The training ground was just an alley.
Cracked stone underfoot, brick walls on either side, and a forgotten wooden dummy lashed together with old rope. No guards. No gold. Just silence, space, and the bite of early morning air.
Lucien tightened the cloth around his palms and rolled his shoulders.
Then he moved.
Each strike was clean, controlled. The dull edge of his wooden sword cut through air like it hated the world. A downward slash. A pivot. Side-step, thrust, spin. His body followed a rhythm he had carved into muscle over years of repetition. Not from a teacher — he couldn't afford one. His only tutors were memory, observation, and stubborn obsession.
He imagined his opponent: tall, smug, armored in silver with a noble crest on his chest. Probably yawning between strikes. He'd seen it before — the laziness of those born into privilege.
Lucien ducked an invisible blade and countered with a precise upward slash, stopping just short of the dummy's chin.
He paused, panting softly.
Someday, he'd make that blow real.
A loud knock echoed from the direction of his house.
Lucien frowned.
No one ever knocked that loud in the slums — not unless it was a debt collector, a guard, or worse. He grabbed his training sword, still sweating, and ran.
He reached the doorstep just as his mother opened the door.
Two figures stood outside. Their cloaks were dark, high-quality — stitched with actual thread-of-silk. The taller man had graying hair pulled back and a golden brooch on his collar in the shape of a lion. The younger one, maybe nineteen, wore the uniform of Graymoor Academy — black with silver trim, a sword at his hip.
Lucien's breath caught.
"Verath residence?" the older man asked politely.
His mother nodded cautiously. "Yes?"
"I am Lord Albrecht's steward. This is his son, Renard. We've come with a message."
Lucien stepped forward slowly. "A message?"
Renard's eyes met his. Cold. Dismissive. The kind Lucien knew well.
"Yes," the steward said. "House Albrecht is hosting a selection trial. For commonborn boys of sword talent. His Lordship… wishes to be generous this year."
Lucien blinked. "Commonborn?"
"Yes. Unusual, I know," the steward replied. "You'll be tested in public. The best among you may be considered for squireship. Possibly even admittance to Graymoor — if the nobles approve."
Lucien's heart raced, but his face stayed still. "Why us?"
The steward hesitated. Then gave a diplomatic smile. "Let's call it... an act of charity."
Renard snorted.
Lucien looked down at his sweat-stained shirt, his cloth-wrapped hands. Then at his mother — who stood frozen, unsure whether this was a blessing or a trap.
"Fine," Lucien said. "When is the trial?"
"Two days from now. First bell. South training yard of the outer ring."
The steward offered a folded parchment with the seal of House Albrecht. Lucien took it.
Then they left — as quickly as they'd come.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Finally, his mother broke the silence. "You don't have to go."
Lucien turned to her. "Yes, I do."
"It could be dangerous."
"So is starving."
Her lips trembled, but she said nothing.
Lucien looked at the parchment again. The lion seal stared back at him — golden and smug.
He didn't trust House Albrecht. He didn't trust any noble house. But if this trial was real, and if it opened even a crack in the gate... he'd shove his way through it.
This was his chance. Not just for him — for them.
The Crownless had been invited to the lion's den.
And he planned to make them bleed.
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