Shadows of Aether

Chapter 6: Pick Up Your Sword

Abaddon faces his opponent in the training yard, sword in hand, his brow furrowed in concentration. He lunges, slashing toward the older, more experienced duelist. His movements are precise but lack the force necessary to overwhelm. His opponent smirks, parrying easily, sidestepping the attack, and using the blunt end of his sword to knock Abaddon off balance. Abaddon stumbles backward, his sword slipping from his grasp.

"Pathetic," King Darragh growls from the sidelines, his tone filled with scorn. "You're no better than the last time. Markus Lukyan, the fire prince, can already defeat three men!" His eyes narrow as he gestures sharply to the sword lying on the ground. "Pick it up."

Abaddon, feeling the weight of his father's disappointment, reaches for the sword, his hands trembling. He stands, swinging again, but his strikes are sloppy. His opponent easily dodges each one, landing a solid hit across Abaddon's side, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

"Again!" King Darragh bellows, anger radiating from him. "Pick it up!"

Abaddon, his pride bruised and his body aching, does as he's told. His hands tighten around the hilt, his jaw clenched in determination. He lunges once more, and this time, something within him shifts. The earth beneath his feet responds. Vines spring up, wrapping around his opponent's ankles, briefly trapping him. It's not enough to win the duel, but it buys Abaddon time to land a strike.

King Darragh gives a sharp nod, patting his son's back with approval. "Victory or nothing, boy," he mutters before walking off, his mood still dark but less stormy.

Abaddon watches his father leave, frustration bubbling under his skin. He feels the weight of failure even in the moment of small success.

His sparring mentor, Varric, a weathered man with deep-set eyes, approaches. "Don't let him get to you," Varric says, his voice softer than usual. "Your grandfather was terrible with a sword too, yet he won most of his duels."

Abaddon glances at Varric, curious despite himself. "How?"

Varric grins, pulling out his own sword. "By turning his opponents' strength into weakness." He waves the blade in a slow, deliberate motion. "Take the fire kingdom, for instance. They rely on brute force. They burn hot, act rashly. If you can trap them in their own power, make them overextend, you can turn their strength against them."

Abaddon tilts his head. "What about the air kingdom?"

Varric's eyes gleam with amusement. "The air kingdom... they're slippery. They see your moves before you make them. But if you hit them with something unexpected, even you won't see coming, you can throw them off balance."

Abaddon nods slowly, absorbing the lesson. "And the water kingdom?"

"Ah, they're easy," Varric smirks. "Trap them in their own magic. Create a sphere of water around them, and they'll drown."

Abaddon's eyes widen, impressed. "What about earth? What's our weakness?"

Varric's smile fades, his expression more serious. "Our connection to the earth is our strength, but also our greatest vulnerability. Knock us off solid ground, suspend us in the air, and it becomes much harder to draw power."

Abaddon processes the information quietly. Varric claps him on the back. "Come on, let's get some lunch."

As they walk off the training field, Kwan and Nacola observe from a distance, sipping tea in the garden. Kwan's sharp eyes track Abaddon's movements, his lips curling into a faint smirk.

"That boy might have the most training, but he's one of the worst fighters I've ever seen," Kwan remarks dryly, taking another sip of tea.

Nacola giggles. "I could do better."