I dug through my memory, analysing every moment of our brief, yet vital exchanges, and I found a single, glaring error in myself.
He was stupid. Downright, unshakably, stupid.
Not careless, not reckless—stupid. So simple in his movements that it made my brain recoil. Every strike, every shift in weight, every blink of motion was direct, unencumbered by hesitation, by calculation, by the subtle anticipations of a trained swordsman. I had approached this as if I were facing a veteran, a master who had spent decades refining each strike. But this wasn't a master. Not even close. This was a boy. A boy who hadn't yet seen the age of eight.
And yet he had beaten me.
Horrifically at that.
My chest tightened. My hands ached from gripping a sword that now felt like lead. My knees wobbled beneath me, threatening to crumble at any moment. Every breath burned my lungs. I wanted to collapse, to throw myself face-first into the dirt and end this pathetic farce. But some stubborn, unreasoning part of me refused. Refused to accept that a child had throttled me.
"One… more… round," I rasped, the words dragging past clenched teeth. My body was screaming protest with every movement, but I forced myself upright. My eyes fixed on him, narrowing. My pride demanded it. My ego demanded it. And, I would not lie, a simmering anger demanded it.
"No."
Just like that, he crossed his arms, that infuriating smirk stretching across his small face. It wasn't even mocking, not exactly. It was deliberate, deliberate in the way that only someone who understood the effect of a single glance could be. The audacity of it burned hotter than any fire I'd endured.
"The actual hell you mean no?" My voice cracked. I didn't even care that I sounded ridiculous, that an eight-year-old had me snarling in frustration. I had no control over the raw, primal outrage that surged from deep within my throat. My fists clenched so tightly my nails dug into my palms, almost drawing blood, but even that didn't help.
I couldn't strike him—not without risking another humiliating beating. My body, while outwardly small, carried the memory of decades of motion, of instinct, of combat.
And yet, this child toyed with me as though I were an obstacle in his path, as though the rules of engagement didn't even apply to him.
"You're too weak. You aren't worth my time."
The words were delivered with the sing-song tone of a schoolyard taunt, the exaggerated shrug that somehow made my skin crawl.
His grin lingered, calculated, almost rehearsed, watching my scowl deepen, eyes flicking to my fists as though measuring my desire to lash out.
"I'm gonna kill you," I muttered under my breath, every word a heated ember of sheer, unfiltered malice.
Maybe not the wisest declaration towards a small child, but rational thought was long gone.
All that remained was the raw need to rectify the impossible reality I had just faced.
"What was that, weakling? I couldn't hear you from down there." His grin widened into ecstasy, the kind that only comes from knowing the other has been pushed too far.
"Nothing." I responded, not wanting to take my chances with him hearing that, and taking it as more ammunition to slander me.
"Oh well, I'll be off, weakling." And then he spun, arms lazily sweeping over his shoulders, the motion casual but brimming with confidence.
My gaze followed, every nerve on high alert, and then—something caught it. Something I hadn't expected.
The sword.
It wasn't in his hand.
I froze. Not from fear, but from disbelief. The small brown glint of the wood on the ground, dull and unassuming, pulled my eyes like a magnet.
My pulse thundered in my ears. The sword lay there, perfectly still, bearing some faint inscription—burned, carved, or scored, I couldn't tell—and it had been there the whole time, or had it?
Questions hit me in rapid succession, each more infuriating than the last. Did he put it down? When? How had I not noticed?
How had he moved with such absolute, innate control that he could defeat me while leaving the weapon behind? Was I really this outclassed? By a seven-year-old?
My boots kicked up dust as I stood up and sprinted across the small arena, heart hammering like a war drum, muscles trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline. The space between me and the wooden blade felt impossibly long, as though every grain of dirt resisted my approach.
My fingers shook, but I clenched the hilt, tracing every engraved line, every imperfection, trying to decipher some hidden trick, some secret technique, anything that would explain the impossibility.
But there was nothing.
Nothing but the undeniable reality that I had been bested.
When?
Why?
How did I not notice?
Every nerve in my body screamed, demanded answers, but none came foward. My mind raced through every tiny movement, every flash of speed, every impossible angle he had exploited, trying to find a misstep, a crack, a mistake that I could grasp, something—anything—to explain this.
This bad?
Really?
The question churned in my stomach, sour and bitter, as I spun on my heels, the dirt beneath my feet resisting my movements, clinging to my shoes as though it too wanted to slow my progress. I wanted to press further. To confront him. To force an explanation from the boy who had just torn through my defenses with the casual ease of someone swatting flies.
"Hey, your sword!" I shouted, voice raw and ragged, slicing across the wind, but it was too late. Lonan's small form had already vanished across the horizon, leading the group of children like some miniature general who had claimed absolute command. His stride was casual, almost lazy, but his presence demanded attention. My eyes followed him, disbelief flaring hotter with each passing second.
Around me, the murmurs of the others rose, a chaotic chorus of praise and awe that only served to deepen my frustration.
"Dude, that was totally sick!" one of them shouted, voice quivering with excitement.
"You have to show us how you did that!" another cried, hopping in place, barely able to contain themselves.
And then another, and another—on and on, their voices overlapping into a flood of admiration, carried by the wind. Each word, each cheer, felt like a jab to my ego. I had faced countless enemies before, adults and veterans alike, but none had drawn such a blind, unthinking awe as this. None had turned a fight into a spectacle with only the barest flick of intention. And now, the entire throng was following him, watching, mimicking, adoring.
