Paragon of Destruction

He gave her a brief glare, but he stood up all the same, then walked over to the piece of meat and carefully deposited it on Brightblade’s plate. He owed her that much, at least.

"Could you carve it up, as well?" she asked. This time, she was unable to keep a smile from flashing across her face.

Arran sighed, but he did not complain. Although Brightblade was taking full advantage of the situation, she had earned the right to do so. Even if she had no real need for Arran’s assistance anymore.

Just two weeks had passed since the duel, but Brightblade’s recovery in that time had been nothing short of miraculous.

Right after the battle, her injuries had been grievous — deep wounds, broken bones, and bruises that covered her body from head to toe. It had taken a full day before she even regained consciousness, and when she finally came to, she was in a pitiful state.

During the first few days, the Valley’s best healers had cared for her day and night, using every shred of Essence they had to mend her broken body. And their ceaseless efforts had paid off. Barely three days after the duel, she was already back on her feet, albeit unsteadily.

After that, with the help of Arran’s dragon meat and Snowcloud’s pills, her progress had been dramatic. It only took half a week before she insisted on resuming Arran’s training, and by now, a stranger would be unable to see that she had suffered serious injuries just weeks earlier.

Still, her recovery had a long way to go yet, and Arran knew that months would pass before she fully regained her strength. But even this was far beyond anything he could have expected, and he would do whatever he could to help her further along the way to a full recovery.

As Brightblade finished the grilled leg of lamb — her third that morning — she stood up from the table. "We should spar for a bit," she said. "You could do with a bit of practice."

Arran gave her a flat stare. "Weren’t you feeling too weak to get your food just a moment ago?"

"The meal helped," she replied cheerfully. "And some light exercise will help me recover faster."

With a sigh, Arran followed her to the training fields in his mansion’s gardens. There was no point in objecting — once Brightblade’s mind was set, there was little he could do to change it. Especially when it came to training.

Just a moment after they arrived at the training fields, however, Jovan approached at a jog.

He greeted Brightblade with a bow — one noticeably deeper than the ones he had given her before the duel — then turned to Arran.

"Lord Ghostblade," he said. "Gifts have arrived from the House of Fists and the House of Leaves, and their Elders would like to know when you could meet them." Somewhat uncomfortably, he added, "Their messengers are currently waiting at the gate, in anticipation of your reply."

Arran frowned. "Put the gifts with the others, and tell the messengers what I said before: that I will send word when I am ready to meet the Elders."

"Of course, Lord Ghostblade." Jovan gave Arran a nod and Brightblade another bow, then hurried off again.

As his steward departed, Arran sighed in frustration. Over the past two weeks, he had received gifts and invitations from dozens of different Houses, some of which he hadn’t even known existed until they contacted him.

"You’ll have to meet with them sooner or later," Brightblade said as she unsheathed her sword. Not waiting for a reply, she immediately launched a quick attack at Arran.

Arran barely managed to draw his sword and fend off the attack, then quickly took several steps back, dropping into a defensive stance. "Is it really necessary for me to meet them?"

Brightblade darted forward, then struck a deceptively powerful blow that opened a gap in Arran’s defense. A quick flick of her sword brought the blade against Arran’s throat, and she calmly stepped back.

"My win. And yes, it’s necessary. Given your new position, all the Houses will want to forge ties with you. Rejecting them will earn you no small number of enemies in the Valley."

Before he replied, Arran launched a rapid series of blows at Brightblade, though she deflected them all with ease. Without pause, she responded with several quick counter-strokes, the last of which struck Arran in the chest.

Arran stepped back, then let out another sigh. "I don’t even know what my position is."

"Of course you do," Brightblade said. With a few swings of her blade, she drove Arran back several paces. "You are the heir apparent to the Ninth Valley’s Matriarch."

Hearing the words said so openly caused Arran a brief moment of distraction, which Brightblade exploited to strike another blow to his chest.

"My win again," she said. "And there’s no escaping it now. The Matriarch’s position has been strengthened by the death of her strongest detractors, and with you her apprentice, the same goes for your own position."

She didn’t mention her own role, but then, there was no need to say it out loud. Brightblade had slain three of the Valley’s strongest Elders, and as her apprentice, Arran’s status had skyrocketed as well.

In fact, it almost seemed like the Houses were more interested in him than in Brightblade — perhaps, Arran thought, because the awe they felt for Brightblade included more than a little fear. To the Houses’ leaders, attempting to win over her apprentice might seem the safest approach in appeasing her.

All of this left Arran in a position that was as enviable to others as it was unwelcome to him.

Rather than being able to train quietly, he now stood at the center of attention, with no end to the number of powerful strangers trying to win his favor.

He glanced at Brightblade and launched another series of attacks, slower and more deliberate this time. They crossed swords for several minutes before she inevitably got the better of him again.

"So what should I do?" he asked, rubbing his shoulder where she had struck him with the flat of her blade.

"Practice your swordplay more, for a start," she replied with a grin. But her expression turned serious a moment later, and she continued, "Give them what they want. Meet with them, then accept the gifts and training they will offer you. Your training will benefit from their help, and you might even gain some allies."

She attacked again before Arran could reply, and for the next half hour, they sparred in silence. Despite her injuries, Brightblade was more than a match for her student, and Arran’s forehead was covered in sweat when they finally ended the training.

He quickly changed into a clean robe, and as they headed back to the mansion, he gave Brightblade a curious look. "How did you do it?"

She responded with an innocent smile. "Do what?"

"Win the duel," Arran replied, knowing that she understood exactly what he meant — he had asked the question nearly every day over the previous week, with Brightblade deflecting it as deftly as she deflected his sword. "That defense of yours, and your final attack... I still don’t understand how either of those things is possible."

He half-expected Brightblade to dodge the question once more, but instead, she gave him an appraising look.

Yet the answer he hoped for didn’t come. Instead, she said, "I will explain it to you once you become an adept. By then, your knowledge of magic should barely be enough to understand the answer."

It was more of an answer than she had given him previously, and though it did nothing to satisfy his curiosity, he nodded in acknowledgment. Even if he had to wait for an answer — and longer than he would have liked, at that — he knew that it was more than she offered the Ninth Valley’s Elders.

"Let’s eat a quick meal," she continued. "After that, we’ll pay Rhea a visit."

"We’re seeing the Matriarch tonight?" Arran asked. While the Matriarch had visited several times to check on Brightblade in the days after the duel, there had been little sign of the woman over the past week.

"We are," Brightblade said. "It’s time for you to resume your training in earnest, and I’ll need to discuss with her how we’ll involve the other Houses." Then, with a slight grin, she added, "And there’s still the matter of the amulet — a debt I expect her to repay with interest."