Pain shook Edric awake before dawn, a dull roar in every muscle that yesterday's rain hadn't washed away. When he rolled his shoulders a pair of joints cracked, loud as flint. Outside, an iron whistle sliced the fog.
"Up, Your Highness," Sir Brynn called. "The mud is lonely."
Edric pulled on his coat—still stained with yesterday's drills—and fastened the rune-bracer that throbbed like a second heartbeat. Ashcoil slid from beneath his cloak, scales cool against his neck. Hungry.
"We all are," he murmured, then headed for the yard.
Mist gripped the courtyard like cold breath. The recruits waited: washerwoman Mira rubbing her forearms; smith-apprentice Merra flexing swollen knuckles; lanky Will hugging the door-shield he'd christened Old Shieldy. At Will's elbow stood twelve-year-old Fiona Feldspar, ash-blond braid singed at the tips, a smith's hammer nearly her own height balanced on her shoulder.
Brynn scanned the line. "Yesterday you held a wall. Today you make it walk. Triple push drills—move."
Wood smacked wood. Mud burst upward. On the second rep Will's boot slid; Edric shifted, braced, felt the line recover. The third shove locked firm.
A chuckle rippled behind them. Sir Ronan, broad-shouldered day-captain, strolled by in his dented bucket helm—someone had chalked KING OF CABBAGES across the brow. Laughter spilled—relief in disguise—and Brynn let it live for a heartbeat before barking, "Eyes front."
They were resetting when Tanner, a jittery stable lad, slipped. His blunt mace arced toward Fiona's unhelmed head. Edric's body moved without thinking. Left hand slapped the bracer—sigils flared gold.
Chain-Rune: Ironhide, thirty heartbeats.
Light sheeted over his forearm. He dove, wedged himself and Will's door plank between iron and child.
CLANG.
The blow rang off glowing runes. Pain bit, but the magic held. By the count of thirty, light died and weight flooded back. Knees threatened to fold; world blurred at the edges.
Edric managed two staggering steps before sinking to one knee. Heat crawled from scalp to spine, every breath raw metal. Tanner blurted apologies; Brynn hauled him upright by his collar.
"Control your weapon or polish latrines with it," she growled. Then, louder, "Power saves lives—but it sends a bill, payable in blood or bone. Remember that."
Edric's vision steadied just as Rafe arrived with a tin cup of water and a strip of willow bark. He drank, wiped his mouth, and let a single internal thought settle—thirty seconds of safety, half a day of knives in the skull. Spend wisely.
Training resumed at half pace while the crash eased. Hammering rain had turned yesterday's bruises into today's fire, but the line kept moving. Between sets Brynn slipped a dry remark to Ronan: "Notice how you favor your left when the push drifts?"
Ronan tapped the rim of his helm. "Shield arm does the heavy lifting."
"Keep that in mind," she said, "one day you may need the spare."
The warning sailed over most heads—Edric caught it and filed it away.
By late morning blisters outnumbered clean patches of skin. Brynn ended drills with a final shove; half the recruits skidded backward yet stayed upright.
"Better," she judged. "Spears tomorrow—try not to skewer friends."
Ronan flipped his visor. "Kitchen promises burnt cabbage garnished with regret." Groans, but genuine smiles.
Ashcoil chose that moment to slither from Edric's cloak, disappear among gear, and resurface tugging Ronan's left boot like a trophy.
"Oi!" Ronan barked. "Tell the royal rope that isn't breakfast."
Even Brynn's scarred mouth twitched.
The forge still smelled of rain-damp brick and old slag. When Fiona pumped the single working bellows, heat rolled out carrying iron-dust and the sharp bite of coal gas—scents that settled in the throat like promises. Sparks flew at her third hammer strike: tiny yellow arcs that curved, looped, and snuffed in midair.
Edric leaned on the warped doorframe, head clearer now but arms leaden. "Those sparks make shapes. You're shaping them."
Fiona's eyes widened. "Da says it's my imagination."
"It's rune dust. With training you'll bind edge runes so the rest of us stop borrowing my blood." He handed her oversized gloves; the smell of tanned leather fought the forge-smoke. "Lesson one: protect your hands—blisters slow the mind."
Her grin outshone the coals. "Strike until the sparks obey?"
"And learn the names of every shape they show first," Edric said. "Steel forgets nothing; neither should its smith."
Twilight bled orange along the parapets. Brynn lined the recruits beneath the tattered griffin banner. Palms raw and trembling, they pressed hands to cloth. Red prints bloomed beside yesterday's silver thread. When Edric stepped forward, he set his own hand among theirs—his blood, their mud.
Brynn's voice, softer than drill bark, carried anyway. "Wall. Roof. Shield. We hold or die. That's the oath."
Lanterns flickered as if in answer. Ashcoil coiled on a sun-warmed stone; runes along his spine glowed like embers.
Night came. Edric and Brynn walked the parapet, boots crunching damp grit.
"Marshfire scouts report Baron Geldar doubled levy numbers," she said.
"How long before they test our walls?"
"Fourteen days if they march hard. Longer if marsh roads swallow carts."
Edric flexed aching fingers. "Two weeks to turn planks into shields and teach a child to write steel."
Brynn blew out a breath that might've been a laugh. "Better odds than most crusades."
They stood a moment, listening to the river whisper through the dark. Distant thunder rolled—no lightning yet, only promise.
"Brynn," Edric said, "thank you—for staying."
"Someone has to tell you when clever turns stupid." She clapped his shoulder, the gesture brisk yet steady. "Rest. Tomorrow we bleed smarter."
He watched her descend stone steps, torchlight throwing one bold shadow ahead of her. He looked at his palm—skin split, scab forming—and at the banner overhead, darker now, sown with fresh prints.
One day those stains would be a crest. Tonight they were proof the keep still breathed.
Edric turned toward barracks, spine aching but heart settled.
The first wall had held.
The first sparks had obeyed.
Tomorrow strength would become habit—and fear would learn how to yield.