Alaric moved through his day with an unusual lightness in his step. A faint smile played across his lips, subtle yet enough to draw nervous glances from his peers. Whispers followed him wherever he went, speculation running wild. His expression, harmless as it was, seemed to fuel the rumors even further.
If only they knew, he thought, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.
By the time his fencing class arrived, Alaric felt ready to put his plan into motion. He stepped into the training hall, taking in the familiar atmosphere. At the front of the room, scrawled across the blackboard in bold letters, was a message he'd seen countless times:
Pair up and spar. I'll stop you when I'm ready to instruct.
Alaric glanced around the room. His classmates were already starting to pair off, murmuring among themselves. He felt a pang of nervous anticipation settle in his chest but quickly pushed it aside. This was his chance to let just enough of his skill shine—to sell the story he'd crafted.
With a steadying breath, he moved toward the equipment rack, ready to pick up a training blade.
Alaric's first opponent was someone he typically lost to—deliberately, of course. Their matches were always close enough to avoid suspicion, but today would be different. This time, Alaric planned to end the bout quickly and efficiently, leaving no doubt that his skill had improved.
From there, he would cycle through weaker opponents, showcasing just enough of his ability to draw attention, until he inevitably faced someone "too strong." That would give him the perfect opportunity to hold back without it seeming unusual.
He'd even rehearsed his excuse for hiding his strength: I've been focusing on refining my technique quietly, aiming to become a Royal Knight so I wouldn't threaten my brother's position. No need to make a big deal out of it.
With that in mind, he picked up his training blade and stepped into position, ready to begin the first match. He could already feel the weight of his classmates' eyes on him, but he kept his expression calm and composed. Today was just another step in his carefully laid plan.
Alaric shifted into a low, balanced stance, his training sword held lightly but purposefully in his grip. His opponent, a fellow student named Grayson, stepped forward confidently. Grayson was known for his aggressive, fast-paced attacks that had overwhelmed Alaric in their previous spars—at least, that's what everyone thought.
The moment the bout began, Grayson lunged forward, aiming a quick thrust toward Alaric's shoulder. Alaric's eyes tracked the movement with practiced ease, and he shifted his weight just enough to let the blade pass harmlessly by. Before Grayson could recover, Alaric stepped in, his sword striking Grayson's exposed wrist with a sharp tap.
Grayson recoiled, his stance breaking momentarily. He adjusted quickly, swinging his blade in a wide arc, trying to force Alaric back. But Alaric didn't retreat. Instead, he stepped inside the swing, catching the flat of Grayson's blade with his own and redirecting it downward. With a flick of his wrist, Alaric sent Grayson's weapon clattering to the floor.
The watching students gasped. Grayson scrambled to retrieve his weapon, his face flushed with frustration, but Alaric was already pressing the attack.
Grayson barely managed to raise his sword to block as Alaric's strikes came with machine-like precision. A high slash forced Grayson's guard up; a quick thrust toward his side made him stumble back. Each strike was measured, deliberate, and faster than anything Grayson had seen from Alaric before.
Grayson tried a desperate counterattack, swinging wildly in hopes of catching Alaric off guard. Alaric sidestepped easily, his footwork smooth and calculated. With a single, decisive motion, he swept Grayson's legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground.
Alaric pointed the tip of his training blade at Grayson's chest, his breathing steady, and his expression neutral.
"Yield," Alaric said simply, his tone calm but firm.
Grayson glared up at him, then sighed, dropping his sword in defeat. "I yield."
The room was silent for a moment before murmurs broke out among the students. Alaric stepped back, his face unreadable, and helped Grayson to his feet. He didn't linger to bask in the attention; instead, he moved off to the side, resetting himself for the next match.
The plan was working. All eyes were on him now, but not with suspicion—only awe.
Alaric noticed Cedric moving toward him from across the training hall, his brother's smug confidence radiating with each step. Alaric's heart sank slightly—this wasn't the time for that confrontation. Winning against Cedric too early would draw the wrong kind of attention, and losing now would completely ruin the momentum he was trying to build.
Thinking quickly, Alaric turned to another student nearby—a tall, wiry boy named Marcus—and raised his training sword. "Mind sparring?" he asked, keeping his tone casual but firm.
Marcus nodded, eager for the challenge. Cedric halted mid-step, his sharp eyes narrowing as Alaric and Marcus moved into position. Alaric felt his brother's gaze linger, but he forced himself to focus on the opponent in front of him.
The bout began, and Marcus wasted no time charging in with a series of rapid strikes. Alaric deflected each one with fluid precision, barely shifting his stance. He saw every move coming, his calm demeanor contrasting sharply with Marcus's increasingly frantic attacks.
With a deft parry, Alaric redirected Marcus's blade to the side and stepped in, delivering a sharp strike to his opponent's shoulder. Marcus staggered back but tried to recover with a wide swing. Alaric ducked under it smoothly and countered with a quick thrust that landed squarely on Marcus's chest.
