The New Recruit (3)

Mikael reached for a nearby robe resting on a chair and slid his arms into it. The cloth, instantly warming him, became his protection shield against the chilly morning air. Still groggily, his feet took him out of the tent.

And as he emerged, the sounds of the wood swords clashing rhythmically that reverberated through became apparent to his ears. Enthusiastic cheers echoed through the campsite as a circle of knights gathered to watch their comrades spar, their infectious energy sending Mikael's adrenaline to react.

"Over here, my lady!" Beth called out, waving to catch Mikael's attention. She stood behind the row of knights, and her eyes were sparkling with excitement.

Sending her a nod, Mikael began to make his way towards Beth. As he strolled through the gathering of knights, his ears overheard her voice excusing as they navigated past their figures. 

"Clear the way, friends! Excuses! Make room for the Marchioness!"

The knights, their faces streaked with sweat, quickly realized who was coming and parted as they obliged. As Mikael cut across the passageway they formed, receiving a chorus of morning greetings and nods of respect along the way.

Yet, just as Mikael ventured further, he caught the noise of wood clashing against wood, which was followed by a resounding thud, capturing the attention of all.

In the thick of their exchange of blows, one of the participants found himself thrown off balance. He toppled to the ground with a loud thump, falling directly onto his buttocks. The victorious knight, showing his teeth in glory, towering over the fallen with a wooden sword menacingly positioned at his opponent's neck.

"Talon! Talon!" The buoyant shout of victory rang out in the makeshift arena.

Still grinning, Talon accepted his comrades' applause with a humble nod. His chest was heaving; his breath was ragged as he fought for air after the exertions of sparring, and he found his shirt's fabric clinging to his skin.

Though weariness had painted every feature of his face, his eyes shone with the fire dancing in victory.

"That's the fourth time Sir Talon won, my lady!" Beth exclaimed, expressing her awe.

Mikael couldn't help but lift his eyebrows at the winning streak while the corners of his lips curled upwards into a gentle smile. He wore an expression that conveyed surprise and amusement, shaded with appreciation for Talon's accomplishment.

Talon's eyes traced across the elated assembly of knights' faces, his gaze searching intently for Nicolaus. He wanted to demonstrate his skills, striving to earn a nod of validation from the person whose opinion mattered most to him.

However, Nicolaus remained inconspicuously away. 

Talon's forehead creased in mild disappointment as he continued to scan the crowd. His eyebrows drew together, forming a vertical line between them as a growing sense of uneasiness gnawed at him. 

"You are quick on your feet and good endurance, Sir Talon," a voice broke through from his reverie, pulling his attention away from the search for Nicolaus. 

It was Sir Daelan.

Talon turned to face him, his pride welling up at the compliment from the vice commander of the Marquess' knights. 

"Thank you, Sir Daelan," he replied. 

Sir Daelan possessed an intimidating figure, a man of stern presence. It was because of his goatee beard and the patch on his left eye, accompanied by his towering height.

As he stood there, a thought crossed Talon's mind. If he could impress him, perhaps Sir Daelan would send word to the Marquess about his skills.

And with that idea, he began, "Sir, would you care for a spar?"

To which broke Sir Daelan. He replied with the grimiest smile he had ever given in a long time. A boom of laughter accompanied this. It sounded like sudden thunders that echoed in the forest, seemingly shaking the leaves as they trembled in perfect sync with laughter.

…

…How?

Talon wondered. He could not fathom how he could not land a single strike on Sir Daelan. He was like an annoying mosquito that refused to be touched.

The wooden swords clashed and danced in the arena as they sparred. As his effort continued to hit nothing but the air, Talon's frustration grew relentless like a storm.

"What's going on?" he muttered behind his ragged breath, baffled that he could not even graze Sir Daelan's shirt.

His muscles ached, and his breath came in gasps. He had already used up most of his stamina from sparring with the other knights earlier in the day. The fatigue left him resembling a puppet with wobbling arms and thighs.

Talon adjusted his stance, gripping the wooden sword tighter, his knuckles white. 

What was he lacking? 

He knew he lacked something but couldn't put his finger on it. The skill difference between him and Sir Daelan was painfully evident.

Over the span of fourteen years, he had poured his blood, sweat, tears, and soul into sharpening his skills as a knight for the Steele family. It was the relentless dedication that was the source of pride for him.

He couldn't give up now; he knew surrender was not an option. Fervor within him burned a fierce desire to land a single strike on Sir Daelan. 

Just one, and it would be a victory for him.

With blazing resolve, Talon hurled forward at Sir Daelan, who just effortlessly maneuvered his attack with a sidestep and pushed him away with the sole of his shoes.

Talon stumbled backward, his feet skidding across the dirt as he used his remaining energy to regain balance, preventing himself from being pushed too far away. Panting heavily, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath, beads of sweat dripping from his furrowed brow.

It was then that he noticed someone approaching from his peripheral vision. It was the Marquess, leisurely walking toward Mikael and taking up a spot beside him.

As Talon's chest heaved, images from the previous night played in his mind like a relentless loop with no signs of unrolling the scene where Mikael had kissed Nicolaus.

Sir Daelan, having sensed Talon's inner turmoil, interjected with a grin, "Trouble keeping your focus, Talon?"

Shaking off his thoughts, Talon's fists clenched, and he muttered, "I will get that strike."

But no matter how hard he tried in pursuit, he couldn't. Each attempt was met with a parry or a sidestep. Though sweat stung his eyes, Talon did not dare to stop.

The knights watched in silence, and their expressions were filled with sympathy.

The spar continued minute after minute, and without end. Talon's strikes grew slower, less precise, faltering and stumbling over. On the other side, Sir Daelan remained a picture of a fluid swordmaster. 

Anyone would sense the depths of Talon's frustration.

But, amidst what was happening, Nicolaus observed quietly, his eyes fixed on Talon as he crossed his arms in his chest.

"...Sir Talon," Beth called, her voice a whisper.

Mikael found himself torn. Part of him wanted to close his eyes, to look away from the struggle. But Nicolaus' firm grip on his arm stopped him from walking out among the spectators.

"You have to watch him," he said, serious.

At long last, after what felt like an eternity, Talon's strength diminished. He launched one final desperate attack, pouring every ounce of his remaining energy into it. 

And as expected, Sir Daelan deflected it, sending Talon stumbling backward with a curve of his sword.

His weapon clattered to the ground as defeat weighed heavy on his shoulders. Lying on the ground, his breathing struggled. It was then, as he gazed skyward, he realized the sun had climbed to the horizon. He remembered it was just up at the corner before.

Talon heaved for air, and a few coughs sent jolts to his body. He let the warmth of the morning caress his skin under its ray.  The spar had ended, not with a victory but an indisputable acknowledgment of his limits.

A few minutes later, a looming figure shaded him from the sun, offering an extended hand. Sir Daelan helped Talon to his feet, wearing a rare expression of respect.

"In a knight's life, defeat is part of our journey. It is how we overcome them that shapes us."

Talon accepted the offered hand. As he rose, he met Sir Daelan's gaze with gratitude churning from his persistent frustration. His forehead etched lines of faint irritation, but his eyes shone warmth.

"Thank you," he said, smilingly appreciating the message.