Forbidden Love

Training Day two

Sleep came in fits and starts, my dreams filled with flying daggers and Ottarl's stoic face. When the knock came again in the pre-dawn darkness, I was already awake, Night's Edge clutched in my hands.

This time, Ottarl didn't need to say anything. I fell into step behind him, my muscles protesting with every movement. Yesterday's training had left me feeling like a Minotaur had trampled me, but there was something else too – a new awareness of my magic, how it flowed through me, how it could work with the blade rather than separate from it.

We arrived at the same training ground, but it had been transformed. Wooden posts of varying heights dotted the terrain, some barely reaching my knee, others towering overhead. Ropes stretched between them, creating a complex web of obstacles.

"Movement is life," Ottarl stated, stepping into the maze. "Stand still, you die. Magic from a fixed position is predictable. Weak." He turned those intense red eyes on me. "Show me what you remember."

I took my stance, feeling the now-familiar warmth of Night's Edge in my grip. The magic came easier today, spiralling around the blade just as we'd practised.

"Firebolt!"

The spell launched true, striking its target. Without waiting for his command, I launched into the combination we'd drilled yesterday – spell, strike, spell, strike.

"Acceptable," Ottarl grunted. "Now, do it while moving."

He demonstrated, his massive body somehow gliding between the posts with fluid movement. Each step is precise, and each movement is calculated. "The terrain is your ally. Use it. Flow through it."

What followed was perhaps even more gruelling than yesterday. Ottarl had me running the obstacle course while maintaining the spell-blade combinations. Whenever I hit a rope or knocked into a post, his "tap" would send me sprawling.

"Your magic follows your movement," he instructed, watching me untangle myself from a rope for the dozenth time. "Like water flowing downstream. Direct it, don't force it."

Hours passed. Slowly, painfully, I began to understand. The magic didn't need to be a straight line. It could curve, follow my motion, and become part of the dance between posts. Night's Edge seemed to guide me, its warmth suggesting angles and trajectories I hadn't considered.

"Better," Ottarl said after a particularly smooth sequence. "Now we add pressure."

I barely had time to process his words before a rock the size of my head came hurtling toward me. I dove between two posts, the rock shattering against one of them.

"Move. Cast. Survive."

The next hours became a blur of desperate motion. Ottarl hurled objects at me while I navigated the course, forcing me to cast defensively, offensively, and sometimes to create space to breathe. The knife became an extension of my arm, magic flowing through it as naturally as blood through veins.

When we finally stopped for the midday break, I could barely stand. But looking back at the course, I saw something remarkable – scorch marks and blade cuts that actually formed patterns. My movements had become... if not graceful, at least purposeful.

"You learn quickly," Ottarl said, and I nearly fell over from shock. Two compliments in two days? "But raw talent isn't enough. You need to understand why."

He sat on a boulder, and after a moment's hesitation, I sat too. For the first time, he spoke at length, explaining the philosophy behind what we'd been practising.

"An adventurer who separates their skills fights with half their strength. Magic, blade, movement – they must be one. Like breathing. Natural." His eyes grew distant. "Lady Freya understands this. It's why she ordered your training."

I looked down at Night's Edge, understanding dawning. The knife wasn't just a weapon – it was a focus point designed to help merge my magical and physical abilities.

"The divine enhancement," I ventured. "It's not just for power, is it?"

Ottarl's lip twitched in what might have been approval. "It resonates with your magic. Guides it. The more you use it, the stronger the connection grows."

The afternoon session was different. Instead of hurling things at me, Ottarl had me run drills that combined everything we'd covered: flow through the posts, cast while moving, let the knife guide the magic's path, and never stay still.

By sunset, I was emptied – of magic, strength, and thought. But watching my last Firebolt curve perfectly around three posts before striking its target, I felt something I hadn't before. Not just satisfaction, but understanding.

"You have potential," Ottarl said as we finished. "But the potential is worthless without dedication." He fixed me with that penetrating stare. "Lady Freya has given you tools. The rest is up to you."

I bowed deeply. "Thank you, Ottarl-san."

He turned to leave, then paused. "The training ground is yours to use. Dawn to dusk. Don't waste it."

As I walked back through the darkening streets of Orario, Night's Edge humming contentedly at my side, I reflected on the past two days. I was battered, exhausted, and sore in places I didn't know could be sore. But I was also stronger, more focused, and more complete.

Lady Freya had given me more than just a knife – she'd given me a path forward. Now I just had to be worthy of following it.