Chapter 8 - 08: Swords, and Sparks

Opeka's autumn air nipped at the training field, where Killyaen stood, his wooden practice sword flashing under Goran's watchful gaze. His recent exploits—splitting Goran's sword, turning an Ironhide Rhino into a "Demonic Rhino" with Moonflower sap, and cementing Janko's "Cursed Cat" infamy—kept the village buzzing. But a quiet rift lingered in the Black Stone Tavern's kitchen, where Bera's fierce kiss hung unresolved, a spark waiting to ignite or fizzle.Killyaen's training had grown extraordinary, his strength surging despite N'Nazmuz's curse, chosen years ago under the shaman's eerie chants. Its 30-kilogram pressure scaled with his progress, grinding his bones as he grew stronger. Goran, the seven-time Immortal Arena champion, noticed oddities. When Killyaen sprinted, his boots sank into the earth, leaving dents as if an Ironhide Rhino, not a lean elf, had charged. A leap to dodge Goran's swing landed with a thud, cracking the soil. A Moonshade Squirrel, its silvery fur glinting, darted from a nearby tree, startled by the impact."You're no elf, you're a bloody Ironhide Rhino!" Goran grunted, prodding a dent with his boot. "Curse is scaling, lad. You'll kick holes in mountains soon." Killyaen, sweat-drenched, grinned, his gold-flecked eyes gleaming. "Mountains? I'm aiming for stars, old man."Goran had mulled Killyaen's fighting style for weeks. The curse's weight slowed his reactions slightly, a flaw one heavy sword couldn't mask. Two lighter swords, dual-wielded, would let him flow faster, leveraging his agility. Goran sought Marko, Opeka's wiry blacksmith, at his forge, its heat shimmering with festival lanterns still etched with Aurelion's flames. "Make the lad two short swords," Goran said, tossing a pouch of coins. "Balanced, light, for dual-wielding. A gift for his progress."Marko, soot-streaked face splitting into a grin, pushed the pouch back. "For Killy? No charge. His 'Demonic Rhinos' and 'Cursed Cats' keep Opeka alive." Goran grumbled but nodded, respecting the gesture.By midday, Marko strode into the tavern, where Killyaen scrubbed tables, dodging a barmaid's swat as he teased, "Your curves outshine these tankards, Lila." She laughed, tossing a rag at him. Marko set down a leather-wrapped bundle. "From Goran, via my forge," he said, revealing two short swords—curved steel blades etched with faint swirls, light as feathers yet razor-sharp. "Dual-wield these, Supreme Elf. Make Janko's barn glow brighter."Killyaen's grin flared, lifting a sword to test its balance, the blade whistling. "Marko, Goran, you're legends!" he said, clapping Marko's shoulder, the curse's stamina easing the ache. "These'll carve chaos." Marko chuckled. "Don't slice my forge."The afternoon drill tested the swords. Goran pushed Killyaen to chain Wind's Rebuke into Thunder's Edge as a dual-wield combo. "Rebuke to anchor, Edge to strike," he barked, his blade humming through a pivot-and-slash. Killyaen, wielding both swords, felt the curse's weight but moved smoother, the lighter blades dancing. A Moonshade Squirrel chittered, dodging a stray slash that nicked a tree. "Focus, or you'll carve your ego," Goran said, parrying a wild strike.By dusk, Killyaen's combo clicked, the swords singing as he spun Rebuke into Edge's upward cut, splintering a practice dummy. Goran nodded, pride glinting. "Not awful. Keep at it." Killyaen, panting, felt his amulet pulse faintly, a whisper of secrets from his books—tales of "cursed ruins" beyond the plains—stirring his mind.In the tavern, Killyaen served ale, juggling tankards with curse-fueled endurance, dodging Janko's glare from a corner. The "Cursed Cat" stayed silent, his fear of Killyaen's pranks a leash, but his muttered, "You'll slip, Elf," promised trouble. Patrons hummed snatches of the "Cursed Cat" ballad, their chatter weaving Mirna's rants about Spirit Stones cursing beasts. A traveler, sipping ale, spun a tale of "ruins of old gods" in distant lands, sparking Killyaen's curiosity, his books' cryptic passages echoing.Bera was the tavern's shadow. Since their kiss—her lips crashing into his after the skirt prank's fallout—they'd become strangers. The kitchen, once alive with jabs and swats, was a silent void. Bera barely met his eyes, hands buried in dough, her quips gone. Killyaen, his teasing dried up, felt her tearful face knotting his gut.As the tavern emptied, Killyaen lingered, polishing a tankard until it gleamed, the curse's weight steadying his restless hands. The kiss gnawed—Bera's fire, the patrons' "elf babies" chant. She was striking, her curves vivid, but was there more? He didn't know, but the silence was unbearable, their banter a ghost he needed back.Swallowing hard, he slipped into the kitchen. Bera scrubbed pots, her flour-dusted apron clinging to her curves, dark curls loose. She stiffened as he approached. "Bera," Killyaen started, voice low, no swagger. "About the kiss… we need to talk." She glanced up, eyes wary, but nodded. He leaned against the counter, grinning faintly. "You know I'm a pest, but a gorgeous one. That kiss—was it just heat, or… more? I miss you swatting me."Bera sighed, relaxing. "You're an idiot," she said, soft but sharp. "It was heat, not love. You're a pain, but…" She blushed, scrubbing harder. "I miss yelling at you." Killyaen grinned, relief loosening his chest. "So, we're good? Back to you calling me Supreme Pervert?" Bera snorted, flicking water at him. "Don't push it, Elf."Their banter sparked, tentative then free. Killyaen dodged a floury swat, teasing, "Careful, love, or I'll steal another kiss." Bera laughed, tossing a bread roll. "Try it, and I'll bake you into a pie!" The air turned electric, their eyes lingering. Bera stepped closer, brushing his arm, and Killyaen's pulse surged. What followed was a playful wrestle—flour dusting their clothes, laughter echoing, the counter creaking as they tussled. It was raw, joyful, a release of tension etched in giggles and mock swats.When it ended, they sat breathless, Bera's head on his shoulder, the tavern silent. "That," Killyaen panted, "was worth every swat." Bera shoved him, grinning. "Don't expect it again, pest." Goran, trudging down from his room, paused at the kitchen door, beard twitching. "Lock up when you're done with your nonsense," he said, winking before heading to bed.They dressed, Bera's spoon swat landing on Killyaen's shoulder as they locked the tavern, their old fire reignited.