Thomas was there. The entire time he'd been. Of course he'd been, standing in observation of the struggle for what small time it lasted. He tutted.

“Leaving bandits alive was a mistake.”

“And here I was listening to you while you made claim that all life had meaning.” Tyr grumbled. He felt sick, the squirming of his internal organs causing him to empty his stomach on more than one occasion. As strange a power as it might be, the prince was not immune to the side effects of having his body abused like that. This time, the process of healing had been far faster than before, and more uncomfortable in experience by a measure... Or twelve measures. He'd not had to kill a single man himself, only beating Ella's man half to death before sending Fennic and the others to deposit his sorry ass to his laden wife.

“I'm not a druid, boy. Not a monk or a priest or a sage. There are limits to these things. Men who break sacred oaths of honor deserve to be sent to the black to face judgment.” The old man chided him for his 'mercy'. Tyr had acted in the way he thought he was supposed to, only to find himself more confused than ever. He wanted to kill them all. No, he wanted something crueler than that. To geld them and strip them of flesh, hang them from the trees around the barons estate as a warning to others, but... The idea sickened him yet further than he ever had. Whatever had changed in him, he didn't understand it. Cruelty for amusement didn't interest him so much anymore, but neither did doling out undeserved mercy. “All life has meaning, but I am and have always been a warrior and a killer. These men were predators and deserve to reap what they've sown. That being a very painful death, you will learn to see these things in men one day. You might not understand now, but you will. It will warp and change you, but you will do it because it is your duty.”

“Mmm.” Tyr kept his reply simple, scratching at the dirt with a stick like a petulant child. He felt none of the anger he would have upon hearing such a rebuke in the past. Now, he resolved to at least try to understand. If he could obtain Thomas' strength, he'd have little to fear from any man... Except his father. Always his father.

“Instruction aside, you have questions. Many questions. For defending my temporary home without flight in the face of fear, I will answer them if I can.”

“Is this my power as primus?” Tyr asked. Slim chance the old man would know, but it was worth asking. Thomas knew many things, old and wise as he was. “Tor, one of my men, says that I'm the primus of death.”

“I haven't the slightest idea, young one. Perhaps, though I doubt it. For what I know of your kind, I've never known a primus of death. Death is a universal law, your kind do not bear such significant... Aspects. What do all primus' have in common?”

Tyr shrugged. “They're all strong, and immortal?”

“Aye, there's that.” Thomas chuckled. “More so, a primus is an existence that takes... Hmm... Sacretius of Varia once said 'the path of the primus is that of an aspect of man multiplied a hundred fold and given a step toward the divine.' Do you know what he meant when he said that?”

“That only makes sense when one considers tangible or measurable things. Like my father, strength is an aspect of man, so he is strong. It doesn't explain how a 'primus of earth' or 'water' could exist. What about the primus' of magic. Magic isn't an aspect of man.”

“But were they truly mages?”

There had never been a 'primus of magic'. There were those that called themselves that, but while some primus' were mages, that claim of an aspect had been a falsehood to hide their true nature. Things hadn't been as stable as they were now in an established world, and some primus' wore disguises. Even now, it wasn't like the primus' ran around with symbols on their chests to tell the whole world they were X or Y. Tyr did not know what Alexandros' aspect was, Ragnar's was ambiguously called the 'war flame', and so on.

“No.” Tyr replied as his knowledge permitted. Some could use magic, typically dependent on their heritage, but they weren't primus' of magic. He was reminded of Tythas and how he had explained the classifications and the differences between born mages. No male mage had been born of House Faeron until Tyr himself. Never in their approximate two millennia of shrouded history according to Jartor. Octavian was a celebrated magic user, but not a mage. There was some subtle difference that separated them from that descriptor. Tyr had tried to suss out this difference, but he didn't exactly have contact with the Varian emperor.

“When one applies the elements to emotion and the internal self, they are no longer magic. I know little of mana first hand, as I cannot use it. Mana is an immaterial source of energy that is not part of the natural world, though it coalesces in places at times to give the illusion that it is. A melding between two great works of the gods, the scholars posit. One natural, and one not. Every power possessed by a primus, their 'aspect' as you've termed it – has stood in line only with natural forces. Aspects of man, remember? A primus of fire could aptly be named the primus of passion and it'd be correct, as passion and emotion are natural components of the thinking mind. You understand?”

