Heroine Creation: All My Summons Are Custom Made

An hour passed and Kestrel took away the scroll from Lancet. Lancet thought that meant it was time to begin actual sword training.

But he was wrong.

Before he knew it, he and Kestrel were engaged in a duel. But rather than real swords or even training swords, they were fighting with the air.

Air-blades, air-swords — whatever Kestrel chose to call it. That was what they both held as Kestrel toyed with Lancet throughout the entire duel.

She stood at the summit with one hand loose at her side and the other guiding the pressure in front of her, expression calm, almost bored, as though she were demonstrating something embarrassingly simple rather than trying to carve him apart with invisible air.

Lancet lifted his sword and tried to answer, but Kestrel moved first.

Her air-blade snapped forward in a clean diagonal cut that struck the stone beside his foot and threw loose grit into the wind.

Lancet shifted left, brought the Radiant Guillotine up, and sent a sweep of Grace into his own blade. The moment he stepped in, she changed the angle of her pressure and stole the line of his balance with a tiny adjustment that was so subtle he almost missed it.

His knee buckled and his shoulder dipped.

Somehow, Lancet had managed to be defeated in air-swordfighting. It would have been humiliating if it had been anyone else but the Unforgiving Princess and Emerald Blade.

Kestrel’s gaze sharpened. ”A swordsman does not only fight the sword,” she said. ”He fights the space around it. The stance beneath it. The breath that carries it. If you cannot keep your body aligned, then the blade has already lost.”

Then she flicked the air again and drove him back another pace.

Lancet groaned, recovering his stance. There was no way he was going to defeat Kestrel in this duel. She knew that too. So the best strategy here was to fight hard and refuse to get frustrated, just keep fighting until he understood what she was trying to teach him.

”Again,” Kestrel said, not even raising her voice.

Lancet bit back a groan and lunged.

A moment later, he was down on one, chest heaving, and Kestrel was still standing where she had been, elegant and infuriating and completely in control.

Kestrel looked at him the way an instructor looked at a student who had not yet understood the lesson. ”If you want to learn the sword,” she said, ”then stop treating your body like a passenger.”

Lancet dragged in a breath and looked up at her. ”What next?”

She made him start over, but not the way he expected.

This time, she had him swing the sword while wearing rocks tied to his arms and lower legs, rough stone bundles strapped with thin mountain cord that she had somehow produced from nowhere.

Clearly, Kestrel had really thought this through before the lesson even began.

At first, the added weight made every motion sluggish. The Radiant Guillotine felt twice as heavy, and his shoulders burned almost instantly under the strain.

He could not hold the blade properly. His elbows drifted, his balance wobbled, and his cuts became sloppy the moment he tried to force speed through the extra resistance.

Kestrel’s response was unsympathetic.

”Lighter,” she said.

”I’m literally carrying rocks.”

”Lighter.”

Lancet gritted his teeth and tried again.

His boots scraped over the summit stone as he took the stance she had shown him, one foot forward, knees bent, body centered. Then he swung. The rocks dragged at him, and the sword went wide.

Kestrel stepped in without warning and tapped the flat of her invisible blade against his wrist, turning the cut off-line before it had even reached completion.

”You are fighting the weight,” she said. ”Do not fight it. Use it.”

”How?”

”Become the balance for the weight,” she replied.

Lancet gave her a look that showed that he had no idea what she meant by those words.

Kestrel sighed, clearly displeased with the concept of explaining herself twice. ”Your body is not a chain. It is a frame. The weight should settle into your stance, so rather than wrestling it, you should be arranging it.”

Lancet stared at the rocks tied to his limbs, then at the sword, then back at her. ”It’s much more difficult than you think, you know?”

”I am sure you can handle it.”

He muttered something under his breath and tried again.

This time, he adjusted the way he stood. He let his hips sink a little. He lowered his center of gravity. He stopped trying to force fast movement and instead let the weight pull through his shoulders into his legs, where it could be supported.

The next swing was still heavy, but cleaner. The sword moved in a straighter line. The rocks stopped feeling like they were dragging him out of balance and started feeling like they were training him to hold his ground.

Kestrel’s eyes narrowed slightly, approving despite herself.

”Better,” she said.

That earned a small burst of pride from him, enough that he tried to follow it with a more aggressive swing. Kestrel’s air-blade cut the attempt off immediately.

”Not better enough.”

That was the pattern for the next long stretch of the day. She gave him a correction, he attempted it, she broke it apart, and then he tried again.

”Again.”

”Again.”

”Your wrist is too loose.”

”Again.”

”Your shoulder is collapsing.”

”Again.”

”If you can’t hold the sword still, you do not deserve to swing it.”

By the time she finally allowed him to rest, Lancet had the expression of a man who had been thoroughly mugged by discipline.

Kestrel only pointed down the mountain.

”Go.”

He blinked. ”Go where?”

”Gather what you need.”

”Need for what?”

She glanced at him as if he had just asked what gravity was for. ”Training.”

Lancet looked down the slope, then back at her. ”You mean more training.”

”Yes.”

He groaned, but she had already turned away as if the matter was settled. So he climbed back down the mountain, still muttering to himself about the injustices of sword education, and began searching the dry slopes for what she wanted.

Sticks first.

Then grass.

Then water.

It sounded simple until he actually tried to do it on a mountain ridge that seemed to dislike anything growing on it.

The land was harsh and lean, all stone, wind, and stubborn roots. He wandered along the base of the mountain’s outcroppings, scanning the ground for fallen branches, dried twigs, anything remotely usable.

It was also unbelievably silent out there. And the silence was scarier than the one on top of the mountain because now he was surrounded by land.

Every now and then he caught himself glancing over his shoulder because of the eeriness of the place.

He found the first sticks near a cluster of broken shrubs clinging to a crack in the stone. He bent to grab them, then paused when he heard a low growl behind him.

Lancet straightened slowly and turned.

Several paces away from him stood a wild beast; an Evolved Mountain Wolf.