Cedric Falterblade's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Cedric Falterblade set his hand on the registration desk and felt the sword at his hip twitch open a hole in the world. The hole was small this time, no wider than a coin, humming near his boot. He clamped his knee against the scabbard and smiled at the big man behind the ledger. Brogan Ironquill did not smile back. "Name. Weapon. Sponsor," Brogan said. Cedric answered each in turn, voice steady, sweat sliding down his back. He wanted to win the grand tourney of Embermere. He had wanted it since he was ten. He had also, since he was ten, been unable to keep his sword from swallowing pieces of the room whenever his heart raced. Brogan stamped the page and slid it aside. "Forty-two," he said. "Don't bleed on the seal. Don't be late. Don't argue with the marshal." Cedric nodded and stepped away before the little rift under his boot could grow. It closed once he was in the street. He walked fast to the training grounds, past the striking targets and the weathered lanes, and picked an empty corner behind a rack of practice spears. He drew the sword. He breathed the way his old master had taught him. In. Hold. Out. The blade sat quiet in his hand. A small yellow shape hopped into the lane. It was a puffloop, one of the fat-eared creatures the grounds kept to chase off rats. It stopped a pace from his boot and stared up with round eyes, pink tail twitching. Cedric froze. He did not want to hit it. He shifted his weight to step around it, and his heel caught a loose stone. His pulse jumped. The air beside his blade split open with a wet pop, a black seam the size of a dinner plate. The puffloop tipped forward, ears first, and was gone. The seam sealed with a sound like a book closing. Cedric stood alone in the lane holding a sword that was warmer than it had been a moment before. He looked around. No one at the targets. No one at the gate. A groundskeeper raked sand two lanes over, back turned. Cedric lowered the sword and pressed his free hand flat against his chest until the shaking eased. He told himself the creature was fine. He told himself he would learn to open the rift again and fetch it back. Then he told himself the truth: he had one week until the first bout, forty-one other fighters on that ledger, and a sword that ate whatever wandered too close when he flinched. He sheathed the blade slowly. He began the breathing drill again, alone in the corner of the lane, and did not stop until the horn rang for the evening meal.