The morning air clung to Leon's skin like perspiration before the sun had fully risen above the manor roof. He secured the fabric ties around his forearms, awkwardly adjusting the knot with his fingers. His muscles were still sore from the duel yesterday, yet he said nothing. He didn't complain. The bruises were diminishing evidence that the fat was decreasing. Slowly. But it was happening.
The courtyard was quiet, save for the steady thunk of practice swords against dummies. A line of young nobles had gathered in the southern square, all draped in crisp training uniforms, most of them already armed. House banners fluttered above their heads. Gold and crimson. White and sea-blue. Violet etched in silver. Each sigil meant money. Prestige. Training.
Leon wore plain black.
No one looked at him.
Not yet.
A knight in polished steel strode to the center. His voice cut the air like a drawn blade. "All entrants for the Royal Trial—form two lines. One for official crests. The other for provisional placements."
Leon moved toward the second line. He could feel eyes glancing. Whispers crawling behind his back.
"Isn't that the Thorne wastrel?"
"Thought he vanished after the duel."
"He's still fat."
Leon stared forward.
One step. Then another.
At the front, a man with a ledger barked names. When Leon reached him, the man barely looked up.
"Name?"
"Leon Thorne."
The pen paused. Eyes finally lifted. "...You're the one the Princess vouched for?"
Leon nodded.
The man made a note, then reached into a case and pulled out a small brass emblem. Not gold. Not even silver. Provisional. Temporary.
"Don't lose this," the man muttered. "Next."
Leon stepped aside. The crest was cold in his palm.
A few feet away, someone laughed. "Nice badge. Does it come with training wheels?"
Leon turned. The speaker was lean, taller, with sharp green eyes and a sword hung too low on his belt. His House symbol gleamed like polished bone.
Leon didn't reply.
The boy stepped forward. "I'm Gareth. Second son of House Valden. My blade's been sharper than your tongue since I was ten."
"Then you're overdue for a new blade," Leon said.
The grin faltered.
Before anything more could be said, another voice rang out across the courtyard.
"Enough posturing," barked a tall woman with a scar across her temple. "All recruits to the north field. Formation drills begin now."
Leon moved.
Gareth fell in behind him, muttering something under his breath.
The north field was nothing more than packed dirt and sweat-stained targets, but the instructors wasted no time. They split the group into threes. Leon found himself paired with Gareth and a silent girl from House Reide—noble, judging by her coat, but with the calm gait of a soldier.
"Basics," the instructor barked. "Stance. Movement. Guard changes. No flourishes. We're not here to look pretty."
Leon's legs ached from the first rep.
The girl beside him didn't even flinch.
Gareth complained after the fifth.
But Leon kept moving.
Footwork. Then slashes.
Parries. Then rotations.
The rhythm came back slowly, like muscle memory rising through muck. He didn't move like the others. Not yet. But something was there. Hidden in his limbs. Sleeping in his spine.
A mistake. Gareth lunged too wide, caught Leon's shoulder.
Leon didn't react. He reset his stance.
Next exchange, he punished the overreach. Blade edge to neck—blunted, but firm.
Gareth scowled.
Leon said nothing.
They moved again.
By midday, Leon's tunic clung to his chest. His hands were raw. Blisters bubbled beneath the calluses. But the instructor passed behind them once, paused briefly behind Leon, then moved on without a word.
That was enough.
As the bell rang and training ended, Leon stood alone by the rack, returning his sword. He glanced toward the princess's box.
Empty.
But someone else stood in the shade nearby. Elena.
She didn't call out.
Just nodded once.
Leon nodded back.
His knuckles popped as he strengthened his hold on the emblem in his hand. The brass still cold. Still temporary.
But not for long.
Leon didn't leave the field with the others. He waited until the noise died, the sun tipping just past midday, casting long slashes of shadow across the stone walls. He walked to the far edge of the yard where the training dummies stood, worn and split from years of punishment. No instructors. No spectators. Just wind and silence.
He drew the wooden blade again. It felt lighter now. Not light—but manageable. Like the sword was no longer dragging him around.
Leon took his stance. Deep breath. Then the first strike.
One.
Two.
Turn. Guard. Slash.
His foot skidded slightly in the dirt. Off balance. He adjusted. Reset. Again.
This time, the blade came down cleaner. Not perfect. But the sting in his shoulders told him the form was right. He repeated it. Again. Again. The echo of wood striking straw rang louder with each blow.
"You're still here?"
Leon didn't stop. He turned, only slightly, enough to see Elena watching from the path above the terrace. She'd changed out of her robes. Now in travel leathers—fitted, but practical. Her hair pulled back.
"You watched the drills?" Leon asked, voice steady between strikes.
"I did." She started down the steps, slow and measured. "You looked… alive."
Leon snorted, low and tired. "Because I didn't fall over?"
"No." She stepped closer now. "Because you didn't flinch when they looked at you."
He stopped at that.
Elena approached the dummy beside him and picked up a practice blade. She twirled it once, testing the balance. "Mind if I join?"
He stepped aside.
They stood side by side—an awkward silence stretching between them for a few breaths.
Then they moved.
Strike. Turn. Parry. Strike again.
It was like music. Dull thuds and sharp exhales.
Leon could feel it in his ribs—the rhythm of someone else beside him. The way her movement nudged his. Her footwork clean. Her shoulder-line steady.
"You used to move better," Elena said suddenly.
Leon's breath caught.
"You were faster. Tighter. Less… heavy."
"I remember."
She glanced at him. "You don't look angry about it."
"I don't have time to be."
For a few seconds, she didn't speak.
Then, "That's new."
Leon struck again, harder this time. "A lot's going to be new."
Elena lowered her sword.
"So you're really going to take the Trial."
"I'm already in."
"They'll try to humiliate you. Break you."
"Let them try."
Her gaze stayed on him. Serious. Unblinking.
Then she smiled—small, but real.
"I'll see you on the other side then, Leon."
And she left.
Leon watched her go, sweat cooling on his back, the sting of soreness sinking into bone. He turned back to the dummy. Raised the blade again.
One more rep.
Then another.
And another.
Because every step forward burned.
But it also counted.