Dawn arrived, and the clash of training swords already filled the air. Instructors bellowed commands, horses whinnied, boots pounded against packed earth—the cacophony of a border fortress waking to another day.
Albert had risen an hour before sunrise, retreating to a quiet corner of the courtyard to complete his routine. Stretches. Breathing exercises. Slow, deliberate movements with Wurzel.
Returning to the barracks, he found Luise already armored, seated on a long bench outside, sharpening her sword with slow, measured strokes. The same motion Ghost had performed in his previous life—up and down, up and down, the rhythmic scrape of metal against whetstone, almost meditative.
"Morning," Albert greeted, settling beside her.
"My Lord." Luise didn't turn, but the corner of her mouth lifted slightly.
Albert produced his leather pouch, selected a cigar, and lit it with a sulfur match. The first draw filled his lungs, and he closed his eyes for a brief moment.
Luise no longer regarded this habit with strange looks. Perhaps she'd grown accustomed. Or perhaps she'd simply decided her lord was peculiar and required not understanding, only protection.
"There's a welcoming feast tonight," Albert said between smoke rings. "All unit commanders are invited. You're coming too."
"Me?" Luise frowned. "I'm merely a squire."
"You're also one of the finest soldiers in my unit. That matters more than any title."
Luise offered no reply, but her sharpening hand paused briefly. Perhaps praise still felt foreign. Perhaps she simply didn't know how to respond.
Commotion from the front courtyard shattered the morning stillness.
Not training sounds. Not the bark of commands. Something else—shouts, coarse laughter, and woven through it all, a higher pitch. Sharper.
A woman's voice.
Albert and Luise exchanged glances. Both rose, both moved, both converged on the source.
***
By the main well, a cluster of young nobles formed a semicircle. Their cloaks spoke of wealth—silk, velvet, gold embroidery. The same arrogant youths who'd mocked Götthain's troops at the gate yesterday.
At the circle's center stood a servant girl—or perhaps a soldier's daughter, given her simple dress and terror-stricken face. She was backed against the well wall, trapped.
Before her, that same golden-curled youth in his opulent red cloak—the one from yesterday—laughed loudly, his hand reaching for her chin.
"Don't be shy," he announced, deliberately projecting for his audience. "Just a little smile. Or do you prefer coins? What's your smile worth?"
His companions laughed. Some cheered.
The girl tried to bat his hand away, but he gripped tighter. "Don't—"
"Let her go."
The voice carried no heat. No shout, no yell. Just a statement.
Everyone turned.
Luise stood meters from the crowd, hand already on her sword hilt. Her face showed no anger—but her eyes, those violet eyes, had frozen into ice.
The golden-haired youth paused. His eyes narrowed with recognition. "Oh. You... that female squire from the village troops." He laughed, releasing the girl's chin—but only to step closer. "What do you want? Want some fun yourself? I don't mind sharing."
His friends laughed harder.
Luise didn't move. Only her grip on the sword hilt tightened.
"I hear you're quite the fighter," the youth continued, still advancing. "But here, you're just a woman with a sword. And I—" he thumped his chest, "—am Lord Rodric vin Valeran, heir to Valeran. My father is an Earl who sits on the King's Council. Do you know what that means?"
"It means you're a spoiled brat who's never known hunger," Luise replied flatly.
Silence.
For several heartbeats, no one moved. Then Rodric laughed—a forced laugh, an angry laugh. "Bold. I like that." He stepped closer. "Let's see how bold you remain when—"
"Rodric." Another voice. Calmer and lighter.
Rodric turned. Albert stood several paces behind Luise, a small smile playing on his lips. A smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Sorry to interrupt," Albert said, his tone casual, almost friendly. "But things seem a bit heated here. Perhaps we could talk somewhere quieter?"
Rodric frowned. "You're... from Götthain, right? The one whose troops smell like rotten wheat?"
"Correct." Albert's smile held steady. "And I notice you're carrying something interesting." He pointed at Rodric's belt, where a wine bottle hung—dark glass with a red wax seal. "Valeran wine, isn't it? The famous one? I'm curious."
Rodric glanced at the bottle, then back at Albert. "You want my wine?"
"I want to talk with you, over a drink. Somewhere private." Albert shrugged. "Or would you prefer to continue here, with everyone watching?"
