Observing closely, Marcellus wondered if even Edwin harboured a hint of fear towards Martia.
However, amongst warriors, there exists an unspoken bond, a connection forged in the fires of battle and survival.
For those who wield their strength as a means of living, a figure like Martia isn't just a source of fear; she represents something far greater – an emblem of admiration and inspiration.
Martia raised her eyes to meet Edwin's and remarked in a distinct Valar accent, "He possesses strength, that's undeniable. But his technique doesn't adhere to any known style... more of a mix. It appears to me that he's a natural swordsman, possibly self-taught"
Martia's assessment lingered in the air, her keen observation reflecting years of combat experience, as she walked away.
Edwin, absorbing her words, couldn't help but smile. Martia had never praised any of his cohorts like so, 'A natural swordsman, soon to be my swordsman, my luck is finally turning eh?' he thought. After smiling he left with the beautiful lady.
As Marcellus' duel concluded, a divide in perception became evident among the onlookers.
The common warriors couldn't hide their delight in seeing Marcellus, who had killed two of their seniors, humbled. In contrast, the more seasoned fighters observed Marcellus with a newfound sense of caution.
Finn, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents of respect and rivalry, approached Marcellus with an easy-going proposition. "I'm planning to unwind with a drink later tonight at the siren. Do you want to join me? Last night was a blast!"
Marcellus felt a surge of irritation at Finn's casual invitation, his grip on the wooden sword tightening involuntarily.
A part of him wanted to lash out, to release the frustration of defeat. But as he looked into Finn's eyes, he saw a genuine attempt at camaraderie, a friend reaching out in his way.
With a sigh, Marcellus reined in his emotions, the urge to strike dissipating as quickly as it had arisen.
"Maybe," he replied curtly, turning away to hide the mix of anger and appreciation brewing inside him. His steps were measured, each one taking him further from the scene of his defeat and the varied reactions it had sparked.
...
Marcellus spent the rest of the day practising his breathing technique. The setting sun cast long shadows on the ground, creating an eerie atmosphere.
As actively he moved through his breathing exercises, he couldn't help but reflect on the events of the day.
The encounter with Priest Corwin in the archives had revealed the intricate web of political intrigue that surrounded Mythralis. The revelation of the Church's interest in The Hulk and its connection to the succession war weighed heavily on his mind.
The allure of power and knowledge tugged at him, but he knew the risks were immense. Taking another potion, especially one from a different pathway, could be fatal. He couldn't afford to jeopardize his life, for power.
And then there was Martia, the Warrior who had effortlessly defeated him in their duel. Her skill and mastery of combat were awe-inspiring, and he couldn't help but admire her. Her assessment of him as a natural swordsman, albeit self-taught, had struck a chord.
Finn's invitation to unwind at the Siren later that night had offered a brief respite from his thoughts. Perhaps it was a chance to let off some steam and forget about the complexities of the world he had been thrust into, possibly meet another one of Mr Doan's numerous girls who wasn't Ingrid.
As the darkness deepened, Marcellus continued his training, sweat glistening on his brow. Marcellus heard a faint, deliberate knock on his chamber door. The sound echoed in the quiet of the room, like a distant whisper from the shadows.
He approached the door with cautious curiosity, 'Finn must be at Siren's by now' wondering who might be seeking him at this hour.
With a subtle creak, he pushed the door open, revealing Edwin standing in the dimly lit corridor. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls, creating an eerie ambience.
Edwin's expression was serious, his face partially hidden in the wavering light. He nodded at Marcellus, a silent invitation to follow him. Marcellus, without a word, stepped out of his chamber and closed the door behind him.
Edwin led the way through the labyrinthine corridors of the manor, their footsteps echoing softly against the cold, stone floor. The atmosphere was laden with tension, as if secrets and mysteries lurked in every corner.
They arrived at a heavy, ornate door adorned with intricate carvings of religious symbols that led to the garden. Edwin pushed the door open slowly, and it creaked ominously, revealing the dimly lit deep blue sky.
"You should probably head to the chapel"
So under the cover of darkness, Marcellus went back to the chapel where he had been earlier in the day.
The chapel was a solemn and sacred space, with towering stone pillars and murals depicting scenes from Lords of Storms' history. The flickering lantern on the altar cast eerie shadows on the walls, giving the impression of spectral figures watching from the darkness.
At the far end of the chapel, the imposing statue of a hooded figure stood Priest Corwin. He was cloaked in a blue mantle, his one blue eye gleaming with an enigmatic light. The priest's presence exuded an aura of authority and mystique as if he held the very secrets of the world in his hands.