Yundar didn't speak as Leon stepped into the ring.
The sword in Leon's hand was plain ironwood again, chipped on the edges, grip wrapped in cloth. He turned it once in his palm to feel the weight. His arm didn't tremble this time, but it was close.
Yundar tossed a second sword at his feet.
"First blood to the chest," the old knight said. "Don't make me chase you."
Leon picked it up and took his stance. Forward foot light. Shoulders square. Blade vertical, tip angled toward Yundar's collarbone.
"Don't lean," Yundar snapped. "That's not balance. That's wishful thinking."
Leon adjusted.
"Better."
Yundar circled.
Leon matched him.
The courtyard was quiet, no wind, no birds, just boots scuffing dirt.
Then Yundar moved.
A fake lunge—fast, knee first, tip flicking low.
Leon blocked it on instinct, blade angling down.
Wrong.
Yundar spun with the momentum, reversed the swing, and cracked the flat of his blade against Leon's side.
The impact knocked him a half step left.
Leon caught his footing. Reset. Didn't drop the sword.
Yundar backed off. "You saw it. You just reacted wrong."
Leon didn't respond.
They circled again.
This time, Leon struck first.
A low feint. Quick pivot. Blade rising up toward the ribs.
Yundar parried and sidestepped in the same breath. His elbow clipped Leon's shoulder as he passed.
"Faster hands than I expected," Yundar muttered, "but you telegraph your hips."
Leon exhaled through his nose and came again.
Their blades clashed once. Twice. The third time Yundar locked him blade-to-blade, then twisted and kicked Leon in the thigh.
Leon stumbled. Fell hard. His back hit the dirt.
Yundar stepped over him, tapped the tip of his blade to Leon's chest. "Dead."
Leon stared at the sky for a second. Cloudless.
Then he sat up.
They went again.
And again.
The sixth time, Leon landed a strike across Yundar's ribs—not hard, but clean.
Yundar grunted. "Finally."
Leon gripped the sword tighter. "Wasn't luck."
"No," Yundar said, straightening. "It was stubbornness."
They trained until the sky turned gold.
When Leon finally dropped his sword, his hands were swollen. The bandages had split again. Blisters broke under pressure, slicking the grip with blood.
Yundar handed him a cloth. "Keep pressure on it."
Leon didn't sit. Just leaned against the fence, cloth wrapped around his palm.
"Any slower," Yundar muttered, "and you would've taken that last blade to the throat."
Leon glanced at him. "I won."
"You survived," Yundar corrected. "There's a difference."
Leon didn't argue.
Yundar leaned on the railing beside him. "Your brother couldn't last six rounds before he got winded. You went eight."
Leon's shoulders shifted.
"Don't get proud," Yundar said. "Get used to the bruises."
"I am."
"Good. They'll get worse."
The manor bell rang faintly across the yard.
Dusk.
Yundar straightened. "Eat. Rest. Come early tomorrow."
Leon nodded.
Yundar took a step, then paused.
"Bring the axe next time," he added without looking back. "You move meaner with it."
Leon stayed long after the ring cleared.
He didn't sit.
He just stood in the center of the yard, blade hanging from one hand, and watched his shadow stretch along the dust.
Each breath hurt.
But he kept standing.
Because standing was the first thing he'd failed at before.
Now, it was the thing he refused to let go of.
Leon didn't return to the manor immediately.
He approached the water trough by the yard's edge, knelt down, and submerged his hands. The chill struck like a blow. He hissed and gritted his teeth, yet didn't recoil. Blood and grime drifted away in slender crimson streams, and the sharp pain pierced the fog in his mind.
He gazed at his hands. Divide into three sections. Skin ripped at the bottom of his fingers. That resulted from holding on too firmly. Yundar had cautioned him, but Leon didn't heed the warning in time.
He was indifferent to the pain. It assisted him in breathing more slowly.
"A healer is required for that," said a voice from behind.
Leon pivoted gently.
Roderic leaned on the post by the stable, arms folded, hair still wet from a bath. He wasn't grinning, but he wasn't scowling either.
Leon remained silent.
Roderic pushed away from the post and approached. He knelt close to the trough, dipped one hand inside, and splattered water onto his face.
"Rumors are circulating," he stated. "That you mean it this time."
Leon continued to rinse. "Didn't know anyone still gave a thought."
"They do not," Roderic replied, tone emotionless. "They're simply interested in knowing how long you'll endure before giving up."
Leon freed his hands and allowed them to drip.
Roderic observed the injuries. "Is Yundar striking you with that broken baton once more?"
Leon agreed.
"Alright," Roderic replied. "He only hits those that are worth repairing."
Leon remained standing.
"So," Roderic said, dusting off his knees, "are you seriously trying to achieve something for yourself now?"
Leon faced the barracks. "I don't have the time to take aim."
Roderic lifted an eyebrow. "What's next?" "Simply swinging, sweating, and wishing for something to succeed?"
Leon continued to walk.
"Hope," he remarked, "led to our demise the first time."
Roderic opened and closed his eyes,
but Leon had already left.
In the barracks, Leon occupied the cot closest to the window. The mattress was narrow, the blanket creased sharply. He didn't recline.
He unzipped his bag and took out the horseshoe.
He placed it on the ground before him.
It was not magical at all. Without a crest, without a legacy, without a name. Only weight. Steel warped by heat, shaped through use, then discarded when it no longer matched.
He gazed at it for a time.
Then leaned down, grasped the edges, and began to curl it—slow, agonizing repetitions. One action at a time.
His shoulders complained. His hands throbbed. His hands spread wide with every movement.
Yet he continued.
Because the type of horseshoe was irrelevant.
What he transformed into while possessing it was important.