The sword handle slipped.
Just for a second.
Leon caught it mid-swing, adjusted his grip, and finished the motion—but it was wrong. His stance was off, and the edge dragged through the air like a rusted weight.
He growled and lowered it.
The old ironwood was soaked with sweat. His hands were blistered and raw, and where the skin hadn't split, it threatened to. He turned his palm. One deep line ran across the middle, red and wet.
He didn't wipe it.
He stepped back to the center of the ring.
Reset.
Again.
He raised the blade, locked his shoulders, and cut low. The sword moved through the motion cleaner this time. Not fast. Not strong. But cleaner.
That was enough for now.
Footsteps behind him. He didn't stop.
"Leon."
He finished the next cut, let the point dip toward the dirt, and glanced sideways.
Elena stood just outside the ring again, arms folded.
"You've been out here since before sunrise."
"I'm counting," he said.
"Counting what?"
He raised the blade again. "Five hundred swings."
She blinked. "You've done five hundred?"
"Not yet."
Elena walked forward and sat on the edge of the stone wall lining the training ring. "You're shaking."
"I'm still breathing."
"That's not the same as being alright."
He didn't respond.
Swing. Reset. Swing. Reset.
She watched for a few minutes in silence. Then she reached into her satchel and pulled out a small flask.
"Drink."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
He didn't look at his hand. "I noticed."
He finished another swing.
Then another.
Elena stood. "If you pass out again, I'm not carrying you. Just so we're clear."
He kept going.
Eventually, she left.
It was near midday when he dropped the sword.
Not by choice. His hand just stopped listening.
The ironwood thudded into the dirt and rolled a few inches before stopping.
Leon leaned on his knees, breathing hard. The world spun a little. Sweat stung his eyes.
He wiped it with the back of his arm.
The blood on his palm had dried.
He moved to pick the sword back up.
"Don't."
Yundar's voice cut across the yard.
Leon looked up.
The old knight stood under the shade of the courtyard arch. His arms were crossed, and his stare pinned Leon in place like a thrown knife.
"You're not building anything with that," Yundar said. "You're just breaking it."
Leon knelt and picked up the sword anyway.
"I said don't."
He stood.
"I need to."
"No," Yundar said, stepping forward, "you want to. That's not the same."
Leon tightened his grip.
Yundar didn't raise his voice. "You don't get stronger by breaking down the same wrong motion a thousand times."
"It's improving."
"Barely."
Leon stepped back to the center of the ring.
Yundar's boots hit the dirt behind him.
"If you're going to train like a fool," Yundar said, "you'll die like one. That what you want?"
Leon didn't answer.
Yundar moved fast for someone with bad knees.
In one step, he crossed into Leon's guard, smacked the sword from his hands, and swept his foot. Leon landed hard, the air knocked from his lungs.
The sword hit the dirt a second time.
"Up," Yundar said.
Leon rolled to his side. Got to his knees.
"Again."
By the fourth takedown, he stopped hitting the ground hard.
By the seventh, he stopped losing the sword.
Yundar grunted. "Better."
Leon wiped dirt from his mouth and reset his stance.
"Your feet," Yundar snapped. "You're planted like a tree. Trees die."
Leon shifted his weight. "So what then?"
"Water. Always moving. Adjust. Slide."
Yundar lunged. Leon stepped, pivoted, swung low. Yundar knocked it aside but didn't press.
"That's something."
They circled.
"You think strength will win you a duel?" Yundar said.
"It helps."
"It's not enough. Anyone can swing hard. Only the living swing smart."
Leon tightened his grip.
"Your brother learned that too late," Yundar muttered.
Leon's eyes narrowed.
Yundar smirked. "Good. Now you're listening."
They trained until Leon could no longer lift his arms.
When he finally sat on the edge of the ring, dust coating his legs, he didn't speak.
Yundar dropped beside him, knees cracking as he sat.
"You've got more fire than last time," the knight said.
Leon didn't look at him.
"But fire burns dumb boys faster than it helps them."
Leon wiped sweat from his brow. "What do you want me to do? Train less?"
"No. I want you to think."
Yundar handed him a waterskin. Leon drank.
"You're out of shape," Yundar said. "Your form's half-wrong. You've got bad instincts and a worse temper."
Leon handed the skin back.
"But you're still here."
Leon stared out at the field. "I'm not wasting it again."
Yundar watched him for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"Good," he said. "Because if you do, I'll beat the stupid out of you myself."
Later that evening, after the sun had sunk and the training yard cooled, Leon walked to the manor kitchens with his bandaged hands tucked under his sleeves.
He didn't go in.
He stood outside, leaned on the stone archway, and listened to the chatter inside. Cooks yelling. Firewood cracking. Laughter echoing from servants and squires.
No one noticed him.
That felt right.
He stayed until the hallway quieted.
Then he turned and headed back toward the barracks.
The sword was already waiting there.
Leon stepped into the barracks long after the torches had been doused. The space was quiet—just the low creak of settling beams and the soft sound of breath from the guards sleeping on the far side. He didn't go to the cot prepared for him. He moved to the back wall where the practice armor hung, dust-lined and dented from years of use.
He ran his fingers across a breastplate, then gripped the edges and lifted it off the rack.
It was heavier than he remembered.
He set it down with a grunt, sat beside it, and stared at the battered surface. It bore the old crest of House Valhart—half faded, the edges chipped. No one had worn it in months.
His thumb traced the scarred insignia once, then stopped.
This would fit him soon.
He stood, slipped his hand into the loop of an old training axe, and took it outside. The air was colder now. His steps dragged, but he didn't stop.
He reached the yard again.
And this time, he didn't pick up the sword.
He started with the axe.
Each swing came from the shoulder, tight and heavy.
A different weapon. A different angle. The same fight.