"My family has served House Arkwright for six generations," the old knight explained as they took their positions.
"My grandsire served the lady's great-grandsire, and my own father, her grandsire. And I had the honor of serving now…"
His expression darkened momentarily.
They began with simple exchanges, testing each other's reactions and capabilities.
Sir Reginauld's style was classical—rooted in the treatises of masters but refined through generations of practical application.
Jaenor found himself hard-pressed to match the old man's technique, his own more instinctive approach struggling against such technical perfection. It had been more than six months since he held a proper sword; back then, in the village, he used to practice every day with his sword, and he even tried his bow skills.
"Your fundamentals are sound," Sir Reginauld observed as they paused to catch their breath, "but you fight like a man who learned in war rather than in the salle. Effective, but incomplete."
"I'd be honored to learn," Jaenor said, meaning every word.
"Then we begin tomorrow at dawn. But understand—I don't just teach swordplay. The blade is merely one aspect of a warrior's development. If you truly wish to reach your potential, you must learn to master your aura as completely as you master your steel."
-
A week passed in intensive training, and Jaenor found himself drawn deeper into Sir Reginauld's teachings with each passing day.
The old knight was not merely a master of arms but a philosopher of combat, someone who understood the deeper connections between mind, body, and spirit that separated true warriors from mere soldiers.
"Aura is not simply power," Sir Reginauld explained as they worked through advanced footwork drills.
"It is the externalization of will, the manifestation of your inner conviction given form. Without proper foundation—what we call the core—it remains wild, unpredictable, and dangerous to yourself as much as your enemies."
Jaenor was trying to form the core too. The last time when he used the aura, he could tell it was unruly and unstable, like the Origin power before he formed the Origin core.
He understood the fact that cores are the base for the fluent flow of energy.
It was during these sessions that rumors began to spread through the chateau.
Servants whispered about the mysterious visitor who trained with the legendary Sir Reginauld, who was the strongest knight known in the duchy, probably all around it.
His family was known for their loyalty to Arkwright House.
Morgana addressed the gossip with characteristic directness when it finally reached her ears.
"Let them think what they will," she told Emmanuelle during one of their private conferences.
"If they must explain Jaenor's presence and privileges, it's better they assume he's my lover than discover the truth."
The duchess raised an eyebrow at her stepdaughter's bluntness. "That's quite a sacrifice to your reputation, my dear."
"Reputations can be rebuilt," Morgana replied pragmatically.
"Bloodlines cannot."
When the servants' knowing looks and barely concealed smirks began to reach Jaenor himself, he simply shrugged them off.
The truth of his relationship with Morgana was far more precious than any gossip, and besides, his focus had become entirely consumed by Sir Reginauld's lessons.
But he couldn't help but smile hearing the rumor.
Her lover, me! Aunt Morgana is surely too much woman for any one man… lucky for me, I'm not just any man.
"You're progressing remarkably quickly," the old knight observed as they worked through exercises designed to help Jaenor sense the flow of aura within his own body.
"Most students require months to achieve even basic perception. You're managing it in days."
Seeing Jaenor's skills, the old man went out of his way to put more effort into teaching Jaenor.
"I can feel... something," Jaenor said, his eyes closed in concentration.
"Like a warm current just beneath my skin, but I can't quite grasp it."
"Don't grasp," Sir Reginauld advised.
"Guide. Aura responds to intention, not force. Think of it as water finding its natural course rather than a tool to be seized."
Day after day, they worked in the secluded courtyard, combining physical training with meditative exercises.
Sir Reginauld would demonstrate techniques passed down through generations of Arkwright retainers—breathing methods that enhanced focus, mental disciplines that strengthened will, and physical practices that aligned body and spirit.
"The core," Sir Reginauld explained during one particularly intense session, "is not something you create. It is something you discover. It exists within every warrior, waiting to be awakened, but it requires the proper catalyst."
That catalyst came, unexpectedly, during what should have been a routine sparring session.
They were working through the Profound art of Blade plays from the bind—those moments when two swords lock together and victory depends on technique rather than strength.
Sir Reginauld had initiated a complex sequence involving a disarm and counter-riposte, movements that required perfect timing and absolute commitment.
As Jaenor attempted to follow the prescribed response, something strange occurred.
The world around him seemed to slow, each movement of Sir Reginauld's blade becoming crystal clear despite its lightning speed. He could see the micro-expressions on the old knight's face, could track the subtle shift of weight that telegraphed the intended attack, and could feel the exact moment when his opponent's commitment to one line of attack created an opening for another.
Without conscious thought, Jaenor's body responded.
His sword moved not where Sir Reginauld's blade was, but where it would be. His footwork carried him not away from the attack, but through the narrow window of safety that existed for barely a heartbeat. His counter-thrust found its mark with the kind of precision that spoke to preternatural awareness.
Sir Reginauld stepped back, his eyes wide with something approaching awe.
"Did you feel it?" he asked breathlessly.
Jaenor lowered his sword, suddenly aware that something fundamental had shifted within him. The warm current he had sensed for days was no longer elusive—it was there, present, available.
Not wild or chaotic, but organized, centered around a point of perfect stillness somewhere deep in his core.
"I... yes," he whispered, wonder coloring his voice. "It's like a flame, but not hot. Like light, but not bright. Like..."