Another week bled into the frozen expanse of the ridge.
The days were measured in the rhythmic thunk of steel biting into pine wood, the sharp intake of breath, and the relentless, mechanical repetition of the three close-quarters forms. Ronan’s grip on his father’s ash-hammered dagger had grown second nature. The weapon no longer felt like a mere tool salvaged from a memory. It was an extension of his own nervous system, tucked close to his ribs, ready to bite at a moment's notice.
During a brief lull in the sparring, as the pale winter sun cast long, skeletal shadows across the clearing, Ronan stood with Cormac’s side-sword gripped in his right hand and his father’s dagger held low in his left. He stared at the two very different lengths of steel, his brow furrowing as a tactical thought sparked in his mind. The heavy, balanced sweep of the side-sword promised dominance in open space, while the dark, compact blade in his off-hand felt like a coiled spring waiting to snap.
He looked over at Mordren. The dark elf was sitting on a low stump, methodically oiling the curved edge of his saber with a dark, resinous rag. The tension that usually gripped Mordren’s features had softened into a rare, contemplative stillness, a quiet approval of the boy's relentless dedication over the past weeks.
"Mordren," Ronan called out, breaking the wind-swept silence.
The dark elf paused, his obsidian eyes lifting to meet the boy’s. "Speak."
"In the tight spaces," Ronan asked, raising both blades slightly, "or even out here, can they be used together? The long iron and the short?"
A faint, grim smirk touched the corners of Mordren’s thin lips. For a moment, the dark elf looked almost pleased that the human was finally looking past the rigid boundaries of single-weapon drills. He set his oil rag aside and stood up, sliding his saber back into its scabbard before drawing a pair of mismatched blades: a long, slender hunting dagger in his left hand and his primary saber in his right.
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"Most fools think dual wielding is just a trick for tavern brawls," Mordren rasped, stepping into the middle of the clearing. "They think holding two weapons means double the attacks, so they slash wildly with both hands until they trip over their own boots or slice open their own thighs. That is not combat. That is suicide with extra steps."
Mordren raised his blades into a balanced, flowing guard, demonstrating the true doctrine of the dual system.
"The doctrine of dual welding is not about two swords," Mordren explained, his voice dropping into a sharp, instructional cadence. "It is about geometry and control. You are dividing your body into two distinct zones of authority. The long blade in your dominant hand commands the outer line. It dictates distance, probes for weaknesses, and catches heavy blows before they can reach your core."
He shifted his left hand forward, letting the slender dagger hover like an adder ready to strike.
"The off-hand dagger is your anchor and your executioner. It does not swing wildly. It acts as a moving shield, sliding along the inside line to deflect what the main sword misses, and it waits for the exact moment the enemy overcommits. When the long iron traps an opponent's weapon, the dagger slips into the blind spot and finishes the work."
Mordren closed the distance smoothly, demonstrating the rhythm of the push and pull.
"You must treat them as two halves of a single organism. When the right hand extends to strike, the left hand contracts to guard. When the left hand lunges, the right hand secures the perimeter. If both hands move outward at the same time, you leave your chest wide open for a knife."
Mordren lowered his weapons, his dark eyes locking onto Ronan with intense, unblinking focus.
"It demands double the focus and double the coordination. Your brain has to split its intent, managing two separate lines of defense at once. If your hands get tangled, you die. But if you master the doctrine, you no longer just fight an opponent. You trap them in a web of steel."
Ronan swallowed hard, adjusting his grip on both weapons. He planted his boots into the frozen mud, adopting the low Faelun stance, and brought the side-sword and dagger up together. The balance felt foreign, heavy, and terrifyingly complex.
Mordren watched the boy adjust his stance, a cold glint of approval flashing in his obsidian eyes.
"Show me," Mordren whispered, stepping forward and lifting his saber. "Let us see if your mind can handle the weight of two paths."