Spar's End and Thoughts
Kain leaned against his short blade, chest heaving, the metal biting into the ground for support. His arms trembled with fatigue, small cuts tracing thin red lines along his forearms where the edge of Eira’s spear had grazed him. A shallow gash bled slowly near his thigh, and bruises were already beginning to emerge across his ribs.
A faint smear of blood ran from the corner of his lip, which was from the sharp right hook Eira had landed when he mistimed a dodge earlier. He did not even seen her fist coming until it was too late.
The memory made him grin faintly through the pain.
Eira stood before him, unruffled, spear in hand. Not a single mark showed on her. The contrast between them was almost laughable.
Kain looked at her and gave a weak grin.
“Everywhere hurts...guess that’s one way to wake up every nerve in my body.”
Eira arched a brow. “You look half-dead.”
He chuckled between breaths. “I feel about three-fourth dead, actually.”
Her lips curved slightly before she quickly looked away. “You’re joking after that beating?”
“Can’t help it,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “Sparring against you is no easy feat. That’s an accomplishment by itself.”
Eira gave a small hum. “Barely.”
He took a step closer, smiling faintly. “You know, I think I am starting to understand how you move. The rhythm, the way you breathe before each thrust...”
Her head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “You were watching my breathing?”
Kain blinked innocently. “Observation is part of learning.”
“Observation...right,” she repeated with an unconvincing look.
“Strictly professional observation,” he added quickly, hands raised in surrender, that teasing grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Eira sighed, turning away again, but he did not miss the blush on her cheeks.
“You haven’t changed completely...still as insufferable as ever.”
He chuckled softly. “Yet you’re still listening.”
Her spear shifted slightly as if she was fighting the urge to jab him with it, but she stopped herself. Silence settled between them, almost reluctant to break.
After a long moment, she spoke quietly, still facing the training field.
“You know… there’s something about you I didn’t expect.”
Kain tilted his head. “And what’s that?”
Eira looked over her shoulder, her heterochromatic eyes catching the fading light.
“Your adaptability. The way you adjust mid-swing, correct yourself almost instinctively. I’ve sparred with dozens of warriors, but none who could adapt that quickly.”
He blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in her tone. “You’re saying I impressed you?”
“It’s strange. Even when your body can’t keep up, your eyes already know what’s coming. You read movement before it happens.”
She studied him closely as she circled him looking him up and down. “It’s like you can see a pattern others can’t. Your dynamic vision…it’s exceptional.”
Kain scratched the back of his neck, half embarrassed, half proud. “I am not sure about that, could be luck?”
Eira shook her head. “No. Luck doesn’t let you predict my footwork or shift your stance mid-swing. That takes instinct.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re really praising me now, Eira. Careful, or I might start thinking you like having me around.”
Her cheeks flushed again. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just stating what I observed.”
“Strictly professional observation?” he said with a grin.
This time, she didn’t respond immediately. Her lips parted, then closed again. Finally, she exhaled softly and said, “You talk too much.”
Kain laughed quietly. “Maybe. But at least it makes you blush.”
Her aura flared just faintly as the cold and sharp aura emerged, ready to make the air crackle. “Do you want to go another round and maybe this time I’ll use my aura?”
He raised both hands again and step back. “I’ll shut up.”
Eira turned away, hiding the faint smile that tugged at her lips.
“Good,” she said but the chill in her voice was already melting. “Training’s over for today. You did well.”
Kain blinked. “Was that a compliment?”
“Don’t push it.”
He chuckled softly, as he started to walk towards the door. “See you tomorrow, then?”
Eira hesitated. “Yes. Tomorrow.”
As he left the training ground, Eira found herself staring at the door long after it closed. Her grip tightened slightly on her spear.
‘Adaptable, perceptive, sincere.’
She shook her head as if to drive the thought away, but it lingered all the same.
‘What happened to you, Kain?’
