The sword on the rack didn't shine.
It wasn't wrapped in velvet or balanced on a wall mount. No inlaid gems. No crest. Just old steel, dulled with time and use. Its handle was worn smooth in the center, as if it had been passed through a hundred palms that all knew what death looked like.
Leon took it without asking permission.
He stepped into the training ring, one foot dragging slightly from yesterday's bruises. The ache in his back hadn't faded, and the fresh split on his palm throbbed beneath the bandages. But he tightened his grip on the blade anyway and brought it to his shoulder.
The weight bit down his arm.
He hadn't trained with real steel in this body yet. It pulled differently—slower, less forgiving than ironwood, heavier than anything he'd swung in two years. The first swing dragged through the air like a sack of bricks tied to a hinge.
He corrected. Reset his feet.
Again.
The blade sang against wind on the next strike. Not fast, but cleaner.
Then again.
His muscles burned faster than usual. Five swings in and his shoulders screamed. But the longer he kept going, the more the balance started making sense. The blade stopped fighting him.
It started following.
Yundar appeared sometime before the twentieth swing.
He leaned against the fence and didn't speak.
Leon didn't stop.
Strike. Reset. Strike. Reset.
He kept the tempo. The rhythm. Every swing was slower than it needed to be, but more deliberate. The sound changed. From choppy whiffs to one smooth breath of steel and motion.
By the time he finished his set, sweat dripped down his chin and soaked the collar of his shirt. He lowered the sword.
"Where'd you get that one?" Yundar asked, nodding at the blade.
Leon wiped his brow. "Second rack. Fourth from the right."
Yundar grunted. "You know who last carried it?"
Leon shook his head.
"Knight-Commander Brannis. Fought at Darshelm. Held the western flank with a broken arm and one eye."
Leon looked at the sword again. His grip tightened.
"He died three weeks later to a poisoned arrow," Yundar said. "But not before taking out four mages and a warbeast."
Leon's throat stayed dry. "Feels like the sword remembers."
"Then don't waste its memory."
Yundar tossed something into the dirt. A short-handled axe.
Leon looked down at it.
"You're getting steady with a blade," Yundar said. "Let's see how you adjust when speed gets involved."
Leon raised an eyebrow.
"You'll be sparring someone different today."
She entered from the far gate—light on her feet, braid tucked behind one shoulder, twin sparring daggers strapped to her lower back.
"Rissa," Yundar called. "You know the rules."
She nodded once, no bow, no small talk.
Leon stepped forward and tightened the cloth over his palm. "Fast?"
"Fast and mean," Yundar said. "And she doesn't miss twice."
Leon didn't bother with an introduction. He took stance. The steel blade hung steady at his side.
Rissa drew both daggers in one smooth motion. They caught the sun as she crouched low.
Then she came in.
The first clash happened in a blink.
She slashed low—testing his reach. Leon dropped his weight and parried with the flat of the blade. She twisted mid-step, ducked under his counter, and tapped the back of his knee.
He stepped out and reset.
She circled him, silent.
He watched her shoulders, not the blades.
She darted in again. Left dagger high, right angled for his ribs.
He twisted aside, blocked the right—but caught the tip of her other blade across his shoulder.
Not deep. Not sharp.
But in a real fight, it would've drawn blood.
She stepped back.
Leon exhaled.
"Better than last time," she said.
"This is our first time."
"I know."
They clashed again.
Leon struck wide—deliberately—and forced her to roll out. He turned on the back foot and brought the sword down from above.
She barely slid aside in time.
That swing scraped her gauntlet. She shook it out and grinned.
He pressed.
No flair. No clean duel.
Just hard swings. Brute force.
She dodged two, parried one, then jabbed him in the ribs.
Leon gasped and stumbled back a step.
Yundar didn't interrupt.
Rissa raised one dagger. "You move like someone expecting to lose."
Leon dropped the tip of his blade. "I used to."
"And now?"
He straightened.
"Now I move like someone who doesn't have time to lose."
She smiled again. "Then prove it."
The third round was the hardest.
Rissa didn't hold back. Her movements were faster, angles sharper. She hit with the butt of her dagger, kicked at his knees, used the terrain—walls, barrels, the edge of the ring.
Leon stayed with her.
Barely.
He bled from his forearm where she caught him mid-parry.
But his counter strike landed clean across her hip.
The match stopped there.
They both breathed heavy.
Sweat pooled at their collars. Their boots left deep marks in the dirt. The air between them buzzed with unspoken respect.
Yundar clapped once. "Enough."
Leon let his sword drop slightly. Rissa sheathed her daggers.
"You're not slow," she said.
Leon spat into the dirt. "Just heavier than I remember."
"That can be fixed."
She nodded once. "I'd spar again."
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
She left without another word.
Leon sat on the edge of the ring and unwrapped his hands. The cloth peeled off sticky and red.
He didn't flinch.
Yundar sat beside him, wordless for a time.
Finally, the old knight said, "You're starting to look like a swordsman."
Leon flexed his hand. "Not enough."
"You won't get a medal for perfect form."
"I'm not aiming for medals."
Yundar looked over. "What then?"
Leon didn't answer right away.
He looked at the sword. The weight of it. The memory in it.
"I'm aiming for the day someone swings at my family," he said, "and I don't hesitate."
Yundar nodded.
"Then you're on the right path."
That evening, when the courtyard emptied, Leon took the sword back to the rack.
He wiped the blade with clean cloth, checked the handle, ran his thumb down the edge.
He didn't put it away.
He kept it.
Hung it by his cot.
And slept with one hand resting near the grip.
Just in case the next fight didn't wait until morning.