The training courtyard of Valebast's keep was quiet in the pre-dawn chill, lit only by oil lamps set in iron sconces. The fog still clung to the stones, curling low around the feet like a living thing. Torik stood at the edge of it, arms crossed, a sour look on his face.
He didn't belong here. Not in the practice yard. Not with warriors.
He was a thief.
A thief with quick fingers and quicker lies. Training yards were for soldiers and knights, people who shouted before they fought. Not someone who'd spent most of his life hiding in shadows and deception.
And yet, here he was.
Kell had insisted. And when that didn't work, Dama stepped in.
"You want to live," she had said, dragging him down the stairs by his collar. "You train. And not just the shadows and tricks kind. You need to know your body. Because something's changing in you, and if you don't learn to control it, you'll be wasting endless potential."
So now he stood in the courtyard, still clutching the same dagger he'd used since the slums of Valebast. The grip was worn, the blade short from endless sharpening. It wasn't elegant. Wasn't noble. But it was his.
And it felt right.
Dama stood across from him, armored only in loose training clothes, a wooden practice blade slung across her shoulder. Her stance was relaxed, but her eyes sharp.
"First thing you need to learn," she said, pacing a slow circle around him, "is that musclebinding isn't about strength. Not really. It's about control. It's about the moments when instinct kicks in and your body listens."
Torik scoffed. "I survived fine without it."
Dama spun, pointing the tip of her wooden blade at him. "Barely. And if not for it I would be dead right now, you should realize what having multiple bound arts means."
Torik bristled. He looked away. "I'm not like you. I don't fight head-on. I survive. I run. I hide."
"You leapt across a room to stop a blade meant for my head," she said, stepping closer. "That wasn't a Veilbinder's trick. That was raw instinct. That was musclebinding. And it saved my life."
He didn't answer. He stared at his feet, kicking at the frost.
Dama sighed. "You think I was born swinging a blade? I was a noble but a low house, I had to train hard and painfully often at no gain. But eventually someone saw something in me, and I chose to become more. You already made that choice, Torik. You just haven't admitted it yet."
He looked up slowly. There was no mockery in her eyes. No judgment. Just hard truth and the weight of her survival.
"Fine," he said, lifting the dagger. "But I'm keeping this."
She smiled. "You'd be a fool not to. A sword isn't what makes the warrior. Intent does."
They moved to the center of the yard. The oil lamps flickered.
"Again," she said.
Torik shifted into a stance. He didn't have forms or patterns. He just moved like he always had. Low. Quick. Sharp.
Dama advanced slowly, testing him with wide arcs of the wooden blade. He dodged, ducked, twisted under the swing and struck out. The edge of his dagger tapped her hip.
"Better," she said. "But you're holding back. I can see it."
"Because I don't want to lose control!" he snapped. "That's what happens, right? You take too much of that strength, and it eats you. That's what the Bound Knights are."
She held his gaze for a moment. "That's what happens when you bind for others. Not yourself. You didn't take from Tharoghul's crown. You reached into yourself when someone needed you. That power came because of you. Not despite you."
Torik flexed his hand.
Since that day, he'd felt it. That buzz just under the skin. A pulse in his bones. Sometimes it felt like his limbs were too light. Sometimes too heavy. Sometimes like the world slowed around him.
"So, what now?"
"Now you learn what it means to be bound twice."
She stepped back and raised the wooden blade.
"Come at me again. And this time, don't think. Just move."
Torik exhaled slowly.
Then he moved.
He felt it in his legs, they sprung and shot out like a ballista bolt. A jolt of energy went through his body, he was flying towards Dama at full speed and didn't hold back his power as he aimed for her chest.
Dama stepped back with the same speed he had and parried, right,she also has this power, he thought.
Torik tumbled forward, "What's the point, I'll never be more powerful than you or those Bound Knights, my musclebinding is not at that same level."
"Don't you get it, it's not that you are just a musclebinder, it's that you are a musclebinder and a veilbinder. Use both and see what difference that does." She said.
Torik's eyes widened, how stupid am I, he questioned how he had not thought about it like that.
Then Torik took another leap but this time he veilbinded, he made Dama see him slightly forward and further into his dash, this time when Dama tried to parry she was doing it too early and Torik caught her off balance slamming his dagger into her wooden sword and cutting it in half.
Dama tumbled back then held up her broken sword and inspected it, her face was in awe.
"You know Torik… on the battlefield, you'll be a…" She stopped herself, deciding if she should continue.
Torik tilted his head, "A what?"
"A god. Someone able to utilize multiple bound arts will essentially be a god." A voice said from behind him, it was Kell.
He stared down at his dagger, a god?
Kell walked toward him, "Torik, I've sent for a few special people, I'm not sure if they'll arrive before the battle but I want to see exactly how many bound arts you are capable of."
Torik looked up in shock, "How many?" He blurted out.
Dama also walked over and nodded.
"You have two which is unheard of, it wouldn't be unwise to see if you have any more inside of there." She said while thumping his chest.