For three months, the squires of Arathor had struck with wood.
Wooden swords that bruised but never cut. Wooden staves that splintered but never broke bone. Wooden edges that clacked and echoed like training bells, never singing the deadly song of true battle.
That ended today.
The East Grounds shimmered with morning frost, the grass crunching underfoot as rows of squires stood in formation. Their breath steamed in the cool air, sweat from the dawn run already cooling on their skin. A hush fell over them like a blanket as Sir Varic himself strode to the center of the yard, his cloak snapping in the wind like a battle standard. Behind him, two stewards wheeled a heavy cart, its contents hidden beneath thick canvas that bulged with promise and threat.
Varic planted his boots in the frost-hardened earth, his scarred face unreadable as stone. When he spoke, his voice rolled across the grounds like distant thunder.
"Three months you have sweated. Three months you have bled on straw and wood, broken yourselves against dummies and each other with weapons that could not kill." His eyes swept across them, measuring, judging. "Today, that ends."
He gripped the canvas and ripped it free in one violent motion.
A hundred blades gleamed in the morning light like captured stars.
Sharp, collective gasps rippled through the formation. Rows upon rows of real swords—short blades for the swift, longswords for the balanced, bastard swords for the strong—each one forged steel, edges honed to lethal sharpness. The metal caught the sunlight and threw it back in brilliant flashes that made squires squint and marvel.
This was not practice anymore. This was reality in steel form.
Varic's gaze swept them like a blade's edge, sharp enough to cut. "Steel is not a toy. Steel does not forgive mistakes. Every cut from these blades is true—it will open your flesh, spill your blood, leave scars you'll carry to your grave." His voice dropped, gaining weight. "Some of you will bleed today. Some of you will scar. Some of you—" he paused deliberately "—will learn to fear the weapon you carry. That is the price of wielding a knight's blade."
He let the silence stretch, let the weight of those words settle on young shoulders.
"But without steel, you are not knights. You are boys and girls playing at war, swinging sticks in a field. Today, you become something more. Today, you earn the right to call yourselves squires of Arathor."
The stewards began moving through the ranks, distributing swords wrapped in oiled cloth. Each bundle was handed over with ceremony, with weight, acknowledging the significance of this moment. The squires accepted them with expressions ranging from awe to trepidation to barely contained excitement.
Adrian accepted his blade without visible reaction, though his fingers recognized the weight instantly. The steel was plain, unadorned, no runes etched into its surface to glow with power. But it was sharp, properly balanced, alive in his grip in a way wood had never been. He unwrapped it slowly, testing the weight with subtle shifts of his wrist, feeling how it moved, where its center of balance lay.
Compared to the demon-forged weapons of his past life—blades that screamed with captured souls, edges that could cut through dimensions—this was nothing special. A simple human sword, well-made but mundane.
But it was enough. More than enough.
His body adjusted automatically, muscle memory from a lifetime of warfare reasserting itself. The proper grip, the ideal stance, the way to extend for maximum reach without sacrificing defense—all of it flooded back like water finding its channel.
Beside him, Edric cradled his blade like a newborn child, awe and fear warring openly on his face. His hands trembled slightly as he unwrapped the oiled cloth. "It's... real. Gods above, it's actually real." His voice carried a note of disbelief, as if some part of him had never truly believed this moment would come.
"Careful with that edge," Finn warned, sliding his own blade free with the precise, respectful movements of someone who understood sharp tools. His fisherman's hands, accustomed to gutting knives and scaling blades, treated the sword with appropriate caution. "Respect it, or it'll bite you worse than any monster."
Brann laughed, his grin wide and wild as he pulled his sword free and immediately swung it in a wide, exuberant arc. "About time! I was starting to think they'd have us beating dummies with sticks until we grew old and gray!"
His blade hummed through the air, passing within inches of a nearby squire's head. The boy yelped and stumbled backward, eyes wide with shock and anger.
"MARROWFIST!"
Varic's voice cracked like a whip, stopping every heart in the yard.
Brann froze mid-swing, his grin faltering, face going pale as he realized what he'd almost done.
Varic crossed the distance in three long strides, stopping directly in front of Brann. The instructor's face was carved from granite, eyes burning with cold fury. "Do that again—swing without thought, without control, without respect for the death you're holding—and I will have you cleaning chamber pots with your bare hands until your trial year ends." His voice dropped to something more dangerous than a shout. "Steel is not waved for joy like a festival banner. Steel is wielded for death, and only death. Do you understand me, boy?"
Brann's grin had completely vanished, replaced by genuine chagrin. "Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir."
"I doubt it." Varic's eyes bored into him. "But you will. The first time you see what a careless blade does to flesh, you'll understand. Pray that understanding doesn't come at the cost of a friend's life."
He turned back to the formation, his voice rising to carry across the entire grounds. "Pair off! You will spar with steel today. Real strikes. Real blocks. Real consequences." His gaze swept them all. "Do not hold back your skill, but do not aim to kill. You are squires, not executioners. A cut is a lesson learned. A killing stroke is a failure—yours and mine. Fight like you mean it, but fight with control."
