The Guildhall yard was an exercise in chaos, or rather, Kasimir’s fruitless efforts to impose order upon it. He stood beside a pine dummy scarred by crossbow quarrels, a chipped buckler strapped to its left spar. Around him, the Azure Comets fumbled through rudimentary combat routines. Borislav ‘Boro’ Janda, faintly green from his previous night's tavern run, swung a blunted iron axe with the grace of a felled cedar, missing the straw target by a foot and nearly clipping a passing stable boy.
“No, Boro,” Kasimir stated, his voice flat, devoid of the emotion the situation demanded. “The objective is to hit the target, not the air around it. And certainly not the support staff.”
Boro grunted, wiping sweat from his brow. “But the air’s got a good swing to it, Boss! Feels right.”
Kasimir pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d spent three full days attempting to instill tactical coherence into the squad. It resembled teaching pack hounds basic geometry. He had hammered out weighted boots, lead-lined vambraces, and laid an obstacle course with fewer lethal corners than their usual delves. Yet their progress lagged. Anya, ever the tempest, bolted through the ditch run, her motions swift and violent, yet completely unrefined. She leaned entirely on raw reflex.
“Anya, your balance,” Kasimir called out, watching her nearly stumble over her own heels during a forward roll. “You drop your hips too late. You telegraph every strike.”
Anya skidded to a halt, hands on her hips, her braid swaying with irritation. “Telegraph? Kasimir, I move like lightning! No one sees me coming.”
“Perhaps not, but your spine will see a chiropractor,” he retorted, adjusting the dummy’s shield. “Your current form invites injury.”
She scoffed, striding towards him, her brow furrowed. “You know, for someone who insists on making us run around like trained circus animals, you haven’t actually shown us how it’s done.” She pointed at the iron-shod wooden blade Kasimir wore at his belt, carried purely to demonstrate guard positions. “All these diagrams and maneuvers. What good are they without nerve? Without brute force?”
“Heart is a liability without discipline,” Kasimir said, meeting her gaze. “Power is useless if you cannot wield it.”
“Oh yeah?” Anya challenged, chin tilted up. “Prove it. Drop the lectures and raise a guard. Let’s see whose grand schemes hold up against real pressure.” She drew her wooden spar-blade, its dulled edge catching the midday sun. The surrounding guild recruits froze, abandoning their routines to watch.
Kasimir regarded her, then the sword. A duel. He was a strategist, a blacksmith, not a warrior. Not anymore. But to refuse would undermine his authority entirely. He was already a hostage to their survival. He reached for his training blade, the familiar weight a strange comfort. “Very well. But understand, this is not a contest of brute force.”
“Good, because I’d win,” Anya grinned, settling into a wide, aggressive stance, her blade held high. “Show me what a grand strategist can do.”
Anya lunged without warning, a rush of motion with her blade whistling straight for his collarbone. Kasimir did not bother to block; he simply turned his back heel three inches, letting the pine wood skim empty air. He parried her follow-up with a soft clang, deflecting the momentum rather than opposing it. Anya, relying on her strength, overextended. Kasimir’s blade flicked out, a quick, precise movement. It tapped the inside of her elbow, then her wrist. Anya’s grip faltered, and the sword clattered to the ground.
She stared at her empty palm, blinked, and snatched the hilt from the mud. “Fluke!”
They clashed again. Anya was a storm, all furious strikes and powerful swings. Kasimir was the eye of the storm, calm, almost motionless. He moved with an economical grace, each parry, each sidestep, a calculated answer to her aggression. He didn’t try to injure her; he simply disassembled her offense. Twice more, her blade spun from her grasp, landing with a dull thud in the dirt. Each time, Anya’s frustration grew, replaced by a dawning astonishment.
“You… you aren't even aiming to strike,” she gasped, chest heaving after scooping her dropped hilt from the dirt for the fourth time. Sweat pasted copper strands to her temples.
“There is no need,” Kasimir said, his voice even. “To win, one only needs to neutralize the opponent’s ability to fight.”
Anya stared at him, a complex mix of awe and annoyance warring in her eyes. There was a respect blooming there, a seed he had not intended to plant but was now undeniably present. Her next lunge was different, less furious, more thoughtful. She was learning, adapting. And Kasimir, for a fleeting moment, felt a flicker of something close to satisfaction.
Then, the Guildhall doors burst open with a crash. Every head whipped around. Boro stood there, swaying slightly, his face a mottled crimson. In his hand, he gripped a heavy, rune-etched pewter vessel, dark grease weeping from its seams. His small eyes, usually good-natured, glared at Kasimir with rabid venom.
“You!” Boro roared, his voice thick with unadulterated rage. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you, blacksmith? Always with the plans, always with the clever words!” He stumbled forward, raising the flagon. “Working to make Anya look like a fool! Plotting to take over!”
Anya took a step back, bewildered. “Boro, what are you talking about?”
But Boro didn’t hear her. He saw only Kasimir, a perceived usurper, a threat to his guild leader, his friend. “You think you can trick us all? You think we don’t see you, plotting your little schemes? Getting between Anya and her guild?!” He threw down the pewter tankard, unhooking the heavy wooden axe at his belt. He charged across the dirt with a guttural roar, veins bulging along his neck. He swung the blunted head not with his typical sloppy sway, but with brutal, unnatural speed straight toward Kasimir’s brow.
Kasimir barely had time to react. This wasn't a duel; it was a murderous assault. He parried with his practice spar, the dense hickory vibrating down into his elbow. Boro drove forward like an enraged bull. Kasimir retreated along the perimeter fence, deflecting strike after strike, the clean economy of movement he’d shown against Anya degraded to sheer survival. Boro’s attacks were relentless, wild, yet devastatingly effective. One of his powerful swings caught Kasimir’s shoulder, a sickening thud echoing through the yard. Kasimir stumbled, his arm going numb.
Boro raised his axe high, a crazed snarl on his face, ready to cleave Kasimir in two. Kasimir saw the wild, unfocused malice in his eyes, the complete absence of the Boro he knew. This wasn't Boro.
Just as the axe began its descent, a blur of motion appeared from the side. Radek Cerny, breathless, skidded to a halt, a small, corked vial sailing through the air. “He’s being controlled!” Radek shrieked, his voice raw with urgency. “The cursed vessel! Don't let him hit you!”
The vial shattered against Boro’s chest, its shimmering, amber contents splashing across his skin. Boro froze mid-swing, a guttural gasp tearing from his throat. The haze in his gaze shattered, replaced by sudden bewilderment, then naked horror. The axe slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground. His massive body swayed, then collapsed with a heavy thud, unconscious.
Silence descended upon the training yard, broken only by Kasimir’s ragged breath. He pressed a calloused hand against his throbbing shoulder, testing the bruised collarbone with cautious fingers. The guild members stared, their faces a mixture of shock, fear, and dawning comprehension. They looked from Boro's motionless bulk to the fallen tankard, then to Radek, and finally to Kasimir. He stood there, bruised, his notched wooden sword still hanging in his grip, his expression returning to its customary, chilly calculation.