Beneath the Veil of Tragedy

Master of Refusal

Clyde stood transfixed, his eyes riveted on the spectacle of the duel unfolding before him. The clash of blades, the sharp intakes of breath, the sheer physicality of the combat was mesmerizing. He gazed intently at Mamba, who wielded his sword with an impressive grace that spoke of years of training and experience. Clyde yearned for that same prowess, that strength that seemed to flow effortlessly from him. Just as he felt himself lost in admiration, Mamba brought Tapian to the ground with a swift maneuver that left Clyde breathless.

"What are you doing out here?" Mamba panted, wiping beads of sweat from his brow as he helped Tapian back to his feet. The weariness in his voice didn’t easily mask the pride in his eyes.

“I want to train too!” Clyde declared, his small fists clenched tightly at his sides. He stood resolute, a fire burning in his chest.

“No,” Mamba replied curtly, not bothering to meet Clyde’s determined gaze, as he resumed his position across from Tapian.

“But why?!?” Clyde rushed forward, his heart pounding. He was confident in his skills; he could expertly handle a bow and arrow, and he had some experience with a dagger. Why wouldn’t he train him?

“You’re weak,” Mamba stated bluntly, still not sparing a glance at his son.

“I’m not weak!” Clyde retorted, his voice a mix of frustration and defiance, the ground beneath him seeming to tremble with his youthful indignation.

Tapian, caught in the midst of this dynamic, shuffled his feet awkwardly, unsure of how to navigate the rising tension. He opted instead to simply dust off the remnants of the bout from his training clothes.

Ignoring Clyde's protests, Mamba shifted his focus back to Tapian, ready for yet another round of their sparring match. Clyde seethed quietly; all he wanted was a chance to prove himself, to stand alongside them, but he felt like a ghost. After a few more intense exchanges of blows, Mamba finally called it a night. With a nod of acknowledgment to Tapian, Mamba strode upstairs, embodying an air of satisfaction.

Clyde, feeling a mix of determination and disappointment, followed Tapian into the small shed where they kept their practice swords. It was dimly lit and smelled of sawdust and leather.

“Train with me,” Clyde urged suddenly, stepping into the shed behind Tapian and startling him slightly.

“I can’t. You saw me; I’m not as good as my father,” Tapian replied, resigning himself to putting away the training equipment with a dejected expression.

“So what?” Clyde pressed on, his blue eyes wide and pleading. “I just need some practice—nothing crazy! I want to get strong too.” His voice was laced with hopeful desperation as if the sincerity of his request would magically sway Tapian.

“Look, I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that. My father has a unique way of speaking, but I doubt he believes you’re weak. He just wants you to rest a bit more; you were asleep for four days straight!” Tapian explained, his tone gentle yet firm.

Clyde paused, weighing Tapian’s words. They struck a chord within him. Yes, this was indeed his first day fully engaging with the family since arriving a week prior. Perhaps Mamba was right; maybe it was too soon to push himself so hard.

“Fine. I’ll give it a week,” Clyde finally conceded, turning on his heel with newfound resolve. “But if he still says no, you’ll train me.” He didn’t wait for a response as he strode back toward the main house, the sharp tap of his feet echoing against the wooden floor.

Ascending the spiral staircase, he stepped into a hushed world bathed in the soft glow of candlelight. The house felt peaceful, almost serene, as he noted how the rest of the household had already surrendered to slumber.