Of course, not everyone was Marcus.
In the afternoons, after study hours, I had to meet with the castle's appointed Weaponmanship Instructor—Sir Holst. A tall, grizzled man with calloused hands and eyes like iron.
They called him Sir Holst.
He never introduced himself. He never asked questions. On the first day, he stood at the far end of the courtyard, dressed in worn greys, a dull sword in one hand, and said only one thing:
> "Pick it up."
A wooden sword lay in front of me. Polished, heavy, dense with sweat and dried blood from dozens of boys who had held it before.
I picked it up.
"Too slow."
That was our introduction.
The castle had tutors, scholars, even artists—but only one instructor of weaponmanship. Unlike Marcus, Sir Holst never smiled, never used my name, never once looked at me like a child. His eyes were always locked on the form, the stance, the pressure in my wrist.
> "Your feet are wrong. Your elbow is exposed. If you die, it's not my shame."
He was not a man who taught. He sharpened.
He never raised his voice. He didn't need to. His silence cut sharper than rebuke. When I bled from my palms, he gave no comfort. Just a cloth. And another sword.
Yet strangely, I never hated him.
Because he never lied.
Not like the nobles who smiled while watching me starve. Not like the priests with soft hands and bloody tongues. Holst was a blade himself—cold, measured, honed by years of war, and already broken in all the places that mattered.
He didn't disrupt Marcus's time with me. He never intruded.
> "A warrior must understand when to pull back," he once said, watching Danny clumsily mimic my stances in the background. "Even a blade sleeps in its sheath."
That was the closest he came to praise.
Sometimes, after a particularly brutal session, I'd return to my room to find balm set out quietly on the table. A single note.
> "Heal faster. We don't have time."
It wasn't kindness.
It was preparation.
He believed I would survive. That I must.
And somehow, that was enough.
Though I didn't need balm to heal, my power can heal me. But I don't use it, not in front of others.
Why?? Simple, my father hates church and not a fan of holy power.
But that's not the only reason. I don't want unwanted attention especially from church. I will heal myself when I want to and won't when I don't want to.
As simple as that.
---
"You're young, but your bones must learn steel," he'd say, tossing a wooden sword at me without warning. "In war, we don't ask if the enemy is older."
He wasn't cruel, not exactly. Just… unyielding. Expectation poured off him like sweat.
"Back straight. Again. No, again."
I obeyed. I always obeyed. Because even if my limbs trembled, I wouldn't fall. Not now. Not again.
I had to start from basics. Basics is the key, the foundation of swordsmanship.
A Swordsman who don't know basics doesn't deserve to be one.
But after training, when I returned to the study and Marcus handed me warm tea, or when Danny climbed into my lap with some ridiculous rock and called it a dragon's tooth… it didn't feel like weakness.
It felt like… balance.
Like the world didn't have to be all cold edges and commands.
------
The courtyard had emptied.
Sweat and blood still soaked into the stones. The scent of metal, heat, and exhaustion lingered in the air like ghosts that refused to leave.
Sir Holst stood near the rack, cleaning a dull-edged blade with slow, practiced motions. The cloth moved across the steel like ritual.
Marcus approached without words, hands behind his back. He watched the strokes of the cloth, then the faint line of red on the ground where Elarion's palms had split open again.
"He's pushing himself too hard," Marcus said finally, voice low.
Holst didn't look up. "Then he's pacing himself correctly."
A long silence stretched between them.
Marcus chuckled faintly, not from amusement, but understanding. "He never cries. Even when he should."
"He knows it wouldn't help."
"He's only three."
"No," Holst replied, setting the blade down, "he's not."
Another pause. The quiet wasn't uncomfortable. Just heavy.
Marcus glanced toward the far corridor where his son had disappeared, Daniel clinging to his cloak. "I envy you sometimes, Holst."
The instructor arched a brow. "That would be unwise."
"You don't look at him like a child. Not even once."
"I don't need to." Holst looked out at the training ring. "He's not training for medals. He's training for deserts. For starvation. For betrayal. You don't train a hound to chase rabbits if you know it will face wolves."
"You think he'll make it?"
Holst's answer came instantly. "He must."
Marcus's expression shifted—thoughtful, but not soft. "And what if he doesn't?"
Holst finally looked at him, eyes like frost. "Then no one will."
They stood in silence again. Somewhere, a bell rang in the distance.
"Still," Marcus murmured, "I'll let him see Danny for a few minutes tonight. Even the blade rests in its sheath sometimes."
Holst turned back to the weapons rack. "So long as it doesn't rust."
Marcus smiled faintly and left.
Behind him, Holst resumed polishing the blade. His hands never trembled. His grip never loosened.
But in the corner of the table, set beneath the rack where no child would ever look, rested a folded cloth with balm and bandages. No note this time.
He already knew the boy could read between lines.
....