, returned to kneel in the presence of his betters, albeit with the zabuton for comfort.

"Should I be jealous of your steel, Rhydian?" he asked. The way the syllables of his name moved in the monarch's mouth sometimes sent a shiver through his lover, but he was smiling, not attempting to embarrass him. "A good show, both of you. Thank you for indulging my curiosity."

Sivan took the prince's words to heart. Rather than take them at face value, however, he would mull them over later. He had always had what his late master had called the seed of wisdom, in that the more he learned, the more he realized how much he didn't know. He showed proper Len'Hytori respect, but also seemed to embody a truer humility.

Laurevere studied the king as surreptitiously as possible. Meanwhile, the king, quietly delighted at Rhydian's minimalist poetry and maximalist loyalty, murmured, "Your face: my polestar, Strýchnos."

Then, louder, for the wider audience, "Well, we are always pleased when prodigal sons return to the homeland. Be certain you will hear from the palace ere long. Even if Kalzasi calls you away once more, we hope you will not spend quite so long without returning to the community of your people."

There might be barbs there; it was unlikely the king was unaware of Laurevere's bastardy, even if witchmarks weren't visible above his collar, and while Sivan was only notable for his magical and artisanal prowess, he would have been vetted before being allowed into the royal presence.

"Rhydian, if you would be so kind as to see them out...? I have another meeting scheduled." The king rose even as his throne began to walk around toward where it would end up, stretching his legs. Nobody's seat would disappear on them, but Laurevere felt the thrum of magic through his trews and stood immediately, as did Sivan. They bowed.

"Oh, please do keep an eye upon your Fae'ethalan friend. They are charming creatures but as fey as their name implies. One can look pretty as a dragonfly and still be a chaos goblin."

Ailuin heard Rhydian's comment at the door, but he was gone before the door closed. In the Royal Palace, the very building responded to his whims, and his power could seem godlike.

Sivan smiled faintly in response, more than content to be emotionally still as the prince was. While he had gotten better at being a person around people, his natural state was still solitude and silence. He could respect Rhydian's natural state, and surviving a second bout with him put him a bit more at ease, though he was not overly familiar. That was something the elf of higher status would have to initiate, much as Laurevere had.

"I daren't brag on it, sir," he said, "lest people want to practice upon me." Were he a courtier, he might have meant a subtle threat to Ailuin, but he only meant that a blademaster might tackle him before trying their steel against Rhydian's. Laurevere heard what was said, what wasn't said, and what might be imagined, and glanced at Sivan. He was too naive for this place, should have trusted his better instincts to flee Silfanore even if it was the crown of culture as well as cities.

But otherwise, Laurevere seemed content to be more silent than not. The king had been testing him, even if he had used Rhydian and Sivan to do so. He had been too long away from court, and had never played with a true master. He would go home and go over every word and facial tic with his family to assess what game had been played exactly, and he would be harder on himself than he had been on Sivan after his first spar with Rhydian. But none of this was apparent on his face or form, of course. He was a political creature enough to prevent that.

"I do wish to improve, though," Sivan was saying. "I live so much in my head that it has proven an excellent practice to bring me back into my body, into the present. Meditative, but also physical. Sometimes when I have hit a snag in some complicated alchemical process, wearing myself out at forms... well, the answers sometimes appear as if by magic..."