Two days after the banner maneuver, Commander Raun gave them no rest.
At dawn, he led the recruits to a different yard where wooden targets were set across the field.
His voice cut through the morning air:
"A knight is not only a sword. An arrow can decide a battle before it begins. Today, you will learn what it means to strike—or to miss."
⸻
Each trainee was handed a simple bow and a bundle of wooden arrows.
Kaizlan gripped his bow with care, his fingers unaccustomed to the taut string. His first shot veered wildly, landing in the dirt.
Some recruits laughed, while Torn loosed his own arrow, which lodged crookedly at the target's edge.
Serin drew with steady precision, striking the second ring on her first attempt.
Eiron fired quickly, almost casually, his arrow sinking near the center. He turned with a smirk:
"Even the bow bends to those who dare."
Milo, as always, hesitated. His shot barely cleared the ground before clattering short of the target. His face flushed red with shame.
⸻
By afternoon, the training grew harsher: a mock siege.
One team defended a tall wooden tower, while the other tried to storm it with shields and ladders.
Shouts, dust, and volleys of wooden arrows turned the drill into something that felt far too real.
Kaizlan climbed the ladder under a rain of blows against his shield. Every rung was its own battle. Sweat stung his eyes, mingling with the scent of scorched timber from small fires set near the structures.
At the top, he slammed into his opponent, knocking him backward, then swung his blunted sword, breath ragged.
It was the first true victory he had felt since training began.
⸻
But while blood and sweat were being poured into the camp, the capital of Eldran pulsed with a different rhythm.
In a noble's palace, a grand feast was underway. Candles burned bright, music filled the hall, and goblets sparkled in the hands of finely dressed men and women.
Among them stood Elian Gryphon, immaculate in his attire, carrying an air of effortless grace.
None in that shining hall would have connected this elegant nobleman—with his calm smile and silken voice—to the name whispered in darker alleys: the Elegant Man.
A wealthy merchant approached, bowing with respect.
"Lord Gryphon, your presence honors us."
Elian's smile lingered, his words soft but edged:
"Honor belongs always to those who know how to hold their place."
The words carried two meanings, though in the glow of the chandeliers, no one noticed the shadow behind his face.
⸻
At sunset, Raun returned to the training yard, assembling the recruits in tight ranks.
His gaze swept over their weary faces.
"Three weeks under my hand. Some of you have shown courage. Some of you have shown nothing but weakness.
In battle… weakness is not forgiven."
He halted before Milo, his voice cold:
"If you do not improve in the coming days… you will have no place here."
Milo's head sank, as though the ground itself might swallow him.
Raun passed to Eiron.
"Strong, but selfish. A lone wolf dies quickly."
Eiron's smile remained, untouched.
When Raun stopped before Kaizlan, he spoke more slowly:
"You fall often… but you stand every time. That is a gift no coin can buy."
Few words—but they made Kaizlan's heart pound.
⸻
That night, he sat by the fire, watching sparks drift into the dark.
Three weeks only… yet they had felt like months.
"If this is only the beginning… where will the road lead me?"