Capítulo 2: The Master of Swords
David's muscles ached, his breath came in sharp gasps, and sweat trickled down his back as he stood in the center of the royal courtyard. The yard was quiet at early morning light-the type of quiet that made the world feel as though it was holding its breath. He could make out the soft rustling of leaves from the trees that loomed over him, the clanging of blacksmiths farther away, but in this one moment, it was just him-and Master Grigol.
The old man circled him, his steps slow but deliberate, never his eyes leaving David. At Grigol's side hung a plain but deadly blade that, though not drawn, weighed in the air. Grigol was not just a swordsman but a warrior who had seen an innumerable amount of battles and knew the art of combat better than any man in Georgia did.
Stand your position," Grigol instructed him, his voice no-nonsense. "Your legs are too far apart."
David shifted his feet, settling into a firmer stance, clenching the hilt of the wood sword in his hand. His arms trembled from the exertion put upon them, yet he would not lower them. Already a few hours were passing, still he could not give up.
Grigol shook his head, moving closer, his cane tapping lightly on the stone floor. "You're stiff. Relax, or the sword will control you."
"I'm trying," David muttered, the frustrations lacing through his voice.
"You're thinking too much again," Grigol said as he circled behind David. "Your mind is on the sword, the next move, the future-focus on the present.
David exhaled, hoping the noise would leave his head. Whispers of court, weight of his father's expectations, the prophecy clinging to him like a shadow-all that he needed to forget right at this instant.
"Now, strike," Grigol ordered as he stepped back.
David swung the wooden sword in a wide arc, hard into the open air before him. It was a clean strike, but not fast enough. Grigol's cane lashed out, tapping David's side with a light touch. David flinched at the touch.
"To slow," Grigol said, his voice low. "You hesitate. Why?"
David gritted his teeth, lowering the sword. "I'm not sure what I'm waiting for.
Grigol's eyes narrowed. "You wait for the perfect moment, for certainty. That moment shall never come, David. A warrior moves in the face of uncertainty, strikes even when not sure."
David frowned, his grip on the sword tightening. "But what if I fail?
Failure is not an option you can afford," Grigol said now, his tone razor-sharp and cutting the silence. "You are the future king. Your people will not wait for you to be ready-they need you to act. When you're not ready, you must rise.
David let the words seep in, the weight of them pushing against his chest. The kingdom, his father, depended on him, and one day it all would fall into his hands. He had to be more than just a boy learning to wield a sword. He had to become a leader, a protector-the Builder King of legend.
Later That Day:
The training in the courtyard continued until the sun was high, bathing the grounds of the palace in gold. With each swing and block, David's body screamed in protest, begging to quit. Grigol had been pushing him harder than anyone ever had, yet something inside of him stirred-a instinct, a fire.
After hours of pitiless training, Grigol finally called for a stop. David fell to the ground, his chest heaving with exhaustion, but there was almost a smile on his face. He had survived. He had fought through the pain, through the uncertainty. He wasn't perfect, but he was growing.
Grigol was standing over him, looking down with that rare gleam of approval in his eyes. "You're learning."
David looked up, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I thought I was terrible."
"You are," Grigol said, his lips twitching in the faintest hint of a smile. "But you learn from it. A warrior's strength isn't in his skill alone—it's in his will. And you have that."
At this, David's heart swelled, but he promptly hardened himself against pride. "Thank you, Master Grigol."
Grigol nodded, his expression solemn again. "But all this is but a preparation. The true combats are not held in yards. They are held on fields saturated with blood, where a moment of hesitation means death. Remember that.
David didn't stay with a smile, and the cold, harsh reality of his future finally nailed him like an ice block. He wasn't just training to fight for the sake of fighting; he was getting ready for the coming wars for a given number of enemies already aligning their troops at the borders of Georgia.
That Night:
David sat alone in his chamber, the flickering light of a single candle casting long shadows on stone walls. He stared at the hardwood sword resting against his bed. It felt heavier now, not because of the weight itself, but because of what it represented. The sword was not just a cold piece of steel; it was the weight of his destiny-a tool he would have to master if he was to become the king his people needed.
His thoughts began to roam back to the prophecy, to the words Father Nikoloz had said the night before. The Builder King… a king who will rise in the darkest of times, through blood and war.
Could that really be him? Could he truly unite Georgia, defend it from the Seljuk Turks and the nobles who sought to tear it apart from within?
David fisted his hands. What is the use of doubts? He had made his choice. If ever he wanted to be king, if he wanted to build up a future for his people, then he needed to be the strongest of them all. He had to be stronger than his fears, above his doubts. Before him, there was no other path.
He blew out the candle and, going to lie down, David whispered to himself-a quiet vow that only he could hear.
"I will be ready."
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