The axe was heavier than the sword.
It dragged differently—top-heavy, uneven in the swing, like it wanted to fall out of his hands and bury itself in the dirt. Leon kept his grip locked and adjusted his stance. The handle was too short to give him reach, but the weight pulled clean through the air when he moved fast enough.
Not elegant. Just brutal.
He exhaled and brought it down again.
The thud echoed in the quiet yard.
He reset his feet and swung sideways, aiming for the invisible ribs of a man who wasn't there. His heel slipped slightly on the packed soil, but he corrected. His body still fought him—still remembered how to be soft.
But not for long.
The next swing came easier. Not lighter, but cleaner.
By the fifth, his shoulders throbbed. By the eighth, his fingers burned.
He stopped at ten.
Not because he wanted to—but because his hands wouldn't hold it any longer.
Leon sat down on the stone edge of the practice yard and set the axe beside him.
His palms were red, the bandages starting to unravel from the heat and friction. He took a breath. Not deep. Just steady. The stars above were clear tonight—no clouds, no wind, just a quiet sky and a dim flicker of torches far off near the manor gates.
Footsteps approached. Lighter than Yundar's. Slower.
He didn't look up.
"You've been out here since last night," Elena said.
Leon wiped his hands on his tunic and kept his eyes on the dirt. "Couldn't sleep."
"You're bleeding again."
"Not the important kind."
She stood beside him for a second, arms crossed, then sat down on the stone edge.
"I thought you hated axes," she said. "Said they were 'too loud.'"
Leon gave a short breath. "I hate being slow more."
"You're still slow."
"Getting less."
Elena leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. "I saw your brother earlier. He said something weird."
Leon waited.
"He said you hit him."
Leon shrugged. "Not hard."
"Hard enough for him to stop smiling about it."
A small silence.
"You training for something?" she asked.
"Everything."
She tilted her head. "Vague."
Leon rubbed his wrist. "I don't know where it starts yet. So I'm making sure I'm ready when it does."
Elena was quiet for a moment.
Then: "You're going to kill yourself doing this."
He didn't answer.
"You know that, right?"
Still nothing.
"I've seen people burn out," she added, voice softer now. "Push too far too fast. They end up broken."
"I was already broken," Leon said.
She glanced at him.
Leon leaned back and stared at the sky. His breath came slow now. The pain didn't sit in his shoulders anymore—it had crept into his ribs, his neck, behind his eyes. But it didn't stop him from thinking about tomorrow.
"I'll bring salve next time," Elena muttered, standing.
"You don't need to."
"I know. You won't ask."
He looked at her then.
She met his eyes for just a second.
And then she left.
Leon didn't sleep much.
When the first light hit the yard, he was already on his feet again. No sword. No axe this time.
Just the old stone grip post in the training pit—meant for hand strengthening and balance drills.
He stepped toward it and placed both hands flat against the cool surface.
Then he crouched. Held. Pushed upward. Just once. Just high enough to lift his body weight off the ground.
His arms trembled immediately.
He lasted three seconds before his elbows buckled.
He landed hard.
But he didn't stop.
Again.
This time he held for five.
By the time Yundar arrived, Leon was flat on his back, arms shaking, sweat plastered to his neck.
The old knight didn't say anything at first. Just stood over him, hands on hips.
"You're a damn mule."
Leon didn't move.
Yundar dropped a rag beside his head.
"You're also late. Come on."
Leon groaned. "Late for what?"
"You want to be strong? Today we start drills with pressure."
Leon sat up slowly.
Yundar tossed him a short wooden blade. "Speed. Timing. Pain. And maybe—if you're lucky—you won't throw up."
Leon caught the blade. Nearly dropped it. Stood anyway.
"I've thrown up before."
"Good," Yundar said, cracking his knuckles. "You'll do it again."
They started with movement drills across gravel.
Each step had to be sharp. Fast. Heel up, pivot. Change direction. Don't slip.
The first time Leon lost balance, Yundar cracked him in the ribs with a blunt baton.
"Again."
Leon gasped and reset.
Each stumble earned a strike. Each delay a push. His thighs burned. His back ached.
But the timing started to click.
By the third hour, he wasn't fast.
But he wasn't stumbling anymore.
Yundar called a stop when the shadows lengthened behind the tower.
Leon leaned on the wall, lungs rasping, sweat dripping down his nose. His knees buckled once before he caught himself.
Yundar stood nearby, arms crossed, face unreadable.
"You hate me yet?" he asked.
Leon shook his head. "Not yet."
"Give it a week."
Leon smiled. Just a twitch.
Yundar grunted. "Rest. You earned one hour. Then we spar."
"One hour," Leon repeated.
"Don't be late."
He sat again near the well, arms limp across his knees.
The bruises would spread by nightfall.
His hands would sting in the bath.
But his legs were steady.
And the blade he held no longer shook.
Leon didn't go straight to the sparring ring.
He walked behind the armory instead, where the blacksmith's coals still glowed under the ash and the hammering had stopped for the day. He found the old anvil near the back wall and sat beside it, back resting against warm stone. His fingers brushed the ground until they closed around a discarded horseshoe—scorched, bent, half-cooled.
He turned it over in his hand without thinking.
"Waste nothing," the blacksmith used to say.
Leon stared at the horseshoe a moment longer, then stood and slipped it into his belt.
He didn't know why.
Maybe for weight.
Maybe to remind himself what failure felt like—bent, scorched, almost useful.
His legs still shook as he returned to the yard.
The ring was empty, but the dust showed Yundar had been waiting.
Leon stepped inside, dropped the horseshoe at the edge of the ring, and rolled his shoulder once.
No words.
Just motion.
He picked up the sword.
And faced the center.