Lucius (ONC 2021)

2

The sword felt heavy in Lucius' sweaty palm as he wearily blocked the umpteenth thrust by his instructor. The steel clanged loudly as the blades clashed, the force of the blow jolting down Lucius' arm. He staggered backward, sweat stinging his eyes, his arms burning from the muscle exertion.

"Wake up!" Atticus, the instructor, barked, lunging forward, his sword sweeping in for a strike at his head. Lucius knew he wouldn't get his blade up in time to block, so he hurled himself forward, lashing out wildly with his sword as his knees hit the ground. He felt the edge of the blade connect with something right before his face slammed into the cool, hard-packed sand of the training arena.

The flat side of a blade struck his ear, hard enough to set it ringing. Lucius bit his tongue to prevent a moan from escaping his mouth. Weakness was not accepted by the Furians in their soldiers and leaders. Any sign of it was immediately punished.

"Sorry excuse for a warrior!" Atticus berated. "You will be Fure's downfall! You are not worthy of Sipio House!"

Lucius pushed himself up onto his knees, keeping his fingers curled around the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword despite his aching hands. To release his hold on the weapon would only earn another cuffing and reprimand from the instructor. A Furian never relinquished his weapon, not even in the throes of death. One who lets go is no true Furian.

Lucius wanted to prove he was a true Furian, and truly worthy of the Sipio House. So he held onto his sword as he panted for breath, his thin tunic drenched with sweat, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. The burly Atticus stood in front of him, his tunic bearing signs of sweat under his arms and around his neck, and a trickle of blood ran down his bare leg from the cut Lucius had made on his calf. The crimson drops left little stains on the dark sand.

"Stand up!" Atticus barked. Lucius obeyed, tremors running through the muscles in his arms, torso, and legs. He was exhausted and his mouth was dry, but he couldn't ask for a drink of water. That, too, would be seen as a sign of weakness.

And there must be no weakness in Fure's future king.

"We go again," Atticus demanded. And without another word, the instructor stepped forward, sword raised for the attack.

Lucius just barely deflected the strike, staggering backward as his legs trembled from exertion. Atticus moved in quickly, executing a swift series of blows and thrusts that Lucius barely recognized. He continued to retreat, his movements sluggish as he worked to block the instructor's sword. But Atticus made it through his defenses several times, the flat of his blade slamming into his skin, the edge occasionally taking a small bite of his flesh. Soon rivulets of blood coursed down his arms, sore spots dotting his arms where bruises would flower later.

"What is this, eh?" Atticus demanded. "Eh? Lucius Sipio's son, barely able to hold a sword! Unworthy son, unworthy heir! You should have been given to the river, you should have been left for the vultures instead of allowed to ruin your father's legacy! You are no warrior!"

Goaded on by the constant abuse, Lucius yelled in anger, the raw scream tearing at his parched throat. Hurling himself out of his retreat, he slashed at Atticus, surprising the instructor and forcing him to halt his advance. Despite every single muscle in his body screaming in protest, Lucius pushed his slight advantage, slashing and thrusting, his movements sloppy and raw, lacking the finesse of Atticus' stroke. The only thing driving him was his anger.

"You fight like a Regellian!" Atticus taunted him, still moving backward as Lucius channeled all his rage and exhaustion into his blows. A Furian never gives up, a Furian never admits defeat. "A rough, untrained barbarian, whose crude blows landed them in slavery!"