For the first time, Rodric hesitated. He glanced at his friends, then at Luise, then at Albert. Perhaps he saw something in Albert's eyes—something unusual. Or perhaps his considerable ego decided that accepting this challenge would make him appear stronger.
"Fine," he said finally. "Come on. But don't expect me to share much."
He grabbed his wine bottle, unhooked it from his belt, and stepped forward. Albert gestured, and they walked away from the crowd, toward a quieter corner of the fortress, behind the storage sheds.
Luise watched them go, hand still on her sword.
"Don't worry," Albert called without turning. "We'll just talk."
***
Behind the storage sheds, they were alone.
The place lay silent, surrounded by stacked wooden crates and grain sacks. Dust and dry timber scented the air. Morning sun climbed higher overhead, but here, shadows still held sway.
Rodric stopped in the center, twirling the wine bottle in his hands. "So, what did you want to discuss? Your pathetic troops? Or perhaps—"
He never finished the sentence.
Albert moved. No warning. No change in expression. One second he stood there with that friendly smile, the next his fist crashed into Rodric's jaw with accuracy and power astonishing for a fifteen-year-old.
Rodric dropped like a sack of grain. The wine bottle flew from his grip—but Albert caught it mid-air, a motion so quick it barely registered.
"Sorry," Albert murmured, gazing down at Rodric's crumpled form. "But you picked the wrong person to harass."
Rodric groaned, eyes rolling. The blow hadn't killed him, but it would keep him unconscious for at least a few minutes. Albert knelt beside him.
He opened the wine bottle. The aroma was potent—quality red, undoubtedly expensive. Albert poured some into Rodric's slack mouth, making him choke, wine soaking his opulent cloak. Then he emptied the rest onto the ground, onto a nearby pile of straw, creating puddles and splatters everywhere.
He took Rodric's hand, examining his knuckles. No wounds—but that could be arranged. Albert grabbed a small stone from the ground and scraped it across Rodric's knuckles until the skin broke, leaving marks like someone who'd been punching something.
Then he stood, surveying Rodric's prone body.
One kick. Precise and devastating.
A faint cracking sound, like an egg breaking. Rodric groaned in his unconscious state, body convulsing briefly, then falling still.
Albert bent down to inspect his work. Rodric would never father children. Never. If he survived—and he would, because nobles always had the best healers—he'd live with the memory that today, behind a storage shed, a village boy from Götthain had taught him the meaning of consequences.
Albert picked up the empty bottle and placed it in Rodric's limp hand. Then he turned and walked away, back toward the front courtyard, that small smile once again fixed on his face.
***
Luise still stood in the same spot. The girl had vanished—fled, likely, once the commotion subsided. Rodric's friends remained near the well, but they seemed confused, uncertain what to do.
When Albert appeared, they stared at him. Alone. Without Rodric.
"Where's Rodric?" one demanded.
Albert shrugged. "Still drinking, I suppose. He said he wanted to be alone." He smiled. "The wine was excellent."
He walked past them, approaching Luise. Without stopping, without turning his head, he murmured, "Come."
Luise followed.
They walked back toward the barracks, crossing courtyards where soldiers were beginning their daily routines. Albert said nothing. Luise asked nothing.
At the barracks entrance, near the door, Albert stopped. He looked at Luise.
"It's handled," he said. "That man won't bother anyone again."
Luise studied him. Relief flickered across her features.
"My Lord," she said softly, "what did you do to him?"
Albert smiled. The same smile—light, friendly, not reaching his eyes.
"We talked. Firmly."
Luise asked nothing further. She simply nodded.
"Thank you, My Lord."
"You're part of my unit. I protect my own. That's my promise."
He entered the barracks, leaving Luise at the threshold, watching his back with an expression difficult to decipher.
***
That evening, the welcoming feast commenced.
Vastenburg's great hall transformed into a sea of candlelight, music, and feudal opulence.
Crystal chandeliers swayed gently from the high ceiling, casting glimmering reflections across stone walls draped with tapestries depicting ancient battles. Long tables lined the hall, burdened with whole roasted meats, fruits from the southern provinces, cakes thick with sugar glaze, wine in silver pitchers.
