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Dante would be the first to admit that his fighting style was inefficient. He had first learned dueling with a sword, a more traditionally acceptable passtime for nobility, then moved on to the spear after he saw a particularly moving performance by a troupe of actors that depicted a great war from distant history. The actors had used spears–a much more common weapon for footsoldiers than longswords, rapiers, and the like–and they had interpreted a climactic battle as a one on one duel between two performers. The way the long haft of the weapon had spun and danced, the leaping of the small but deadly glinting steel point, and the exaggerated whip-like movements of the actors had entranced him. He began training with a spear not long after.
Years had passed since then and Dante was now largely considered to be one of the best single combat warriors in the kingdom. Anyone watching him train in preparation for the upcoming festivities would agree that the way he fought was beautiful. He was fluid and light on his feet yet explosive and forceful as he struck. It was a style all his own, a mix of art and war.
But it was only for fights against a limited number of foes. If he were to fight in a real battle, his hard-earned grace and finesse would only hinder his fellow soldiers. It had yet to become a problem since Dante had exclusively fought from horseback in the few skirmishes he had taken part in, but the prince knew he needed practice in more traditional spear tactics.
No, that wasn’t exactly right either. Dante had mastered the basics in preparation for his current style of fighting. He could likely take part in a battle on foot and be reasonably effective. The issue was that he had no experience as a footsoldier. Spears were most effective when used in tandem with your comrades, but Dante had only ever fought duels or stabbed down from atop a horse.
Still, now wasn’t the time to learn a new way of fighting. Dante would soon be faced with a line of challengers, possibly enough to constitute a small army on their own. Luckily, he would be fighting them one at a time. He could handle that.
Right?
He had never fought as a champion before. He had no way to gauge his ability to fight enemy after enemy non-stop except to attempt it beforehand, which is exactly what he was doing now.
It was around noon. Only a few days remained until the event began in earnest. The festival grounds were beginning to fill in earnest, and even now he could hear a constant low rumbling of voices and horses and construction as the final preparations were being made.
He had been training for the last few days, only allowing interruptions from runners sent by his family or the occasional shared meal with his attendants. His parents were busy keeping nobles and dignitaries entertained, which allowed him this precious time for preparation.
Already well into his day of training, Dante pulled off his helm and signaled one of his men who came jogging over.
“I’m going to be taking a brief rest. Tell the men they can go grab a meal, but they need to return in an hour.” The prince moved to walk away then hesitated and looked back at his last training partner, a burly man in leather armor sprawled out on the packed dirt ground and gasping for breath. “Get him some water too, if you would. I don’t want him overheating.” The air might have turned chill recently, but a very real risk of heat stroke existed from overexertion while wearing armor.
Finally moving away, Dante found some shade and plopped down onto the dirt in a very unprincely fashion. Without being asked, a servant brought water and a light meal of jerky, bread, and cheese a moment later. It might’ve felt strange to some, but he had long grown numb to how people constantly anticipated his wants and needs. He barely even took note of how some of the servants shot him strange looks when they saw the prince eating a meal that was lesser in quality to even what was served in the mess hall. The attendants and guards that had been with him a while had long since learned to turn a blind eye to his eccentricities.
The soldiers he had been training with filed out not long after that, and soon only his retinue remained. He tried dismissing them as well, arguing they needed to eat as well, but they all vehemently refused. The knights guarding him were deferential but firm in their refusal, but the palace servants seemed almost offended that he would suggest such a thing.
What makes them all so loyal? he mused for the millionth time. Is it pride in their work? In their nation? Do we pay them enough that they feel obligated to act this way? Having never been an employee himself, nor having ever been a vassal, Dante was puzzled by their behavior.
Half an hour or so after he sat down, he was pulled from his restful musings by the sound of his guards moving to stand in front of him. “It seems we have visitors, my lord,” one of them informed him before positioning himself between the prince and whoever it was that had just arrived.
“Here, help me up,” Dante said as he reached out a hand. The guard gave him a knowing smile and helped him to his feet, at which point Dante groaned and began trying to loosen his sore body. His training armor, a black enameled set of scale armor nearly indistinguishable from his regular armor, jangled lightly as he bounced on his feet and shook out his limbs.
The newcomers, a group of five mages from the Collective, approached and stopped fifteen feet or so away before taking a knee and bowing their heads. They seemed unremarkable for the most part, their amulets being the only thing setting four of them apart from petty nobles. The fifth however–the leader, by the look of things–was in a set of interlocking plate armor that had been painted white and gold and bore the crest of the Collective on the breast. She was unarmed, as was customary within the palace grounds, but the armor and the bone-white hair braided down her back made it clear who she was.
“Your Majesty,” said the woman, her head bowed. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Ophelia, captain of the Fifth Expeditionary Force.”
“Rise,” Dante commanded more forcefully than intended. He saw a slight jolt run through the four unarmored mages at his voice and felt apologetic, but he couldn’t help it. His curiosity and excitement were welling up in a way he hadn’t experienced in quite some time. “For what purpose did you seek me out? My father should have made you aware that I am currently indisposed, but if you are here with some urgency I can spare a moment.”
Now standing, the captain nodded seriously. “Your father actually sent me. He informed me that you were training and asked that I come offer my assistance. I brought these four to observe,” she said, gesturing back at her companions.
Dante briefly looked over the other four and saw that they were all young, maybe eighteen or so. Recent graduates, if he had to guess. There was an even split of male and female, and strangely enough all but one of them blushed and looked down as his eyes met theirs. The one that didn’t was a somewhat muscular young man who instead opted to openly gape at the prince.
Coughing into his hand to mask the awkwardness, Dante turned back to Ophelia. “I’ll have to thank my father then. I must admit that I've been ever curious about the Collective’s very own Thunderstorm. I take this to mean that you’re willing to train with me?”
Ophelia bowed her head in deference. “Of course, Your Majesty. Although I regretfully must set the condition that I will not use magic during our bouts.”
Dante raised an eyebrow. Bouts, plural? I’ll have to buy Father a present.
“That is more than fair. After all, it would hardly be a competition between us if you could fry me before I ever reached you. My magic is pitiful in comparison.” To punctuate his sentence, Dante shifted his left foot and sent a line of impressive-looking but admittedly frail earthen spikes across the training ground. The line stretched out for maybe twenty feet. Reaching down and retrieving his spear from the ground by his shaded resting spot, he swept it through the first spike to shatter it and illustrate how useless it was.
He had meant it to be self-deprecating, but much to his confusion the four hangers-on were wide-eyed at the display. Even the captain nodded appreciatively.
“If you don’t mind me saying, Your Majesty,” she said slowly, “I believe that you give yourself too little credit. What you just did is something even our earth-attribute graduates struggle with, and you did so without a focus. Unless you are cleverly concealing one, of course.”
Deeply uncomfortable with the sudden praise at what was supposed to be a joke, Dante turned away and began limbering himself.
“I guess I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “Now come! If you’re willing to lend me your time, I intend to make the most of it.”
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