The afternoon sunlight cast long shadows across the lounge, bathing the room in muted golden light. Vince took a step back, studying his work: the cushions, fluffed just right; the candlesticks, polished to a gleam; the floral arrangements, lending the air a faint scent of lavender and rose. Satisfied; he turned to leave, only to pause as he noticed Lira standing in the doorway, watching him with her usual, unreadable expression.
She wore a deep green gown, elegant yet stark. Her auburn hair was swept back in a complicated twist. Her gaze moved over the room slowly, observing each detail in a way that seemed almost clinical. There was no smile, no warmth in her expression, only a quiet, detached approval.
"Vince," she said, her tone cool and precise. She took a step forward, her gaze fixed on him. "You've kept the lounge in acceptable order."
He nodded, feeling a flicker of pride despite her impassive tone. "Thank you, ma'am."
Her eyes shifted to meet his. "Your sixteenth birthday approaches. You're old enough to understand that a place like the House of Pearl doesn't maintain its reputation or security on good fortune alone."
Vince felt his spine straighten, sensing that this was no ordinary conversation. "Yes, ma'am," he replied carefully.
"Up until now, you've served the House with small tasks: things any boy could manage." Her tone was sharp but not unkind. "A House like this one has needs beyond what's visible to our guests or to most who live here. And as of late, the need for protection, discreet yet effective, has grown."
Her gaze remained fixed on him; her eyes assessing. "You'll begin taking on new responsibilities, Vince. Gallen has been watching you, measuring your progress. He thinks you're ready for something more substantial than housekeeping."
A knot formed in his stomach, but he met her gaze without wavering. "What exactly do you expect me to do?"
"To defend this House, alongside Gallen and the others who serve its interests." She tilted her head slightly, her voice barely softening. "There's a reason he's been training you. Protection, real protection, requires more than a boy's willingness; it requires loyalty and discretion."
Vince felt his heart hammering in his chest; but he nodded, absorbing the weight of her words. "I understand, ma'am."
"Good." She inclined her head, though her expression remained impassive. "You'll find that Gallen doesn't suffer fools, nor does he indulge weakness. If you intend to take on this role, then you'll meet his standards without question."
Her gaze lingered on him, unyielding, almost as if she were weighing him in that moment: assessing his worth with an impartial eye. "Gallen was looking for you earlier," she continued, her tone dismissive. "Find him in the courtyard. Your training will intensify, starting today."
Without another word, Lira turned and exited the lounge; her footsteps soft, her posture as composed and stoic as ever. Vince remained where he stood, her words reverberating in his mind: a mandate, an expectation that left no room for doubt or failure.
Steeling himself, he took a steadying breath and headed toward the courtyard. Whatever challenges awaited him, he was ready to face them.
Vince found Gallen in the courtyard, standing near the stone fountain with his arms crossed, his sharp eyes catching sight of Vince as he approached. Gallen was broad-shouldered and sturdy: his grizzled hair and scar-lined face a testament to the life he had lived. To most, he was an intimidating figure, a shadow of the House who seldom spoke and rarely smiled. But to Vince, he was a steady, dependable mentor: a man who taught with a mixture of gruffness and wisdom that Vince had come to value more than he'd expected.
Gallen didn't waste words; instead, he tossed Vince a wooden practice sword with a slight smirk. "Let's see if you've kept up with your exercises," he said, his voice a low rumble.
Vince gripped the wooden sword, already feeling the familiar weight in his hands as he adjusted his stance. Gallen circled him; his gaze assessing. He nodded approvingly, though his expression remained serious.
"Remember," he said, positioning himself with a fluidity that belied his age, "strength without control is just recklessness. Today, we're working on footwork, balance, and precision. Any buffoon can swing a sword, but knowing where and when to strike; that's what separates a novice from a master."
They began with the basics. Gallen watched closely as Vince moved through a series of stances: shifting his weight, planting his feet, and adjusting his grip. Gallen corrected him with the occasional nudge or firm instruction, each comment direct and practical.
"Good. Now keep your guard up," Gallen said, raising his practice sword as he stepped in to attack. Vince reacted quickly, blocking the strike with a solid thud, his muscles tensing as he absorbed the force.
Gallen pressed harder, forcing Vince to step back, to readjust his balance. "What did I say about balance?" he barked, his voice carrying a note of reprimand.
"Don't lose it," Vince replied, his voice strained as he focused on maintaining his stance.
"That's right," Gallen grunted, stepping back momentarily before lunging forward again. Vince parried, this time managing to hold his ground.
They continued in silence, the dull sound of wood against wood filling the courtyard as Vince blocked, shifted, and deflected each of Gallen's strikes. His muscles burned, but he pushed through the fatigue, determined to meet each challenge with as much strength and focus as he could muster. Gallen's intensity pushed him beyond what he thought he was capable of, his movements becoming sharper, more controlled with each exchange.