Nobles arranged themselves according to hierarchy. At the hall's far end, on a raised dais, the Garrison Commander—an old man with a scarred face and cropped white hair—occupied the high seat. Flanking him sat nobles commanding the largest territories, wielding the most influence.
Albert occupied a middle position. Neither too low nor too high. Appropriate for a minor holding like Götthain.
Behind him stood Sir Varin and Luise. They hadn't received invitations to sit—only unit commanders rated seats. The rest stood behind their lords.
"What kind of nobility is this," Luise murmured.
Albert nearly smiled. "You'll get used to it... or you won't."
The feast proceeded according to tedious protocol.
Welcome speeches from the Commander—long-winded, meandering, packed with rhetoric about honor, sacrifice, and certain victory. Nobles applauded at precisely the right moments, for precisely the right duration, like a well-rehearsed orchestra.
Food was served. Albert ate with measured movements—Lady Elara had taught him table etiquette, and he executed it flawlessly. Neither too fast nor too slow. Appropriate compliments to the chef. Appropriate smiles to table neighbors.
Tedious and tiresome, but necessary.
Across the hall, Rodric was nowhere to be seen. Probably still in his chambers, with a crushed groin and nightmares about fists that arrived without warning.
Albert didn't care. He'd considered every possibility. If Rodric reported the incident, there was no evidence—only his word against Albert's, and Albert enjoyed a reputation as a quiet boy who never caused trouble. If Rodric stayed silent, even better. Shame would consume him from within.
Meanwhile, the music played on. Nobles began to dance.
Albert politely declined every invitation. "Forgive me, I'm not much of a dancer." he'd say with a courteous smile.
He remained seated, sipping water (he'd instructed servants to bring water, abstaining from alcohol), and watched.
Observation was his specialty.
He noted who approached whom. Who was avoided. Who laughed loudest, who smiled only thinly. Who drank heavily, who merely wet their lips.
He watched the young nobles, Rodric's friends, whispering in corners. Once or twice, they glanced his way. Albert responded with polite nods and friendly smiles.
Their expressions suggested they didn't know how to respond.
"Bored?" Luise whispered from behind.
"Extremely," Albert replied softly. "But informative."
"What information has My Lord gathered?"
"Who our enemies are. Who merely pretends friendship. Who might be worth approaching later." He gestured subtly with his chin toward an elderly noble at the table's end—a man sitting alone, speaking to no one, simply eating and drinking in silence. "Him, for instance. Former knight, no patience for pleasantries. Might prove useful."
Luise followed his gaze. "How does you know?"
"His posture. Straight back, relaxed but alert shoulders. His eyes constantly move, watching the doors. Scar on his right hand—sword wound, not work injury. He's no ordinary noble."
"Former knight turned noble?"
"Or noble turned knight." Albert sipped his water. "Irrelevant. What matters is his dislike for empty chatter."
"I see..."
The feast continued until midnight. Albert endured at his seat, smiling at the right people, nodding at the right speeches, avoiding dances with the right excuses.
When the Commander finally rose and declared the festivities concluded, Albert felt as though he'd completed five hours of training with Sir Gregor. Mentally exhausted, yet physically alert.
They walked back to the barracks under moonlight. Vastenburg slept in silence, broken only by cricket song and occasional guard footsteps along the walls.
"Luise," Albert called as they reached the barracks door.
"Yes?"
"Tomorrow, there may be trouble. Rodric's friends might attempt something. Hopefully not, but you must be prepared."
"I'm always prepared, My Lord."
"I know." Albert regarded her. "But this isn't about combat. This is about words, insinuations, subtle insults you can't answer with a sword. Do you understand?"
Luise was silent. Then she nodded. "I'll try."
"Don't try. Do." Albert smiled faintly. "Or if you can't, let me handle the talking. I'm rather skilled with words."
He entered the barracks, leaving Luise at the threshold, watching his back with that same expression as earlier—difficult to decipher, but no longer merely watchful.
In his quarters, Albert sat at his desk, produced a cigar, struck flint and steel before applying his sulfur match. The first draw filled his lungs, and he closed his eyes.
He exhaled smoke toward the ceiling.
"Good night, Lord Rodric," he whispered. "May your groin heal swiftly. Well... may the Goddess decide."
He smiled to himself, then stretched out on his bed.