Gaël took a moment to think.
He hadn't had the luxury of reflection these past few days. His schedule, dictated by training and the Academy's demands, had reduced him to an automaton: strike, dodge, breathe… sleep whenever time allowed.
But on this late afternoon, the world seemed to hold its breath. He finally had time. Not for rest, no, but to confront what had been growing within him.
Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes.
There, nestled in the recesses of his mind, lay that embryonic sword. A diffuse presence, almost imperceptible… but constant. It was neither a voice nor a memory, but rather a vibration, an inner echo engraved by the Severance.
A shiver ran down his spine, a mix of apprehension and wonder.
What was this deep meditation?
He remembered the words perfectly:
'Close your eyes. Let go of the steel. Cut with your mind.'
What a strange formulation.
He frowned. Nonsense, really! How could one sever with their mind, with something that had neither form nor hold over the material world?
Logic screamed contradiction. Yet, this instruction came from the legacy of a swordbrother. A man whose power Gaël had witnessed firsthand, a man capable of cleaving through a Monarch with an ease bordering on blasphemy. A man who could sever faster than Gaël's eyes could follow.
Simple in concept, yet difficult to grasp…
Then there was that mysterious phrase: "The First Steps of the Severance." These words, tied to the name Irel the Unstable, were accompanied by a brief explanation.
The weight of the blade did not rest on the metal, it said, but on intention.
Once again, the idea puzzled him. How could intention rival steel? Perhaps one had to hold a sword, feel its balance, the strain on the wrist when brandishing it, to understand?
But tonight, he had none. Only his thoughts to carve the void… and the imaginary blade he clumsily attempted to envision.
'Irel… who were you?' he wondered. 'A legend, no doubt, but a lost one.'
He knew nothing about him but was curious about his story. Where had he come from? What had he accomplished? What abominations had he vanquished?
The legacy revealed none of these details. Only these obscure phrases, these seemingly trivial pieces of advice that, deep down, he felt carried a hidden meaning.
Doubt crept in.
But maybe that was the problem.
Doubt. A gaping breach in his determination.
And that's when he understood.
Doubt was the first barrier. The one Irel himself had likely had to break.
The shiver returned, but this time, it was accompanied by a rising warmth.
Something was unraveling within him. An invisible tension, ready to snap.
Then, he stopped doubting.
Inhaling slowly, he let his shoulders relax. His fingers brushed against the stone wall, feeling the rough texture of the rock. His right arm rose, palm open, fingers stretched as if to carve through the world itself. His heartbeat slowed, pulsing in sync with that presence within him.
He no longer thought about how. He let the moment consume him.
The world around him stretched, distorting. The whispers of the wind, the rustling of the leaves, the evening chill against his skin… all faded away. Only that fragile thread remained, the tenuous connection between him and the nascent sword within.
His hand cut through the air. Not a sharp motion. Fluid. Determined.
His fingers brushed against a hanging branch of the old willow.
Nothing was severed.
The branch trembled, indifferent, and remained whole.
But Gaël felt it.
Something had changed.
It was not matter he had cut… but hesitation.
A step. Small. But decisive.
_ _ _
Far to the east, where the morning mist stretched lazily over dark waters, a narrow boat glided across the tranquil surface of a winding river. The sky, streaked with ashen and amber hues, seemed trapped in an eternal dusk, casting a soft, uncertain glow over the landscape. Along the banks, magnolia trees leaned forward as if whispering ancient secrets to the current. The air carried the mingling scents of damp earth and wild vegetation, saturating each breath with a familiar, lingering sharpness.
Amidst this serene, unchanging scene, a solitary man sat at the bow of the vessel, unmoving, like a statue forgotten by time. His frame, lean yet sinewy beneath the folds of a long, weathered gray tunic, seemed to blend seamlessly with his surroundings. A wide-brimmed straw hat, the kind recognized in the distant provinces of the Empire of the Sun, shadowed his face, humble in its design, yet effective in concealing his features. Only a few strands of dark hair, streaked with silver, escaped the brim, brushing against the tanned skin of his nape, marked by countless days spent beneath open skies.
His eyes remained closed, his expression one of deceptive tranquility.
Calloused, veined hands rested upon his knees. To his right, propped against the boat's worn railing, lay an unassuming sword. Its scabbard, wrapped in timeworn leather, bore the scars of countless journeys, and for those who knew how to look, countless battles.
The river whispered its eternal lullaby, its peace broken only by the rhythmic lapping of water against the hull.
And then… something changed.
Subtle. Fleeting. A vibration.
Not in the air. Not in the water. But deep within his mind.
Like the faint quiver of a taut string plucked from miles away, a whisper, quiet but distinct.
The man did not open his eyes. He didn't need to.
Beneath the smooth surface of his awareness, the sword of his mind, a presence he carried within him as naturally as one would a vital organ, resonated in return.
"A brother has sharpened his Severance… and now another has touched the blade."
The words formed in the hollow of his consciousness, clear as a self-evident truth. A smirk, barely perceptible, tugged at the corner of his lips.
No surprise. No doubt.
Just that flicker of amusement belonging to those who have watched life long enough to understand its cycles.
Another one... he mused. The river carries its new currents. Blades rise and fall… like the tides of time.
And so he remained, still, rocked gently by the boat's slow drift. The sky above continued to weave itself in colors of ember and ash, yet the world around him seemed to hold its breath, a silent witness to this suspended moment.
At last, the man inhaled, a long, steady breath.
The vibration within his mind faded, receding like a stone that had broken the water's surface before vanishing into the depths below.
_ _ _
Far to the west, beyond the ocean, beneath a storm-laden sky, a man lay motionless.
Rain fell in heavy beads onto the bayou's beaten earth, streaming down his worn coat, soaking the strands of black hair plastered against his forehead. Jonah Voss, known as Stormblade, was not asleep. He lingered in that fragile in-between, that thin boundary where consciousness drifts on the edge of steel and void.
His eyelids fluttered. His breath quickened.
Something… someone had just crossed a threshold. Had just touched the blade.
A shiver ran down his spine, but he did not open his eyes.
He couldn't afford to, not in this moment.