Grey Aether blades 6

“So you’re saying that the aether I absorb and purify within my core…I can exert such a strong influence over it because it’s…what? Bonded to me?”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed, focusing on my sternum as if she could see through my flesh and into my core. Then her face fell into a little frown, almost a pout. “While your spatium technique earlier was impressive, I still find myself underwhelmed—disappointed even—that this is all you have managed to accomplish considering the immense potential of your body and core combined. You should be able to form an aether weapon with a thought—no, the aether should react to your intention before you even fully articulate it into a conscious thought.”

I scratched the back of my neck, both frustrated and a little stung by her rebuke. “I think I’m beginning to understand.”

The djinn woman laughed and shook her head as a single blade appeared in her hands. “No. But with more practice and less conversation, you will.” Her face as emotionless as stone, she lunged, her blade aimed at my core.

***

After what felt like days, our sparring continued unabated. I was forcefully reminded of my time in the aether orb training opposite Kordri as the djinn and I fought each other to a standstill, our battles raging on for hours at a time. Neither of us held back, nor did we give an inch to the other. The djinn could summon several weapons at once and change their forms with an instant and unpredictable precision, but I was the better swordsman.

And for the first time since Dawn’s Ballad had shattered, I had a real sword again.

It had taken time for the djinn’s forceful message to sink in, but it wasn’t the first time I’d had to relearn something I thought I knew well. Slowly, over the course of hours or days, I had practiced letting my intention shape the aether blade.

In practice, the concept was similar to how Three Steps had trained me to perceive the aetheric pathways of God Step without first having to “see” them. Whereas before it had felt like trying to mold water with my bare hands, it had become as comfortable and natural as closing my hand into a fist, although maintaining the blade still required nearly all my concentration.

I grinned as we fought, reveling in the feel of the aetheric weapon in my hand. The blade itself was both longer and wider than Dawn’s Ballad had been, slightly wider at the base and tapering into a razor-sharp point, and glowed a bright amethyst color. A crossguard protected my hand—an addition I’d made after the djinn struck a painful blow against my knuckles and disrupted my focus on the weapon

Holding the sword revitalized me, giving me back something I hadn’t even realized I was missing. Both as King Grey and as Arthur Leywin, mastering the art of swordsmanship had been pivotal to my sense of self, and when Dawn’s Ballad was shattered, it was like losing a limb.

Whenever my aether blade crossed with one of the djinn’s many weapons, a deep, resonant hum filled the air, and the space around them seemed to warp, flexing outward slightly and causing a visible distortion. It gave the impression that our combat was altering the very fabric of the world around us, and I had to wonder if it was merely due to our being in an entirely mental realm—some representation of my mind growing with the use of the blade—or if this mental simulation was accurately portraying the aether weapons’ genuine physical impact.