Gladus stood still, sword raised, a figure carved from stone. His frame was broad and powerful, even in age, his weathered hands steady on the hilt of a blade that had ended monsters and men alike. Scars lined his arms, peeking from beneath his tunic like faded memories of wars long past. But none of those battles weighed on him more than the one he fought now—shaping his only son into something that could survive the world.
There was no softness in him, not anymore. Not since the day the light went out of their home.
Silius didn't remember much of his mother, just the warmth of her arms and the lilt in her voice when she hummed to soothe him. She had been a kind soul in a house of steel. A woman who placed others before herself, who offered comfort instead of commands. Her death had hollowed something in both father and son, but while Silius buried it in longing, Gladus buried it beneath armor.
Now that armor came for him.
Gladus lunged.
Steel flashed, and instinct took over. Silius caught the strike with the flat of his practice blade. The impact jolted his arms, but he held. He pivoted, narrowly avoiding a follow-up cut to the ribs. His father wasted no motion—every slash was deliberate, measured, and crushing.
Silius backpedaled across the yard, the weight of each parry compounding the last. Dust kicked up around his boots as he sidestepped a low cut and countered, only for Gladus to spin and strike again from the opposite angle.
They circled like predators—one weathered and composed, the other younger, faster, and desperate.
But desperation could only carry him so far.
His breath was shallow now. Muscles screamed from exertion. The familiar tremble returned to his grip, a whisper of failure inching closer. He had fought this man a hundred times, and a hundred times he had been broken. This time was no different.
Gladus feinted high, then swept Silius's feet from beneath him with a fluid kick. The boy hit the ground, hard, again.
The sword hovered at his throat. A pause.
"Do you yield?" Gladus asked.
Silius didn't answer.
His heart thundered against his chest—not just from pain or exhaustion, but from something deeper. He stared up at the man who seemed more legend than blood. And he remembered her—not clearly, not her face, but the feeling she gave him. Warmth. Peace. A time before the weight of expectations.
What would she think of him now?
He gritted his teeth and surged upward, shoving the blade aside with his forearm. Pain bloomed down to the bone, but he ignored it. His foot hooked his father's ankle. Gladus didn't fall, but staggered. That was enough.
Silius snatched up his practice sword and brought it down in a wide arc. Gladus blocked it easily, but this time Silius didn't stop. He pressed forward, attacking with more instinct than technique—every strike sloppy, emotional, but undeniable.
The older man's expression shifted slightly. Surprise. Not at the strength, but the change.
Steel rang out across the yard once more. Sparks flew. Knights gathered at the edges, drawn by the clash. Some murmured to each other, some folded their arms and observed in silence.
And Silius kept fighting.
He thought of every failure, every bruise, every silence that followed defeat. He thought of the praise he never received and the eyes that once looked at him with warmth.
It built inside him like a flame—rage not at his father, but at his own helplessness. At his weakness. At the gap between who he was and who he needed to become.
Gladus parried another blow and stepped back. "Good," he said simply. Then lunged with real force.
Silius barely blocked the next strike. Then the next. Each blow was harder, faster, more brutal. His body responded on instinct. The world narrowed to movement, to survival.
Then—something shifted.
A pulse, faint at first, from somewhere deep in his chest.
It wasn't energy. Not yet.
It was will.
Something ancient and buried clawing its way to the surface.
Silius let out a growl and struck again, this time meeting his father's sword with one of his own—and not moving. The shock traveled through his arms, yes—but he stood his ground.
The gathered knights quieted. Even the wind seemed to pause. One of the younger squires, no more than thirteen, dropped the training pole he was holding. It hit the ground with a lonely clatter.
Gladus narrowed his eyes.
Something was happening.
Something that could not be taught.