“But death is natural.” Tyr repudiated the old man's logic. If death were natural, then how could a primus of death not exist. Undeath was unnatural, but considering his bodily functions, Tyr couldn't possibly be undead. He'd stolen into the shrine one night to drink the 'holy water' and felt nothing. Bathed in the sanctified rivers, stepped inside cathedrals... Those claims that they were sacred, pseudo magical things could be falsehood, but surely someone somewhere would've taken offense at an undead walking about in the open.

“Death is a part of natural order, and it is natural. It's a concept that had eluded the sages since time immemorial, replacing what they do not understand of it with 'gods' and faeries and magic. You're not wrong, but neither of us know the truth behind death. Nobody could. Regardless, if it is possible to be a primus of death – why have we not seen a primus of life? I think these things, the primal forces that govern existence are not within the ken of anything living, not even a primus. Death is not an aspect of man, and neither is life. Death is so far beyond us that becoming an aspect of it would be impossible, as we are all living things first and foremost. Understand?”

“Kind of.” Tyr replied. “Not really, though.”

“Few do.” Thomas shrugged. “Pondering questions that cannot be explained by any known measurement is a fools errand. I am no philosopher. Still, I cannot answer your question, nor any of the others you must surely have. Only you can, and that is why I'm ending your instruction.”

“Ending my instruction?” Tyr balked. The snows had begun to fall and while mild, he'd be hard pressed to find much else to do. He'd planned to stay the winter and move on when the passes cleared. Toward east or west, he wasn't sure quite yet. “You haven't taught me a single thing about fighting!”

“I didn't say I would. Don't make me repeat myself, or I'll teach you more than you're ready for in that arena.” Thomas' words were harsh, but he met hard tone with a soft smile. Seated on the boulder atop the mountain with a steaming cup in his hand, again. It was even more frigid now with the passing of the seasons. Tyr remained bundled beneath a wool blanket while the bare chested old man seemed impervious to the ever fouling weather. “You have come as far as I'm willing to take you. Your aspect is that which you want most in life, the idea that these are gods given powers is an illusion vested on us by the powers that be. You do not want death, I can say that with a confidence, it is most likely the opposite.”

“Have I been a poor student?” Tyr felt like he was being expelled from an academy or seeing one of the only tutors he'd ever liked, if only a little, abandon him to his devices. Again, except this time he didn't want the man to go.

“Yes.” Thomas replied flatly. “Yes, and no. You're a quick study, and you've changed in the short time we've been together – but the problem isn't your disposition nor your talent. As hard headed as you might be, I've had a few who were worse than you.”

“Then why?”

“Because you are not a man. Not a beastkin. To be primus, as much as I hate to say it, is to be above mortals. To stand taller, knowing that you must constantly stoop because it is your duty to do so. Whatever aspect you are capable of wielding, I haven't the slightest clue. I've imparted on you the ability to see through your fragile ego, and you should use it. If we continue down this route, you will make the same failures that I did in my youth. I have taught you patience, temperance, and discipline. You need nothing else, use what I have shown you to find wisdom.”

Tyr knew the mans history. Knew it well. Thomas rarely, if ever lied to him, and answered most questions in his way. The old man had once had dreams of sainthood, a rare thing indeed. Not sainted in terms of the godly, but sainted in vocation. A blade saint. He'd failed many times before coming to an age where such an impossible achievement was no longer within reach. His potential stagnated with his advancing years as he prioritized family and duty over discovery. As strong as he was, he did not possess the conviction, talent, or perhaps even selfishness to rise above.

“So... You're telling me to do it all myself?”

“I sure am.” Thomas replied with a shallow nod. “In my time, I've seen a dozen masters and twice as many schools of thought and action. Self discovery is the path to greatness, but to constrain yourself to the teachings and styles of another will only hinder you in the long run. I've taught you the style of the panther, and the fire dance, both of which can be applied how you see fit. Find what suits you, and follow your own path. I will teach you one more style, one I find suited to you, and then our time together will come to a close.”

“What will you do after that?”

“Return to my peaceful life with the trees and thanking all the gods for returning a modicum of silence and civility to my day. No more listening to a spoiled brat whine about sores on his feet or empty stomach.” Thomas smiled softly at his own joke.

They'd do it there, on the mountaintop. A freezing prince hardened by repeated trials shivering in the light snowfall and facing his erstwhile master. There were many schools of the blade, or the fist, or else wise. Yet Thomas he taught Tyr none of them related to fighting. Only their movements, the simplest extension of the knowledge he already possessed.

