The morning mist hung close to the cobblestones while Leon walked through the training yard, his boots crunching on the dew-laden gravel. His shoulders throbbed from the drills of yesterday, yet he embraced the discomfort—it was evidence.
Proof that each day, he was dragging his past self closer to the grave.
Sir Alric stood ahead, arms folded behind his back, eyes narrowed. The man didn't waste time with greetings. "Today, you spar against steel."
No blunted wooden swords. No armor. Just the raw edge of live steel, like in the battlefield. Leon's fingers curled slightly, tension rippling up his forearms.
A small group of servants and junior knights had already gathered around the edge of the yard. Whispers rippled through them like wind in grass. "Isn't that the old heir?" one murmured. "What if he bleeds out?" another said with a chuckle.
Leon ignored them.
Across the circle, the opponent stepped forward. A knight-in-training named Cedric—taller, lean, well-trained.
He grinned, adjusting his grip on his longsword.
"I won't hold back," Cedric warned.
Leon didn't respond. He simply took his stance. His sword, a simple steel blade without ornament, weighed heavier in his hand than yesterday. Or maybe that was just the pressure in his chest.
Sir Alric raised a hand, then dropped it. "Begin."
They clashed instantly.
Cedric came in low, a sweeping slash toward Leon's side. Leon stepped out of range, barely—his foot sliding on wet stone. He pivoted, countered with a sharp jab, but Cedric deflected it easily and came around with a backhand that grazed Leon's cheek.
The sting grounded him.
Leon dropped low, twisted under the next swing, and drove his shoulder forward into Cedric's chest. The impact staggered them both. Cedric cursed, stumbling, and Leon capitalized, bringing his blade down hard—but Cedric parried and retaliated with a heavy strike that forced Leon back several steps.
The duel pushed faster. The edges of their blades rang out, metal against metal. Leon felt each clash reverberate up his arms. He breathed through clenched teeth, keeping his center low.
Then Cedric switched tactics.
He feinted high, pivoted inside Leon's guard, and pressed his elbow into Leon's chest, knocking the wind out of him. Leon coughed, stumbled—but didn't fall.
Pain lanced through his ribs.
He remembered dying. Remembered the sting of a blade against his spine, the helplessness. He remembered the sneer of the noble who ruined his family.
And Leon stepped back in, ignoring the burn.
He ducked another swing, angled to Cedric's left, and with a grunt, slammed his pommel into Cedric's knee. The knight buckled. Leon pressed the opening—sword point now against Cedric's throat.
Sir Alric raised a hand. "Enough."
Both young men stepped apart, panting.
Cedric looked stunned. A thin red line marked his neck where Leon's blade had kissed skin.
The yard was silent for a moment. Then, scattered claps. A few mutters of surprise.
Sir Alric approached. "You lasted longer than expected. Fought smart. Dirty, but smart."
Leon didn't answer. His sword dipped, arm trembling slightly from the strain.
Sir Alric leaned close. "You've got something to prove, boy. And I don't mean to me."
Leon nodded once. His breathing steadied. "I know."
He turned to walk back toward the manor, blood still trickling down his cheek. The whispers behind him were louder now. Not mocking. Curious. Different.
And for the first time, he didn't care what they said.
He'd bled for it. Earned it.
Tomorrow, he'd bleed again.
The manor door groaned as Leon entered the still hall, his boots making light marks on the gleaming stone. The aroma of oil lamps and parchment permeated the atmosphere. His cheek continued to bleed in a slow, sticky trail, yet he didn't pause to wipe it.
He strolled by the entrance toward the lower east wing—vacant, largely unutilized except for one room located at the far end. His father's vintage study.
The door was already somewhat open.
He paused.
Then shoved it open.
Dust persisted in the corners, trapped in the rays of light from the slim window. The room was encircled by shelves filled with old books and military documents. His gaze wandered to the desk—unaltered since the last occasion his father occupied it. A broken inkwell. An enclosed letter. A corroded signet ring next to a folded map.
Leon moved in closer.
He extended his hand toward the letter but stopped, fingers suspended. Rather, he took the ring.
Chilly. Weighty. His father's emblem is still engraved on the metal, albeit worn. He rotated it in his hand and placed it onto his middle finger.
It wasn't a perfect match.
The noise of the door squeaking caused him to look. Elena was at the entrance, her robe fastened loosely over her mage outfit, with her hair wet from the bath. Her gaze shifted initially to his cheek, then to the blood on his collar.
"You battled."
Leon remained silent.
Elena entered gradually, shutting the door after her. "Did you come out on top?"
He nodded a single time.
She shifted next to him, lifted her hand without a word, and cleaned the blood from his cheek with a gentle cloth. Her touch was accurate—refined.
"You might have informed me." "I would have gone," she stated.
"It was not intended for viewing," Leon answered.
Her hand froze. "That's not the reason I would have come."
He turned his gaze, returning to the desk. "I had to bleed."
"I understand." Her voice lowered. "However, you don't need to suffer alone."
Leon shut his eyes momentarily.
They were interrupted by a knock. Keen, intentional.
They both rotated as the door swung open once more—this time, the princess entered. No security personnel. No celebration. Merely a delicate blue cloak and a sword secured at her waist.
Her gaze swept across the room before finally resting on Leon. "Stroll alongside me."
Elena remained still. The atmosphere became dense immediately.
Leon rose. "Please wait a moment."
Elena's lips sealed tightly, yet she nodded. "I'll be located in the west wing."
She walked by the princess in silence.
Leon trailed Roselyn down the hallway, with both remaining quiet until they entered the open garden. The hedges were illuminated by moonlight, and the aroma of mint and night-blooming roses lingered in the atmosphere.
She avoided looking at him while she spoke. "The Royal Trial is progressing forward." "You will be included."
He fluttered his eyelids. "I believed I needed to qualify."
"You just did that," she remarked. "Your crest will be given to you tomorrow." You will practice alongside the others. Warriors of all levels. "You will stand for your House."
Leon clenched his jaw. "I'm not prepared."
"Nobody is," she replied curtly. "However, that's the purpose."
She then faced him, her eyes blazing.
"You requested an opportunity to regain what was taken." "This is it."
He remained silent.
However, within, something changed.
He wouldn't squander it.