Deep within the massive city of Roane, Gerin remained. His desire to win the war he was destined to fight grew every day, but in those weeks it had intensified into an obsession. He was not tending to his army, training his soldiers, nor developing his strategy.
The whispers of fate had seduced him into believing that victory was solely up to him and in order to claim it, he would have to defeat only one man—the very man who had done so to him.
Gerin had lingered in solitude since his battle. The first few days were spent in mourning his loss, but despite maintaining loyalty to a decrepit King, the General had honor; had pride. His depression faded, replaced with a blaring necessity to improve and a searing obsession for vengeance. For Gerin, there was only one way to extract it—on the battlefield for the war he was destined to fight. He perhaps had other options. Finding him, hunting him, and killing him while he slept; or poisoning his drink in a tavern or an arrow in the back while he traveled on his horse. Gerin had considered all of these things and more, but when it came down to it that was not how he wanted to win. Gerin had spent his entire life thinking that he was the greatest warrior in existence. He had fought and defeated any who opposed him or his King. Gerin had been so precise, so unrelenting on the battlefield it earned him the moniker “Nightmare”. He was the greatest, fastest swordsman in the land and in one night that had all changed. It had faded away. In one night, over two centuries of hard work and belief was torn away.
Gerin wanted it back.
In order to he would have to defeat Grahamas face-to-face, man-to-man. Gerin partly blamed himself for the defeat. All of his victories had come so easily lately that he allowed his skills to wane, his reflexes to slip. But now he had a reason, he had a desire to sharpen them again.
It was why he still remained in Roane, locked away within his home. Despite word from his king, despite visitors and political situations that required his attention, Gerin stayed. Spending every moment he had training and meditating, honing his skills and his mind.
At first, there were simple workouts—strength training and blade practice with Estechian and Estophicles. After only a week, Gerin realized that in order to accomplish what he truly desired, he would have to push himself, to put himself in danger—risk his own life. For the second week, he devised a method that would do such. He took several of his daggers and tied twine around their handles, then slung the rope over his rafters and tied the other end to the beams against the wall. He then slid under them until they were dangling over his body rather than the floor. When in position, he pushed candles below them so the flames burned away the twine. This gave him the element of surprise as he never knew which would give out, what dagger was going to plunge towards him first or when. He started out with three blades and when any failed to touch him, five: one hanging over his face, one at each shoulder, and another over his chest, the final blade above his abdomen.
There were times when he had to catch more than one, and as the days progressed he used more slack—allowing the daggers to hang lower and lower until they were only inches from his skin. Eventually they got so close, with such little room to fall, that they no longer posed a threat. At that height they would barely penetrate the skin, so he soaked the tips in a deadly poison. When he had no more room between himself and the daggers, still able to catch them safely, he weighted his hands.
For a while that method worked, but eventually he grew idle. He needed to feel fear, he needed every last shred of safety and security stripped from him like it had been that night. He was faster, he felt that after his training and he was on the correct path; but he needed to dig even deeper. He needed to know that victory was his only option and training alone would take him only so far.
He needed a fight, a fight that he may not win. And, as it stood, there were only two people in this world that could defeat Gerin. One he had already battled. Now he would face the other; and he would not reveal his plan for if he did, his life may not truly be in danger. There was only one other in this world that could possibly overcome him, one man that he needed to challenge in order to prove himself.
King Idimus.
Without a second thought given to the validity of his sanity, nor a waiver of his conscience, Gerin dressed himself, slipped out his door and left the confines of Roane in the middle of the night to make a long journey east—one he tried to convince himself would be the last.