Panther and the fire dance were those that suited him best, so he'd use them. Thomas insisted that an instruction with a blade before instruction of the fundamentals was ignorance. It did not matter what implement one held in their hands, only that they understood how to use it most to their benefit. The complete opposite of knights who would choose a weapon mastery during their time as a squire and rarely went beyond. A master at arms might call themselves that, but no matter how practiced, no graybeard was a 'master' of anything if Thomas was to be a standard for mastery.

They didn't use weapons. Ever. Now, the same could be said. Sort of...? Tyr held a stick in his hands no longer than his arm, and that was it. A switch, just like those Isaac would slap him with playfully. It could be called a weapon... He guessed.

“And what style is this?” Tyr asked, holding his aloft dramatically, much akin to the mosaics of paladins offering their blade to the sky in a calling toward their patron god. “Kindling mastery? Should I master the ways of the campfire and see my opponents fried like a spit rabbit?”

“Not a style, but a form and philosophy. You fight in a way that sacrifices finesse for natural athleticism and are quick to fall out of the rigid form of your palace instruction. This is not necessarily bad, but should you encounter someone with a superior physique, you will lose far more often than not. Especially against the nonhuman races who possess quirks that humans do not.” Thomas replied. “My master and the only other man I know to practice this technique called himself not a blade master, but a blade singer. A man who had seen the limitations of the Lyran blade dance and spent his life attempting to hammer out what he perceived as failings.”

“Blade... Singer?” Tyr had trouble forming the words together, it sounded ridiculous. “He was better than the blade dancers? Truly?”

Tyr didn't see the Lyran Republic as good for much. From his perspective, pretty much every nation on the planet save their twin empire of Varia was a backwater. But if they'd produced anything worthwhile in their short history, it was their celebrated warriors. There were the blade masters, a school of instruction that was divided by 'blade this' and 'blade that'. Foreigners absorbed into the republic during the last two centuries who were reputed to be some of the best fighters among mankind. If they'd had the mind or philosophy that allowed them to participate, there would scarcely be a tournament they wouldn't have won. Haran had it's knights and paladins, all manner of styles in combat, but rumor said the blade dancers were the best. Far fewer of them, perhaps, true blade masters were rare and apparently they were a mysterious bunch of pseudo-monks that hid away from society.

If rumor was to be true, that is. Tyr had never seen one himself, only read of them. He'd asked his father once to receive instruction from one of these masters and been refused. Not by Jartor, mind, but rather the empire had sent a request and they, the blade masters, had refused to teach Tyr.

Thomas nodded patiently, the way he'd always do. “Blade dancers are impressive, and some among them could even equal me on the field, but their ways are rigid. Too rigid for you, someone who does not possess the temperance hammered into them since birth. That is not to say that they are inherently inferior, but given two opponents of equal skill and potential, I believe the singer will beat the dancer. They predicate too much on scripted movements and an overly artistic approach to combat. Combat is not beautiful. It is filthy and dirty and stained with blood.”

“Okay... So you sing while fighting?” Blade dancers did just that... Danced. It sounded ridiculously, if not for their incredible skill and the legends surrounding them. The bards said that a Lyran Blade Master, or Dancer depending on their school, could move in such a way that a million arrows could be fired towards one and not a single projectile would strike so much as their robes. Tyr didn't believe that for a second, people exaggerated too much.

“Not of the prose or verse, but of the heart. I've taught you how to meditate and introspect, now I will tell you why these things are truly important. Without sitting, look inside of yourself and tell me what you see.”

“What's the difference between a blade dancer and a blade master? Can they be used interchangeably?”

“No.” Thomas shook his head. “The simplest way to explain that is in the movements. Blade dancers are typically the most graduated, but not always, some more... Eccentric practitioners stick with the elementary style and make it their own. A blade master is more akin to your knights that make sudden and precise movements to land a strike, but typically they remain still. The dancer is always moving, different philosophies stemming from the same foundation. No more questions, do as I say.”

Tyr did. There was no point in arguing with the man. Thomas never did anything without purpose or objective. “I see... My mana core.” That tiny speck of light in his gut just below the diaphragm that signified his source and reservoir of mana. It truly was a small thing, as one would expect from someone as weak as he. “My organs... Bones...”

“What else?” Thomas asked in his frustrating way of not simply telling the prince what to look for instead of baiting it out of him even if it took many hours or days to achieve an answer.

“Nothing else, that's al-- OOF!” The butt of a stick struck Tyr in his navel, so hard had it struck that he felt the muscle fibers of his abdominal tear at the force of it. He retched, feeling the light meal of salt pork and hard bread rush in a bile filled spew from his mouth. “What... Was... That... For...?”