After several rounds, Gallen paused, lowering his sword and giving Vince a faint nod. "You're improving," he said, his tone serious but not unkind. "But remember, a fight isn't just about the body. It's about the mind."
Vince straightened, wiping the sweat from his brow as he caught his breath. "What do you mean?"
Gallen regarded him with a thoughtful expression, his eyes narrowing as if recalling a memory from long ago. "A fight is as much about reading your opponent as it is about the sword in your hand. You must learn to look beyond the blade, to anticipate, to understand what they're thinking." He took a step back, motioning for Vince to follow. "Watch me."
Gallen shifted his stance, moving with a practiced ease that seemed almost effortless. "Your stance should reflect your purpose," he said, pivoting with a smooth motion as he demonstrated. "A defensive stance should feel natural, steady, grounded." He demonstrated, lowering his center of gravity, his movements precise. "And an offensive one should be poised, ready for opportunity."
Vince mimicked the movement, adjusting his feet, his posture, following Gallen's every shift and stance. The older man corrected him with brief touches, repositioning his hands, tilting his stance until Vince felt the difference—a subtle change that made his position feel more stable, more controlled.
"Good," Gallen said, nodding as he watched Vince move through the forms. "Now, a lesson on restraint." He moved closer, his gaze intense. "Imagine that you are in a fight,
and that you only have one strike—one chance to hit your target." He held his sword aloft, as if readying a strike, but he didn't move. "You're not waiting out of fear, but out of purpose. You're choosing when and where to strike for the most impact."
Vince listened intently, holding on to Gallen's every word. Gallen had spent a lifetime fighting, and Vince reveled in the experience.
They continued their practice, Vince absorbing each lesson, each stance, each deliberate motion. He found himself moving more fluidly, his strikes becoming sharper, his blocks more controlled. Gallen's steady guidance grounded him, kept him focused, each movement a new opportunity to refine his skill.
After a particularly intense exchange, Gallen stepped back, regarding Vince with an approving look. "Not bad," he said, his tone gruff but edged with a hint of pride. "You're learning to control your strength, to make it work for you."
Vince nodded, feeling a quiet pride in his progress. He had come to respect Gallen not only as a mentor but as a figure of authority, a guide who had taught him more than just the basics of swordplay. Through their sessions, Vince had come to understand that fighting wasn't just a matter of physical skill; it was about control, about intention, about learning to act on instinct.
They stood in silence for a moment, only the quick labored breaths of exertion from Vince filling the air. Gallen regarded him for a long moment, his gaze thoughtful. "You've done well today, lad," he said finally, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Keep up that focus, that determination. It'll serve you well."
Vince met his gaze, feeling a sense of gratitude that went beyond words. He had come to see Gallen as more than just a teacher; he was a mentor, a guide, someone who had shown him what it meant to stand firm, to be resilient.
As the session came to an end, Gallen clapped a hand on Vince's shoulder, his expression serious. "Remember, Vince," he said, his voice low. "Strength isn't about bludgeoning your opponent with a blade. It's about knowing when to strike and where to strike."
With those words, Gallen turned and strode off, his footsteps fading as he disappeared down the hallway, leaving Vince alone in the courtyard.
For a moment, Vince lingered by the fountain, the sound of the water a steady rhythm that filled the silence. He gazed at the water's surface, watching the way it rippled and flowed. His breathing slowed, the beating of his heart steadying out to a normal rhythm. There was
something about the water that calmed to him, almost seemed to fill him with more energy.
He reached out, letting his fingers trail through the cool water, feeling only gentle resistance, the weight of it against his skin. In that moment; he felt a sense of peace, a calm that settled over him like a warm cloak, centering him.
The moment passed quickly, but it had lessened the pain of his aching muscles. And as he left the courtyard, he carried with him Gallen's words, each lesson etched into his mind: a reminder of the strength and control he was beginning to cultivate.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a warm golden light over the House, Vince joined the others in preparing for the evening's guests. The lounge was aglow with candlelight, the rich colors of the furnishings taking on a warm, inviting hue.
He noticed Mira moving gracefully through the lounge, her burgundy dress flowing as she moved into the room. She stopped at a table and set out her tools of entertainment for the night. An elegant looking harp and a box of pieces for the Kings and Commoners game that patrons loved to play. She caught his eye, giving him a small smile as she worked on setting up the pieces.
"Busy as always," she remarked, her tone light.
"Just got done with my lessons from Gallen." Vince replied, returning her smile.
Mira's eyes softened as she studied him, her gaze thoughtful. "You know, Vince, you've grown into someone the House can rely on," she said quietly. "When I first met you, you were so quiet, such a crybaby. And now. . ." She let the sentence trail off.
He felt a warmth at her words, his heartrate picking up as if he was in the middle of sparing with Gallen. "Th-th-ank you, Mira." Vince stumbled over his words.
She gave him a faint nod, her expression softening further. "Care for a game?" Mira said while holding up the king piece from the tables almost set up board.