54 Desperation

Well, at least partially. The girl's friends backed out of the room and took off, apparently scared of offending a mage. Their terrible reputation really came in handy sometimes. As for the girl herself, she remained in the room, eyes locked on Jacob's. Reluctantly, he admired her steadfastness, even if he thought it was completely foolish. Had their roles been reversed, he'd have been gone from the room faster than sound.

"What are you doing at Relentless? Are you the soldier that everyone's talking about? The one Provost Thomson is sparring with?" she asked, not even a tinge of hesitation present in her tone.

"I hope that your fellow students aren't gossiping too much," Jacob muttered before answering her question. "Yes, that's me."

Her green eyes practically gleamed. "Fantastic! You can help teach me!" Jacob stood, shocked, before he laughed.

"Teach you? Teach you what, exactly?" he asked between fits of chuckles. The girl looked offended by it, but Jacob was powerless to stop it. "And even if I could, why would I?"

"I'm Provost Thomson's niece, the daughter of one of Duke Hycinth's top military officials. My name is Cynthia Thomson," she finally introduced herself. Jacob didn't bother; she obviously already knew who he was. "My word carries a lot of weight around here. I could even tell my aunt to stop helping you train and she'd probably listen."

"Oh, is that a threat?" Jacob's opinion of the girl plummeted. It's easy to be steadfast when you risk nothing. Her very place in society offered her a shield that not many could dare go against. It explained her cocky attitude and her thin skin.

"I'd prefer to call it a warning. Let's get one thing straight," she emphasized, her index finger extending towards him. "I want you to teach me magic, not swords." Now Jacob, wary of drawing the girl's ire, was tasked with maintaining a stoic expression. He failed.

"You can't just teach magic; it's something you have or you don't," he managed between wheezes.

"I do have magic! My father made me promise not to use it so that I could become a swordswoman, but I hate this place. I wanted to go to the Academy!" she whined, but her words were serious. Jacob wondered what it must have been like to have your choice robbed from you. Even through his servitude, he was able to do as he pleased, for the most part.

"Still, I am not a fitting teacher. I know nearly nothing at all, and my magic is… different. I can't help you."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both."

"My aunt will hear of this!" she seethed, turning on her heels and leaving the training hall. Jacob was glad to regain his haven's peace, but his own peace had been shattered. Anyone who presumed that he would do as they pleased simply because they held a knife to his neck was dead wrong. He realized the hypocrisy, noting his tenure in the Fourth Infantry, but once he regained his freedom…

He pulled a random weapon from the weapons rack, swinging it in the forms Will had taught him so long ago. It was an automatic thing, as the tides are. The tip of sword traced delicate lines through the air, mimicking the grace of a ballet dancer. Jacob threw himself into it, trusting in the physical exertion to sap the anger from his veins.

Sweat dripped down his face when he finished, but his frustration had been resolved. Becoming strong was his first priority. So long as he was strong, he would be impervious to these underhanded tactics of guaranteeing his cooperation. Provost Thomson chose that moment to walk in through the doors.

"Have you spent the entire day in here? I know I said you had four days to train, but you need to take breaks as well, Jacob of Leafburrow," she asked, concerned. Jacob looked at her, noting that nothing in her poise indicated that she meant him harm. "A spatha? That's a weapon I don't see every day."

Jacob looked at his weapon for the first time in hours. It was reminiscent of the Roman gladius he had used earlier, but it was longer and designed more for slashing than stabbing. A heavier weapon, Jacob felt a kinship with the Roman cavalry blade. This was the one. This would be his partner.

"It's a weapon I've come to enjoy wielding. It suits my style well, I think," he explained, still running his eyes over the simple sword. Provost Thomson nodded, going over to the rack to pick up a longsword. She stood opposite Jacob, settling into position. Was it already time for their afternoon spar?

"Ready?" She didn't wait for a response. Leaping at him with explosive force, her strike would have probably been lethal had Jacob not managed to place his sword between them. Quick applications of wind saved his life.

"What the hell are you thinking, Provost?" he hissed, putting in all his effort to avoid an untimely decapitation. "These have real edges!"

She didn't grace him with a response. Likewise, Jacob stopped worrying about the situation he found himself it, placing himself completely into the mindset of a life-and-death scenario. For a while, he managed to deflect the onslaught, but his timing was slipping. Eventually, the rhythm of the fight reached a point in which his weapon was outstretched, too far to return to parry Provost Thomson's intended attack to his neck.

Desperate for a solution, he slammed an orb of wind into his chest, throwing him backwards. Failing to land on his feet, he rolled to the other end of the room. That hurt. It was still better than being dead, he guessed.

An idea began forming at the back of his mind as he danced around the approaching swordswoman. He would need another chance to retreat away from her, but it would need to be controlled for him to be able to enact his plan. So began the waiting game.