He winced, but made no attempt to defend himself. He'd lose in that, every time. It wouldn't have even been close. Tyr still held the stick, waiting for the fact that he'd been given one to be significant. Knowing Thomas, it probably wasn't.

“Your unique physiology should make this far easier for you. It took me nearly three entire years to find what I'm telling you to look for. We know that mana is not responsible for your gifts, so what is? I don't use mana, and yet I possess abilities beyond normal men. Look inside yourself, and tell me what you see.” He repeated himself, and Tyr relented, still doubled over and aching but doing his best to complete the given task.

Bones. Organs. Muscle fibers. A faint glow pervaded all of them to outline the silhouettes beneath the surface of his skin. Wispy radiance like illuminated fog framed everything, beating along with his heart in a collection of vague hues. Silver, gold, with streaks of azure blue. His mana core. “I see...”

“Not so deep. You are overloading your introspective senses when you try to take in everything at once. For this example, just beneath the surface will do.”

“I see...” His muscles, the worming fibers that had detached from one another coming together like bits of cotton on the loom. Weaving together to heal the damage done by Thomas. The prince watched the process in interest, but that was it. He saw nothing else. “Hit me again.”

“...What?” For the first time since they had met, Thomas seemed confused. Never had Tyr seen that look in his eyes, half confusion and half amusement. Perhaps a bit of pride.

Still, he did as Tyr asked. Harder this time and higher. Three ribs cracked in tandem with the switch that had broken against their cage. Again Tyr looked. He saw... Something, but it was like looking for a single swallow clambering among the trees from the point of view atop the mountain. Too formless, not distinct enough to see anything but flickers of it. There was something else there, a drive or an instinct forcing him toward it, and it was not his own.

An alien thing, the hand of another resting on the back of his mind as if to force his head towards blurry words on a page.

“Again.”

“Again.”

“A...gain...”

His vision was blurry now. He asked, and Thomas did, not balking at damage he knew would soon be corrected by the princes mysterious constitution. It was then, after a great deal of effort, that he saw it – but it eluded further study. Tyr reached for the sheathe at his waist and pulled the knife free from the leather shell.

I guess we'll find out exactly how immortal I really am.

“Young man...?” Thomas finally balked at that, watching in shock as Tyr plunged the tip of his enchanted blade into his own heart. That hurt, enough to send him sprawling into spasms on the rocky ground. Something beyond the steel. The prince's pain tolerance was quite high at this point, he'd been breaking his own bones and had removed his left hand thrice in an attempt to test the limits of his power. This was the only time he'd attempted to 'kill' himself directly. His body rejected the mana of the knife, which seemed to be the problem. It wanted the mana gone and out, refusing to accept it as part of him. This was... Abnormal. It was the acceptance of mana within enchanted blades that made them so effective against living things, not the inverse. Tyr was certain that a knife of a similar sharpness bearing no magic of it's own would've found easier purchase in his skin. Just slightly, the frail resistance little more than wearing paper armor, but it was there – he could feel it.

Was he resistant to mana? Perhaps, some things were, but that was not the objective. He forced the blade deeper, keeping a steady hand on it, or the closest thing he could do in an attempt to observe the phenomena Thomas must've wanted him to see. What the invisible hand dragging him forward toward an answer wanted to see. Blood spurted from the gaping wound, spraying crimson all over the snowy surface of the mountain.

“I intended merely to show you what you needed to see, not watch you torture yourself. This is gruesome and unnecessary, pull the knife out.”

“I see it.” Once he had, it became an easy thing. A rippling shimmer that seemed to pass through his whole body everywhere at once. The complete opposite of mana which remained condensed in the core and traveled through the body in thread-like conduits like veins. This... Stuff, whatever it was – that which rejected mana and pressed down around his mana core was formless, even extended out of his body in the tiny tongues of a flame. It looked like the billowing ripple of a sail made of silk, gently swaying throughout his body. Or, no... If he were made translucent it would be as if half his body was submerged in water, the gentle ripples visible inside of him. Maybe, but Tyr had no use for romantic exposition.

“What is this stuff...?”

“World energy.” Thomas shrugged. “Spira – some call it, wyrd for the creatures of the north, or all manner other of names. Not so well understood as the concept of mana, but just like that alien energy – all living things possess it. It is this energy that pervades the world, and as my master posited, keeps everything from drowning in a sea of magic. An anchor for life, of sorts. Chakra, ki, chi, there were apparently no mages on the western continent. I'm not sure if that's true, but this is where the techniques involving it originate. It is possible that we evolved and progressed along the path of mana in the east, while the west relied on this more natural force.”

