The canteen smelled of oats, ash, and something fried. Lucan stepped through the doors, expecting another quiet morning, but paused when he saw the woman behind the counter. The serving lady, Isabelle.
She was back.
Her smile was the same, warm, motherly, and slightly crooked on the left side. She wore a bandage wrapped around her arm, and she moved stiffly, but she was here, and the entire room buzzed around her.
"Glad you're back, Isabelle!"
"We missed you!"
"I'll burn a toast for each of those freckles!"
The soldiers were greeting her like an old friend. Lucan couldn't help the grin that crept onto his face as he grabbed an omelette.
He took a seat near the corner, where the noise faded just enough to hear the murmurs.
"...a dozen men dead, they said."
"Half the barracks would've been torched if not for-"
"Still don't know how the bitches got in."
Lucan's hand clenched around his spoon. His other hand slammed down hard on the table, drawing a few startled glances.
"Easy, lad."
A tray clunked down across from him. Rorik sat, grinning as he tore into a biscuit.
Lucan didn't speak. He just looked.
Rorik raised an eyebrow. "You think you're angry now? There'd be a lot more than a dozen dead if not for you."
Lucan stared at him, unconvinced.
"You called it out when you realized. Before anyone else even noticed that Isabelle was missing. That's not nothing. Most men would've second-guessed themselves and said nothing to avoid looking stupid. You didn't."
Lucan said nothing.
Rorik leaned back, his expression growing a little more serious. "Don't worry. Lord Emberlily won't let this stand. He's furious. Wants blood. He'll be riding out soon, and when he does, I'll be going with the other soldiers."
Lucan's head shot up. "I want to go."
Rorik barked a laugh. "You handle a sword like a cow trying to sew." He smirked, holding up his hands in mock stitching. "Lots of clumsy waving. Not a lot of actual work getting done."
Lucan scowled.
"Listen, you'll get your chance to die gloriously. Just not yet. Focus on training."
By the time Lucan finished the better than usual omelette, the hall was thinning. He slung his training sword over his shoulder and made for the courtyard.
Thorne stood waiting like a statue planted in stone, arms crossed, dark eyes sharp under the morning sun.
"You're late," he said, though he didn't sound angry. "But I'll forgive you. You've made strides these last two weeks."
Lucan stood straighter, chest tight.
"So," Thorne continued, "let's see if you can keep up. I want to see you spar."
He turned and waved over another recruit that was taller, older, and broader. Lucan recognized him but didn't know the name. A quiet one who'd been here longer than him.
Thorne tossed both of them wooden swords.
"One hit to the chest," Thorne said. "That's the rule."
The courtyard mud squelched underfoot as Lucan and the older recruit circled each other, training swords held at the ready. Around them, a few soldiers had paused their drills to watch.
"Begin!" Thorne called.
The other recruit struck first; it was quick, clean, and aggressive. A thrust straight at Lucan's chest.
Lucan barely twisted aside, the wooden blade grazing his tunic. He stumbled back, boots slipping slightly in the muck. Before he could recover, another swing came at his side. He blocked, but too late. The blow clipped his hip with a thump.
"No point," Thorne barked from the side. "Strike the chest or keep fighting!"
Lucan reset his stance, gritting his teeth. The older recruit was faster and more composed. He wasn't going full force, but it was clear he had control.
They circled again.
Lucan swung a wide, telegraphed arc meant more to test distance than hit. The recruit stepped back, then jabbed forward, again aiming at the chest.
This time Lucan angled his blade down and slapped the strike away, then instantly retreated before a follow-up could land.
He was panting now, arms heavy. The fight was short, but every movement was an effort.
He always steps right before he strikes, Lucan thought, eyes narrowing. Sets his foot in the mud, turns slightly.
He watched for it.
Another attack. A left feint followed by a right swing. Lucan got his blade in the way, but it wasn't a clean parry, and his arms rattled from the impact.
Still, he didn't fall.
Almost like a rhythm, Lucan thought. Like a boss with a loop. If I time it right.
They circled again. This time, Lucan invited the attack with his left side exposed, sword half-lowered.
The older recruit took the bait, stepping in and turning right to angle his swing.
There. Lucan lunged inside the movement, angling for the ribs where the man always left a gap.
Gasps erupted from the watching recruits.
But Lucan was off-balance. His foot caught in the mud. His strike swung wide, and he fell face-first with a heavy splat.
He tried to roll, but the training sword tapped him firmly between the shoulder blades.
"Point," the older recruit said, breathing only a little harder than before.
Lucan groaned into the mud.
Then he looked up.
Thorne was staring at him, not with disappointment, but with sharp curiosity. His mouth twitched into a grin, one that showed just a little too much tooth.
Lucan could swear the man looked... pleased.
Before Thorne could speak, a boy in a scout uniform came running, panting.
"Captain Thorne! Emberlily calls. The Lord is riding out!"
Thorne's smile vanished. He turned sharply to the others.
"You heard him! Gear up! Steel, bows, and packs, move like you mean it!"
The courtyard burst into motion.
Lucan stayed in the mud a moment longer, watching them all scramble.
Then he sat up, wiped his face, and smiled anyway.
And suddenly, his mind wasn't in the courtyard anymore. The hum of computers. The stink of too many people crammed into a rented community center. The finals.
Lucan stared at the screen. Match point. His hands were trembling, he usually got past nerves but the finals still had him sweaty. He trained every day after school. Studied frame data, watched replays. He'd even skipped out on that dumb party people were still teasing him about.
He knew the matchup. He knew it.
His opponent lunged. Lucan reacted. A counter.
The screen froze, it was in slow motion. His counter was out. The other guy's heavy slash connected first. A single frame too slow.
KO.
The crowd erupted but not for him. Never for him.
Lucan stared at the screen. His sparring partner clapped him on the back. "You got second," he said. "Still huge."
But Lucan couldn't hear it. All he heard was: You were almost right.Almost smart enough.Almost skilled enough.You were good, but not the best.
Lucan pushed himself up from the dirt. His shoulder ached. His cheek was scratched. He stared at his wooden sword.
It had been a good idea. He'd seen the pattern. He just couldn't land it.
Too slow again.
He spat into the mud, grit in his teeth. But this time… this time he didn't log out. He didn't go home. He started swinging his sword and practicing.