Chapter 2: Den of Lions

The Reverend Mother

Altair had heard the name before but hadn't understood its importance. Nor did he particularly care to. Outside of spending time with his mother, the only thing that brought him some semblance of joy was fiddling with the sword his mother had gifted him on his fourth birthday. A gift he'd cared for and maintained each night. There had not been a single moon. Altair hadn't greased, oiled, cleaned, and waxed his blade until it shimmered perfection like the day his mother gifted it.

"Let us begin. Awakeners!" The Master of Swords, Veltos Aberis, shouted. "Remain where you are. Unawakeners fifty laps around the courtyard and one hundred vertical strokes! Get moving."

Hearing the command for the Unawakened, Altair, alongside those less than ten years, broke formation. To be an Awakener required one to be at the tender age of Ten, where they'd unlock a unique skill that would grant supernatural power. It was a skill that decided their entire future. Those that couldn't awaken would forever remain unawakened, falling to the ranks of slaves if they were so lucky.

"Pick up the pace!" Veltos barked commandingly, reaching for the whipped stashed beneath the scarlet half-cloak. He unhooked it from its harness, allowing its slender jet-black tail to fall.

Sweat gathered over the young children's slender bodies that slowly began laboring beneath the sun's glare. They ran for fear that jogging would not suffice. Around the square, they hurried along, their faces flushed red as they pushed, over and over and over… and over. None dared to stop or slow.

At the forefront, Altair's breath seemed smooth, carrying an elongated rhythm as the lead, his worn body squealing for rest with each step. Heat scorched his lungs as he proceeded forth, slowly beginning to lap the others.

A gesture that did not fit too favorably with many of the unawakened. But Altair didn't mind, nor did he care. Everyone hated him anyway. He did not carry the name Aros, nor was he a servant, much less a slave, that carried their crest. At least slaves held the faint hope of being free beneath the booth of their masters one day, becoming servants should they play their cards right.

But Altair, as a guest, held no such fate.

"Come on, Sky." Terance, a young serving boy shouted, glancing back at a girl, a short, stocky thing littered with freckles. Her auburn hair was wet against her sun-kissed skin, desperately gasping for air. "We've got to catch up. We can't lose to an outsider."

Skylar, or Sky as many of her friends called her, nodded, wanting to push past the agonizing heat gathering in her chest. She could feel the scorching flames of the sun's kiss, the pangs of heat stretching from her calve running up her thigh to the throbbing pulse swelling within her skull. She groaned.

"I can't."

"You can!" Terrance shouted, pulling at her hand as if to help. "Last time, we laid in bed for an entire week because of the Master of Swords whip. A week, Sky! If we want to awaken the sword proficiency skill, we can't miss a single day! We can't fall behind. If we want to gain this skill by fifteen, we must push! Come On!"

Through the corner of his eyes, Altair glanced at them silently, wanting to offer some… words of encouragement. But… he held himself back, having learned the consequence of words earlier this year with a young slave girl he'd taken a liking to. Pain… torturous pain tore at his heart as he recalled her fate.

He could still taste the blood mist that hung in the air from the whipping. He could still vividly recall Tessa's gut slowly being torn away by the Master of Swords whip, tearing at her until her intestines blanketed the ground, And yet her suffering didn't end there. Tessa was beaten till her body tore, leaving nothing but shredded meat for all to see.

Her alleged crime: unknown. Not that it mattered, given her station.

Altair's mind pulled away, as did his eyes. The shadow of solitude was all but engraved in his heart with the image of a slave girl he dared call a friend. He forced a grin, stopping with a heavy heart after completing his fifty laps.

The throbbing of his muscles had long since faded, leaving only numbness in his lower half. He lifted his sword strapped to his waist, his breathing still harsh. Altair parted his feet parallel to his shoulders and swung into the open. The splitting of air hissed like that of a serpent, yet ethereal as the night.

Altair's Swordsmanship was unlike anything within House Aros that was known for its brutality on the battlefield. His sword was silent, swift, cold, and ruthless. It neither focused on speed nor strength but rather control.

Each stroke Altair whisked through the air felt sharp as if he was not gripping a wooden sword but one forged of steel.

"A sword is not meant to protect," He recalled his mother's words. "When you lift that sword, it's to kill. It's to slaughter. Remember that. There isn't a need to romanticize the battlefield."

"Ha!" He performed again, fighting against his uneven breaths, sweaty palms, and his rapid heart. He swung again, his blade swifter than ever, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

From a distance, Veltos stood before his awakeners, his arms poised behind his back. He stared at the young awakeners, not as children but as men and women. Age had no place on the battlefield. He lived by those words. And it had been proven it's worth many times upon the fields of war.

"Have you all already gathered a Gravity Blade?" Veltos asked, noting the still black edge on each of the wooden blades.

"Yes, sir!" They shouted in unison, thrusting their chest out to make themselves seem bigger.

But Veltos wasn't impressed. "Good. Two hundred vertical strikes and two hundred horizontal. This is the warm-up, and as you know, the sword grows heavier with each swing. I want perfect form. Failure will result in the end of my whip."

"Ser, Yes, Ser!!!"

The Master of Swords stared, noting how those with bows or guns had to keep a particular stance. In contrast, those with cold weapons had to be more active. He was thankful for the G-Weapons but couldn't stand the lack of talent before his eyes.

It was atrocious.

"Laros, your stance is too wide. Tighten it up. Darla, keep your gun up. I don't care if you're bored. Solva, you blasted idiot. You call that technique! I've seen better technique from a bloody whore!"

From a distance, Altair listened. He had always been curious about the Awakened. Some could conjure flames, others lightning, and some could fly or walk on water. Even if they weren't training their awakened abilities today, he found the Aros Sword Technique: The Scarlet Blade fascinating. It was only a shame he couldn't learn it as an outsider.

Nevertheless, that did little to stop him from gleaming insight ever since the death of the slave girl, Tessa. Altair had begun to study those around him. He never wanted to end up that way. Beaten to a point where all that was left was scraps of meat.

'I don't want to die like that,' he promised himself beneath his breath for his ears only. Over and over, he said those words as if they were his mantra.

His blade whirled through the air, slowly amassing a greater force with each downward arc. By the thirtieth swing, sweat had drenched Altair's uniform, sticking to his skin as though it were a leach. But he didn't stop. Not until—

"Altair!" Shouted the Master of Swords. "To me!"

Surprise caught the young Altair, but it quickly faded.

He approached.

"This is your second round? Punishment?" Veltos knowingly asked. It was the only explanation as to why he was here.

"Yes, Sir." Answered Altair.

"Then you will pass on conditioning training today. We are sparring."

Altair's large, beady eyes rose. "We, Sir?"

The Master of Swords grinned wolfishly and swung to the young Awakeners. "Yes. Today, you'll be sparring with them. Problem?"

He sneered. " None, Sir."

'Then let us see what you can do. In this den of lions. You must be strong, boy.' Veltos thought somewhat hopefully and nodded. "Good. Laros, you're up against Altair. Don't embarrass yourself. Your opponent is not even awakened yet. I'll not hear excuses less you and your Father die of shame."

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