“Is it supposed to be moving like this?” The prince could see the energy now, if he focused. He'd never noticed it before, but now it truly was everywhere inside of him. Just barely under the surface, hardly perceptible and certainly not with the naked eye. An invisible membrane that kept all but the smallest tendrils of atmospheric mana from entering his body. It was creepy, the movements akin to his entire body being encapsulated in a lung that breathed in and out, but released no air, constantly building up pressure. Trying to breathe, but it couldn't.

“It is not.” Thomas shook his head. “I've noticed this, and I believe the mana within you is constantly attempting to expand. As a primus, your world energy is denser than any mans by default, and it is pushing inwards on your core in an endless struggle for dominance. Otherwise, you might've been quite the mage.”

“Can I remove my mana core?” Tyr asked suddenly though he already knew the answer.

“You might be uniquely talented at regeneration, but I'm certain that removal of your core would kill you more surely than any weapon known to this earth. Our cores are anchored to our soul. Shatter your soul, well... I'm not sure what you'd look like then. A monster fouler than you are now, like the abominations that come of mages who push themselves too far with forbidden arts. Without the balance of these two forces, I am not sure that any life would be possible. A creature without world energy simply cannot materialize for long and will become twisted and warped. A creature without mana, though? I'm not sure, but I'm confident such a thing is equally as unnatural.”

All things supposedly had mana, core or not. Some of it, at least. All things had a core for the stuff too, but it was in the circuits throughout the body that indicated whether one could use it freely or not. Undead for example were constructs of pure mana. Tyr couldn't confirm it, but the mana that constituted them and a lack of world energy must be responsible for their specific breed of aberrancy.

“This will kill me.” Tyr concluded. “Or at least, since I cannot die...” He shivered at that, the idea of a core grown over dense and warped by the pressure was something with precedent. 'Core refinement' they called it, was a method that mages naturally experience, increasing their aptitude over time. It was a subtle process, but there were those that would attempt to force it beyond their natural growth in a bid for power. The reason for the colleges was to control mages and prevent such things from happening and spawning incredibly powerful aberrations of magic. Near immune to mana, hence why paladins and templars both held a predilection for the holy despite many being mages themselves.

“Yes. A concern I share. It would not be a savory end, and if it were not an end... It would be a hellish existence at the very least.” Thomas responded with some pity in his voice. “This is the true reason why I did not kill you back in the wood. The other reasons were true enough, but in actuality, your core will eventually shatter and you will become something. A walking calamity that might possess the ability to kill your father.”

Tyr laughed, a sour note to the sound. “That's cruel.”

“Indeed it is, hence why I've decided to do my best to help you. It was selfish and vile of me to--”

“No.” Tyr shook his head. “I don't care that you tried to mold me into a living bomb. I mean my life... Born this way only to run toward an inevitable death. How has nobody told me of this before? Not in all my studies, all my tutors. Even my father. I feel half a mind to let it happen without complaint and see how far it'll take me. All living things have a core of some sort, and some primus' have used magic, how has this not happened to them?”

“Perhaps that is why they depart these lands despite being technical immortal?” Thomas posited. “I haven't the slightest idea, my expertise and knowledge only go so far. But the primus Cortus, he could use magic and he suffered no such infirmity, neither does Octavian. I just don't know. His world energy was in balance with his mana, but yours is not. Like so many children, you could chalk this up to a congenital defect. Something of genetics.”

“What do I do?” Tyr asked. Genuinely. If given the chance, he'd take up blade against his father, but he wasn't sure if he'd kill him. Hate him or not, he was still the only family he had left besides the sisters he'd never met and his cousin Regar who was much older than he. Tyr wanted to beat them down and stand over them, not kill them. “I do not wish to die. Not like this.”

“Aye. Who would?” Thomas lowered himself into a squatting position. “I will teach you the blade song. A technique that makes active use of world energy without the dogma and overly artistic approach of the dancer. It will allow you to refine and reform your world energy. Perhaps give you some control over it. Perhaps allowing you to live, lessening the strain on your mana core.”

“Do you know how long I have?” Tyr asked.

“I'd be surprised if you made it another two winters, as you are.” Thomas replied. “Now let us begin, and you will take yet another task after we are through. It's your life, and your ability or desire to continue living it is entirely up to you.”