before they ever saw him move. To approach him was to ask for his time and consideration. Disappoint him and the commander cut you down for the insult of considering yourself worthy.
"Why not?" the old warrior asked, his long shadow reaching Soros' bare toes. "I will speak to a young pup like yourself in any way I wish to."
Soros chose his next words a bit more carefully.
"Yes, commander," he said, watching the old man raise a questioning eyebrow, his face mostly hidden in shade. "I would listen to everything you say, but then I ask that you speak the truth to me."
There was a flash in the commander's eyes then as he regarded Soros seriously. Dressed in nothing but a long shirt and trousers, the biting winter was almost too much to bare for him, but he would have rather died than let it show.
"You are calling me a liar," Ustra said and drew one of his long twin swords so fast Soros winced.
He had never seen such smoothness in movement, such grace with a weapon that didn't weigh nothing like Ustra made it seem. He wanted that, more than he'd ever desired anything in his life. The power called to him even as Soros' eyes trailed the blade's path to his bare throat.
"Kneel," Ustra said. "And apologize."
Soros knew that his entire future balanced on the edge of the blade at his jugular right then, about to tumble to either way if he said one wrong word. Then again, doubting himself didn't come naturally to him. It was why he was there, at the age of twelve, far before any of his contemporaries would be.
"No," Soros said.
As a dark flame leaped to life in Ustra's deep eyes, the rest of the words spilled out of his mouth without pause.
"You are testing me. No kneeler ever set foot in Dolon Hall. I asked you not to call me a prodigy, because you don't think I am and neither do I."
The sword stayed in place, but it didn't cut his throat as Soros knew it could of. Merely scratched the surface of his skin, sending a red line of blood down his neck. Soros knew the old warrior was doing it on purpose, because his hand didn't shake.
"Why not?" Ustra asked and there was a curious hint of amusement in his voice. "Here you are. The youngest boy who was ever allowed to come here and try your luck. Does this not make you special?"
"It has nothing to do with luck," Soros replied quickly. "That's why I'm not a prodigy. The ones who call me that either fear me or are simply jealous."
Ustra's laughter rang out in the night as he came closer, still holding the blade at his neck.
"Explain, boy. They might very well be your last words, so make them good."
Soros took as deep of a breath as the blade allowed, because he would be damned if he took a step back. Then Ustra would kill him for sure.
" Prodigy implies I have some sort of a supernatural gift. That I was born with a talent for killing, that I was special to begin with. I trained every day of my life ever since I was four. I live by the ice ocean. I have run the paths that have killed many men. Everything I am, I accomplished myself and they dare to say I was destined to have it easy!"
Ustra was listening patiently. Soros had no idea if that was a good sign or not. Perhaps the old commander was making a lesson out of his pride. That wasn't unheard of either. The warriors already admitted watching from the walls of the academy above them, seeing a hopeful candidate fail. There was much to learn from that.
"So?" Ustra asked, his voice impassive. "What do you have to show for that? Any titles to your name? Famous enemies killed? The respect of your peers?"
"I have scars," Soros said, looking him right in the eyes. "Only I know what they are worth."
A long minute of silence passed in the slow, steady snowfall. Then Ustra removed his sword and the gates rumbled open behind him.
Soros hesitated before following him, prompting the commander to turn back.
"Come along," he said roughly. "The cold will take you soon, otherwise."
He stayed in place, unsure of whether he had actually
"Why not?" the old warrior asked, his long shadow reaching Soros' bare toes. "I will speak to a young pup like yourself in any way I wish to."
Soros chose his next words a bit more carefully.
"Yes, commander," he said, watching the old man raise a questioning eyebrow, his face mostly hidden in shade. "I would listen to everything you say, but then I ask that you speak the truth to me."
There was a flash in the commander's eyes then as he regarded Soros seriously. Dressed in nothing but a long shirt and trousers, the biting winter was almost too much to bare for him, but he would have rather died than let it show.
"You are calling me a liar," Ustra said and drew one of his long twin swords so fast Soros winced.
He had never seen such smoothness in movement, such grace with a weapon that didn't weigh nothing like Ustra made it seem. He wanted that, more than he'd ever desired anything in his life. The power called to him even as Soros' eyes trailed the blade's path to his bare throat.
"Kneel," Ustra said. "And apologize."
Soros knew that his entire future balanced on the edge of the blade at his jugular right then, about to tumble to either way if he said one wrong word. Then again, doubting himself didn't come naturally to him. It was why he was there, at the age of twelve, far before any of his contemporaries would be.
"No," Soros said.
As a dark flame leaped to life in Ustra's deep eyes, the rest of the words spilled out of his mouth without pause.
"You are testing me. No kneeler ever set foot in Dolon Hall. I asked you not to call me a prodigy, because you don't think I am and neither do I."
The sword stayed in place, but it didn't cut his throat as Soros knew it could of. Merely scratched the surface of his skin, sending a red line of blood down his neck. Soros knew the old warrior was doing it on purpose, because his hand didn't shake.
"Why not?" Ustra asked and there was a curious hint of amusement in his voice. "Here you are. The youngest boy who was ever allowed to come here and try your luck. Does this not make you special?"
"It has nothing to do with luck," Soros replied quickly. "That's why I'm not a prodigy. The ones who call me that either fear me or are simply jealous."
Ustra's laughter rang out in the night as he came closer, still holding the blade at his neck.
"Explain, boy. They might very well be your last words, so make them good."
Soros took as deep of a breath as the blade allowed, because he would be damned if he took a step back. Then Ustra would kill him for sure.
" Prodigy implies I have some sort of a supernatural gift. That I was born with a talent for killing, that I was special to begin with. I trained every day of my life ever since I was four. I live by the ice ocean. I have run the paths that have killed many men. Everything I am, I accomplished myself and they dare to say I was destined to have it easy!"
Ustra was listening patiently. Soros had no idea if that was a good sign or not. Perhaps the old commander was making a lesson out of his pride. That wasn't unheard of either. The warriors already admitted watching from the walls of the academy above them, seeing a hopeful candidate fail. There was much to learn from that.
"So?" Ustra asked, his voice impassive. "What do you have to show for that? Any titles to your name? Famous enemies killed? The respect of your peers?"
"I have scars," Soros said, looking him right in the eyes. "Only I know what they are worth."
A long minute of silence passed in the slow, steady snowfall. Then Ustra removed his sword and the gates rumbled open behind him.
Soros hesitated before following him, prompting the commander to turn back.
"Come along," he said roughly. "The cold will take you soon, otherwise."
He stayed in place, unsure of whether he had actually
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