Lonan, of course, seemed oblivious. Or at least, he pretended to be. He turned back after what felt like an eternity, halting the group with the effortless authority of someone who knew exactly how far he could push.
"Stop." He didn't ask. He stated it. As if they were forced by some divine force to halt as he spoke.
They froze mid-step, mouths opening and closing, unsure how to respond to the silent command of this tiny figure.
"Oh yeah, the sword? Didn't need it. You're just weak," he said, his tone the perfect mixture of innocence and mockery, like a child who had stumbled onto a secret adults refused to acknowledge.
My chest tightened. Rage clawed its way up my throat, hot and unrelenting. I could see his grin widening, stretching impossibly across his face until it seemed to consume him entirely, a smile that mocked not just me, but the very concept of effort, of struggle, of fairness.
"About the sword, have it, you'll need the practice."
The words were simple. Flat. Innocuous. And yet, they struck with the weight of a hammer to my pride. I felt it, deep in my gut—the deliberate, malicious intent behind that casual offering. If he was trying to provoke me, to ignite some inferno of frustration, it was working. Every heartbeat thundered in my ears. Every pulse screamed in indignation.
He turned back once more to meet my gaze, his eyes flicking over mine with the faintest glimmer of amusement, as if savouring each flicker of outrage, each twitch of muscle I couldn't control. It wasn't cruelty, exactly. Not in the way adults inflicted it. It was performance. Awareness. Dominance. Pure, childlike, terrifying dominance.
Then, finally, he walked off. Each step measured, dramatic, carrying with it the unspoken assertion that he was in command of this moment, this space, these people. He didn't run, didn't rush. He merely existed as if the world itself bent subtly to his will, and everyone else—the cheering children, the onlookers, even me—was compelled to follow.
"Follow me, guys," he announced to his now-loyal pack, his voice small but somehow filled with authority, the simple words echoing across the dust and sunlit arena.
Lonan Arvane
And I would not let myself forget him.
Every detail—the tilt of his head, the mischievous glint in his eyes, the intentional flair of his smile, the way the group reacted to him like moths to a flame—was seared into my mind. The world seemed suddenly larger, smaller, more ridiculous and more dangerous all at once.
I clenched my fists, fingers curling around nothing. Anger, awe, and disbelief warred inside me. He had bested me physically, strategically, and socially, all without apparent effort. And yet, beneath the irritation, a kernel of understanding began to form. There was something more here, something innate, something unteachable that gave him this impossible edge.
And I would find it.
No matter what it took.
***
Lonan walked amongst his friends, the names of which he barely remembered, although he would never tell them that.
He had just won a fight.
Hugely at that.
And he wanted to bask in this glory for the time being.
"How did you do that?" A guy asked, as far as Lonan could recall it was something like Hugo.
"Eh, wasn't hard, he was just slow." Lonan responded, feeding his already huge ego.
"You're so cool." Three or four of them responded simultaneously.
He hadn't even started thinking about where they were going, he just wanted to infuriate that other guy more.
What was his name?
Alex?
Arlo?
Arthur?
Ares?
Honestly? Lonan couldn't remember.
There was something about him though.
He felt off. Although Lonan couldn't quite put his finger on it.
He was weak, and it wasn't worth his time to remember the weak.
Nothing about the guy stood out.
His sword-play mirrored the High Knights, but that was it.
He probably just watched them and tried to copy it.
There were a few differences between the High Knights and that guy's fighting style, but nothing that couldn't be overcome with speed.
Lonan shrugged, letting the praise wash over him without much thought. He liked the attention—who wouldn't?—but it wasn't as important as the fun he'd just had. His eyes flicked briefly to the horizon, curious where the others were headed next, though he didn't feel any real urgency to follow.
"You're good," Hugo—or whoever it had been—said again, flailing his hands to get his attention. Lonan smirked, giving a little nod. "Yeah, I guess." It was half truth, half teasing. He didn't need to explain himself, and he didn't care enough to.
The others jabbered around him, trying to work out how he had won so easily, waving around him, circling him similarly to a mob, replaying every move in their heads. Lonan let them, enjoying their confusion more than any imagined praise. He wasn't malicious, exactly—just aware of the effect he had. It made the game more fun.
He glanced back toward the kid he'd just beaten. The boy was still catching his breath, sat down and curled up, staring at the empty spot where Lonan's sword lay on the floor. Lonan tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. This one wasn't like the others. He moved like he understood more than he let on, but it didn't matter right now. He was still too slow.
The group started moving again, and Lonan fell into step near the front, not leading, not following—just moving. The world seemed a little bigger than it had been on the field, filled with people and chatter and possibilities. He let the air carry him forward, swinging one arm lazily as he walked.
"Where are we going?" someone asked, and Lonan shrugged. He hadn't really thought about it. He liked the freedom, the lack of expectation. For a moment, he didn't have to be fast, or smart, or the best. Although, he knew he would be all those things when he wanted.
He let his grin stretch a little, small, contained, but enough to remind the others he was still in charge of the moment. Not because anyone had told him so, but because it simply was.
The boy he'd defeated lingered in his thoughts, though. Strange, that someone so weak could feel so confusing to him. Lonan shook his head and turned his attention back to his friends, the sounds of their laughter and chatter filling the space around him.
The fight was over. The victory was his. And for now, that was enough.
Lonan Arvane. Seven years old. Already untouchable. Already unforgettable.
And entirely, utterly, unstoppable.
And he wasn't done yet.
Not even close.
Next step? Sevran Academy.
Nothing, and no-one could get in his way.