He paused, then added: "The infirmary is prepared. Use it if you need it. There is no shame in bleeding, only in cowardice."
The grounds erupted with the ring of steel meeting steel.
The sound was different from wooden blades—sharper, clearer, almost musical in its deadly beauty. Sparks flew where edges met, bright against the morning light. Squires circled each other with new wariness, recognizing that every mistake now carried a price measured in blood.
Adrian was paired with a noble's son, a boy named Corwin who wore confidence like armor. The boy's sword came up in a proper guard, his stance textbook-perfect, his eyes calculating.
"Border steel," Corwin said, his tone carrying the faint sneer nobles often adopted when speaking of frontier lords. "Let's see if it lives up to the stories."
Adrian didn't respond. He simply settled into his stance—feet positioned, weight balanced, sword held with deceptive looseness. Waiting.
Corwin struck first, a testing thrust aimed at Adrian's chest. Fast, but telegraphed. Adrian sidestepped minimally, his blade deflecting the strike with a sharp ring of metal. Corwin recovered quickly, transitioning into a slash that Adrian caught on his guard, steel screaming as the blades ground together.
The exchange accelerated. Corwin was good—well-trained, disciplined, with the polish that came from private tutors and years of instruction. His strikes were precise, his footwork solid, his defense competent.
But Adrian had fought for three hundred years.
He read every attack before it came, saw the subtle shifts in weight and shoulder that betrayed intention. He blocked with minimal effort, conserving energy, letting Corwin expend himself against an immovable defense. Then, when an opening appeared—inevitable as sunrise—Adrian struck.
His blade slipped past Corwin's guard, the flat smacking against the noble's ribs hard enough to bruise. In a real fight, it would have been a killing blow. Adrian pulled it immediately, stepping back to ready position.
Corwin gasped, stumbling, hand going to his ribs. His face flushed with anger and embarrassment. "Lucky shot."
"Perhaps," Adrian said neutrally, though they both knew it wasn't.
Across the yard, Edric struggled against a larger opponent, his farmer's stubbornness keeping him upright despite taking several hits. Finn moved with his characteristic efficiency, his blade work precise and economical, steadily overwhelming his partner through sheer consistency. Brann fought with wild energy barely contained, his strikes powerful but sometimes reckless, drawing blood from his opponent's arm—and a sharp rebuke from the watching steward.
The morning wore on. Sweat soaked through tunics despite the cool air. Blood spotted the frost-covered ground—not much, mostly minor cuts from careless blocks or mistimed parries, but enough to drive home the reality of what they were wielding.
Adrian rotated through multiple partners, each one presenting different challenges. A quick scout-type who relied on speed. A defensive fighter who turtled behind an impenetrable guard. A brute who tried to overwhelm through raw power. Adrian adapted to each, showing competence without dominance, winning often enough to be respected but not so consistently as to draw uncomfortable scrutiny.
Always the balance. Always the careful hiding of his true capability.
When the bell finally tolled, signaling the end of the session, the squires stood panting, arms trembling from the unfamiliar weight of real steel. Several nursed cuts—nothing serious, but painful reminders of their mistakes. One boy was being led to the infirmary, a deeper gash on his forearm that would need stitching.
Sir Varic stood watching them all, his expression unreadable. "Better than I expected. Worse than I hoped." He gestured toward the weapons. "Clean them. Oil them. Return them to the armory. From today forward, you train with steel. Wood is behind you."
He turned to leave, then paused. "Remember the weight you felt today. Remember how different it was. Real weapons change everything—how you move, how you think, how you survive. Forget that, and you won't survive long."
As the squires dispersed, Edric limped over to Adrian, sporting a nasty bruise on his cheek and a grin despite it. "I got my ass handed to me. Repeatedly." He laughed weakly. "But gods, it felt real. For the first time, this actually felt real."
Finn joined them, wiping blood from a shallow cut on his forearm. "Real enough. This is going to scar."
Brann sauntered up, somehow still grinning despite the dressing-down from Varic. "Best day yet. Did you see me take down that Veynar cousin? Thought he was so special with his—"
"You also got cut three times because you overcommitted," Finn interrupted dryly.
"Details." Brann waved dismissively, though he was moving stiffly, favoring his left side.
Adrian cleaned his blade in silence, the ritual familiar and comforting. The feel of steel in his hands, the muscle-deep satisfaction of combat even in training—it reminded him of who he really was beneath the careful facade.
But as he sheathed the weapon and fell into line with his roommates, heading back toward the dormitory, he forced himself to remember: he wasn't Azrael anymore. Wasn't a demon prince who could cut through armies.
He was Adrian Blackthorn, a skilled but mortal squire, learning to fight like everyone else.
Even if the steel in his hands whispered memories of a thousand battlefields, and his soul remembered the weight of far greater weapons than this simple human blade.
The transition to steel was complete. The real training had begun.