----
The Duke’s study was silent, save for the faint crackle of firelight against the stone walls. The air smelled faintly of parchment, steel polish, and aged oak. Heavy books lined the shelves in perfect order made up of military histories, territorial ledgers, and battle reports spanning decades. Every surface bore a sense of discipline and restraint, like the man himself.
The large mahogany desk at the room’s center was buried beneath neatly stacked documents, correspondence seals, and on the far wall, beneath the family crest, stood a display rack of polished weapons.
Among them rested Gungnir. Its shaft gleamed in alternating streaks of blue and red, like veins of frozen fire captured in metal. Faint ripples of power radiated from it, distorting the air subtly around its edge. The weapon’s presence filled the room without needing to be wielded like it was alive with restrained force, the aura of a weapon that had tasted blood and glory in equal measure.
Gerald’s gaze drifted to it often, drawn by instinct more than thought. That spear was both his legacy and his burden.
Gerald Valemont stared at the documents in front of him. His hands folded, expression carved in stone. The faint light from the hearth traced the lines at the edges of his eyes like scars of time rather than battle.
To most, the Duke of Valemont was a man of iron will, a pillar of strength for House Valemont and one of the Seven Noble Families of Celestria. His soldiers whispered of his legendary feats like the seven days of continuous battle along the northern front, never resting, holding the line until reinforcements arrived.
He was a man who could not afford weakness. However, among all the order of the room, there was one object that did not belong. A framed photograph rested in the corner of his desk, worn at the edges but polished clean.
In the photo was a woman smiling, her hair white as winter frost, eyes the color of a clear sky.
Mir Valemont.
Her beauty mark just below her lips made her smile almost mischievous, though it had always been gentle.
Beside her stood a seven-year-old Kain with his hand tightly gripping hers, laughing, eyes bright with mischief. And beside him, little Eira, calm and graceful even as a child, clutching the hem of her mother’s dress.
And him, standing just behind, trying to look stern even then.
He stared at the photo for a long time, the firelight dancing over the glass.
“…Mir,” he murmured finally, his voice rough. “Am I a bad father?”
The question hung in the air, unanswered.
“I gave him enough chances,” he said quietly. “Too many, maybe. He embarrassed this family, shamed our name, and brought us to the edge of scandal. I can’t allow that. Not now. Not when our position depends on strength.”
He exhaled slowly and lean back on his chair, the weight in his chest heavier than any armor.
“What would you have done, if you were still alive?”
The silence was suffocating as the fire popped once, filling the void.
Gerald stayed still almost relishing the silence with his gaze distant.
Kain’s words from earlier still echoed in his mind.
“There’s nothing for you to gain…but maybe you’ll see something you didn’t expect. Is that not enough for you…Father?”
That single word, Father had shaken something in him that he thought long dead.
He had not heard his son call him that since the funeral.
For years, Kain had looked at him with resentment, blamed him for her death, and turned that grief into apathy, arrogance, destruction. Gerald had tried to correct him through discipline, through pressure, through the same methods that forged soldiers.
And it had only driven him further away.
But today there had been something else. There was remorse, acceptance, and resolve.
He had seen a flicker of the boy Mir once held by the hand, a boy who laughed easily and dreamed of surpassing his father.
Gerald rubbed a hand across his face and let out a quiet sigh. “You’d probably say I’m too harsh,” he muttered. “That I expect him to be me. That not every battle needs a spear.”
His eyes lingered again on Mir’s smile.
“He’s changed, somehow,” he said softly. “I don’t know how or why…but I saw it.”
For a brief moment, the Duke of Valemont did not look like a general or a noble. He just looked tired.
He poured himself a glass of amber liquor from the bottle at his side, the liquid catching the light. He raised it slightly toward the photo.
“Watch him for me, Mir,” he said quietly. “If there’s still something worth saving in him…maybe I’ll see it too.”
He drank, the burn grounding him. Then he set the glass down, straightened his posture, and returned to his papers as duty would not wait. But for the first time in years, the thought of his son did not bring only disappointment but doubt.