The fight was over almost as quickly as it had started. Marcus stepped back, rubbing his chest where Alaric's blade had landed, and gave a reluctant nod of respect.
"You're faster than I expected," Marcus muttered, his tone a mix of annoyance and admiration.
Alaric didn't respond, offering only a polite nod before stepping back. His victory had been decisive, but not flashy enough to draw excessive scrutiny—exactly what he wanted. He could feel Cedric's eyes on him still, the calculating look unmistakable, but Alaric didn't meet his gaze. Instead, he moved to the side of the room, resetting for his next match.
The momentum was building, and for now, his plan was working.
Alaric continued to sidestep Cedric's attempts to approach, using each new match as an opportunity to solidify the image he wanted to project. After a string of convincing victories against progressively tougher opponents, he finally decided the time was right. Any longer, and avoiding Cedric would start to look deliberate.
He turned toward his brother, who stood across the training hall with an expectant smirk. Their eyes met, and Alaric gave a subtle nod. Cedric's expression shifted into something colder, more calculating, as he stepped forward.
"Finally ready to stop running, little brother?" Cedric said, his tone dripping with condescension.
"Just wanted to warm up," Alaric replied evenly, though he felt his grip tighten slightly on his training sword.
The other students, sensing the tension, began to gather around. Cedric's reputation as one of the academy's top swordsmen made every sparring match of his a spectacle, and now that he was facing Alaric, the whispers started anew.
The brothers squared off, their contrasting styles immediately evident. Cedric stood tall, his stance measured and confident, while Alaric settled into a lower, more fluid posture, ready to react.
Cedric moved first, lunging with a precise thrust aimed at Alaric's shoulder. Alaric sidestepped smoothly, deflecting the blade and countering with a quick slash aimed at Cedric's side. Cedric parried it with ease, and the fight began in earnest.
Their blades clashed with a rhythm that was almost hypnotic, each strike and counter flowing seamlessly into the next. Cedric's technique was impeccable, his movements refined from years of disciplined training. Alaric, on the other hand, fought with a more instinctual style, his adaptability keeping Cedric on his toes.
"Not bad," Cedric said, though his tone carried a hint of surprise. "You've improved."
Alaric didn't respond, focusing entirely on the fight. He caught Cedric off guard with a sudden feint, forcing his brother to step back and reset his stance.
The crowd murmured in astonishment. Cedric rarely had to retreat.
Cedric's eyes narrowed. He stepped up his pace, his strikes coming faster and with more precision. Alaric met him blow for blow, the sound of their swords echoing through the hall. For a brief moment, Alaric saw an opening in Cedric's guard—a chance to end the match decisively. His instincts screamed at him to take it, but he hesitated.
This isn't the time.
Instead, Alaric deliberately slowed his reaction, allowing Cedric's next strike to slip past his defense. The blade tapped his shoulder, signaling the end of the match.
Cedric stepped back, lowering his sword with a triumphant smirk. "You've gotten better, but you're still not on my level," he said, loud enough for the surrounding students to hear.
Alaric nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "Guess I still have a lot to learn," he said, his tone carefully neutral.
The crowd dispersed, their whispers fading as the next matches began. Cedric lingered for a moment, his eyes scanning Alaric's face as if trying to decipher something.
"You almost had me," Cedric said quietly, his smirk fading into a more serious expression.
Alaric didn't reply, simply walking away to reset for the next sparring session. His plan was working, but Cedric's parting words lingered in his mind. His brother wasn't fooled as easily as the others—and that could be a problem.
After class, as Alaric wiped the sweat from his brow and prepared to change back into his uniform, Cedric approached with a dark look in his eyes. Without warning, his brother shoved him hard against the wall, drawing the attention of nearby students.
"So, you've decided to show off now, is that it?" Cedric hissed, his voice low but brimming with anger. "You must have a death wish."
Alaric frowned, feeling the urge to retaliate but suppressing it. He could end this confrontation easily, but keeping his cover intact was far more important.
He forced his expression to remain neutral and spoke in a calm, measured tone, loud enough for the surrounding students to overhear. "I'm not interested in being the patriarch, Cedric. I'm focusing on my swordsmanship because I want to join the Royal Knights. That's all."
Cedric's grip tightened momentarily before Alaric leaned closer and dropped his voice so only his brother could hear. "Make sure you pass that along to Father. Since he doesn't bother reading my letters."
Before Cedric could respond, Alaric pushed him back with enough force to break his hold but not so much as to draw more attention than necessary. The surrounding students exchanged nervous glances, whispering to one another, but no one dared intervene.
Without waiting for a response, Alaric turned his back on Cedric and strode toward the changing area. He quickly donned his uniform, adjusted the collar, and left for his next class, not bothering to look back.
Cedric stayed behind, glaring after him, his hands clenched into fists. The tension between the brothers had only grown, and Cedric's mind raced with thoughts of what his younger sibling might truly be planning.