The clang of steel rang across the courtyard in sharp, steady rhythm, the sound echoing off ancient stone walls like the heartbeat of the academy itself.
Dawn light glinted on hundreds of blades as squires moved in long, precise lines, each stroke measured and deliberate, each breath drawn deep as they tried to awaken and sustain their white flames. The air was thick with concentration and sweat, punctuated by the occasional grunt of effort or curse of frustration.
Instructors paced between the rows like hunting wolves, their eyes sharp, their voices harsh. "Strike with intent! Your spirit responds to will, not hope! Command it—don't beg it!"
Adrian's sword cut smooth arcs through the air, each swing economical and precise—nothing wasted, nothing extravagant. The faint shimmer of white flame traced along the blade's edge, steady as his heartbeat, burning with the kind of control that came from weeks of constant practice. Around him, other squires strained to summon their sparks, muscles trembling with effort. Some failed entirely, their blades remaining stubbornly dark. Others managed flickering flames that guttered out after a few desperate breaths.
Brann grunted curses under his breath as his flame sputtered and died for the third time that morning, his frustration evident in every tense line of his body. Edric's sword flickered on and off like a candle about to die in the wind, his face red with exertion and embarrassment. Finn's flame remained steady, quiet, unwavering—reflecting his calm, methodical approach to everything.
"Again!" Sir Varic barked from his position on the raised platform, his scarred face catching the morning sun, making him look carved from granite. "Strike! Breathe with your blade! Command it—don't beg it! Your spirit is not a timid child—it is a weapon! Treat it as such!"
The squires roared and swung again, their collective shout echoing across the grounds. Sand churned under hundreds of boots, sweat gleamed on furrowed brows, white flames blazed and died and blazed again in an endless cycle of effort and will.
The morning stretched into exhaustion, minutes bleeding into hours as the sun climbed higher and the heat grew oppressive. By the time the drill finally ended, the squires stood panting like winded horses, blades lowered, flames guttering out or already extinguished, their bodies trembling with the kind of deep exhaustion that came from pushing spirit as much as muscle.
Sir Varic let the silence stretch, let them feel the weight of their fatigue, before he spoke.
"Listen well."
Every head turned toward him, even those squires who could barely stand upright. His tone carried something different—not the usual harsh command, but something more measured, more significant.
"Starting today," Varic said, his voice carrying clearly across the exhausted ranks, "your training will change. You will continue with morning drills—" groans rose, quickly silenced by his sharp glare "—and you will attend the lecture halls after breakfast as always. But when lectures are finished—" he paused deliberately "—your time is yours."
The squires blinked, stunned into silence. Then confused murmurs spread through the ranks like ripples across water.
Did he just say—
Surely not—
What does he mean—
Varic's gaze swept across them, cold and unyielding as winter iron. "No instructors will guide you after midday. No drills will be ordered. No hands will be held. From the end of lectures until patrol call at night, your choices are your own. Train or rest. Study or play. Sleep or sharpen yourselves. The academy will not dictate your path—only measure the results."
The courtyard erupted.
Some squires cheered outright, clapping one another on the shoulders, relief and joy breaking across faces that had known only regimented schedules for six months. Others gawked in disbelief, unable to process that the endless cycle of commanded activity had suddenly broken. A few—the sharper ones, the more experienced—narrowed their eyes with suspicion.
"No more afternoon drills?" Brann gasped, then let out a wild, disbelieving laugh. "By all the gods, I might actually sleep past sundown! Maybe even see what the inside of a tavern looks like again!"
Edric exhaled shakily, relief flooding his exhausted features. "Finally... a chance to breathe. To actually rest without feeling like I'm falling behind."
Finn only narrowed his dark eyes, his expression thoughtful rather than celebratory. "This doesn't sound like mercy."
Sir Varic raised one scarred hand, and silence fell instantly—the kind of conditioned response that six months of training had instilled. "Make no mistake. This is not a reward. This is not the academy growing soft, nor is it recognition of your progress. This is reality."
He let that sink in before continuing.
"Patrols remain mandatory. Every night, without exception, you will report for duty within the walls until told otherwise. That obligation has not changed. But the day—the hours between lectures and evening muster—those are yours. Train if you wish. Rest if you must. Play if you're foolish. Sleep if you think you can afford it. It matters not to us."
His eyes swept across them, measuring, judging.
"How you use those hours will decide what kind of knight you will become. The academy has given you tools, technique, foundation. Now we will see who among you has the discipline to forge themselves when no one is watching. Who has the hunger to sharpen their edge without being commanded. Who has the strength to choose difficult growth over comfortable decay."
The weight of those words settled over the courtyard like a heavy cloak.
"You are dismissed."
The squires broke formation slowly, some still processing, others already animated with plans and possibilities. The courtyard buzzed with energy—a hive suddenly released from strict control, uncertain whether to fly or fall.
Some squires threw their arms around each other, already boasting of games and naps they would finally take after months of relentless schedules. Others whispered of training together in secret groups, pushing their limits when instructors couldn't interfere or judge. A few stood frozen, overwhelmed by the sudden weight of choice after so long being told exactly what to do every moment.
Adrian wiped his blade clean with methodical precision, sliding it into its scabbard. His expression was unreadable, but inside he understood perfectly what Varic had not said aloud.
This is no gift. It's a test. Perhaps the most important test yet.
The academy had shifted the battlefield from mandatory drills to voluntary choices. A lazy squire might cheer for freedom, but freedom was a weight as heavy as steel—heavier, perhaps, because it revealed who you truly were when no authority watched. It showed who would sharpen themselves in the dark, and who would let their edges dull the moment pressure released.
The tournament was two months away. And this "freedom" would separate those who truly wanted to become knights from those who only wanted to have become knights.
Brann clapped Adrian on the back, his grin wide and genuine. "Finally, some godsdamned sense from this place! I'm headed straight for the mess after lecture. Maybe a proper nap if I can sneak one in without anyone noticing. First real rest in half a year!" He paused, studying Adrian's face. "What about you?"
Adrian's lips curved faintly. "Training."
Brann groaned, though there was affection in it. "Of course you are. You're going to train yourself into the ground, Blackthorn. Even your body needs rest."
"My body gets rest at night," Adrian said simply. "The afternoon is for improvement."
Finn's eyes flicked to Adrian, thoughtful and assessing. He said nothing, but his sword hand tightened slightly around his hilt. He understood. The tactical mind behind the fisherman's calm exterior had already calculated what this change meant, what opportunities it created, what separations it would cause.
Edric looked torn, glancing between them, his earlier relief fading into uncertainty. "Maybe... a little training. Then rest. I don't want to fall behind, but gods, my body is screaming for sleep."
Adrian only nodded, offering no judgment. Each person had to make their own choice. That was the point. "Do what you need. But remember—everyone else is making choices too. Some will rest. Some will train. The tournament doesn't care which you chose—only who arrives stronger."
His decision was made before Varic had even spoken. Freedom was the sharpest blade of all, and only fools wasted it celebrating.
Later That Day
The lecture halls buzzed with barely contained restlessness, like a swarm of bees preparing to scatter.
The instructors droned on about monster classifications, rune applications in field conditions, and optimal patrol formations for urban environments. But the squires' minds were elsewhere—already wandering toward the first taste of unshackled time in six months. Eyes glazed. Attention drifted. Even the most diligent students found their thoughts slipping toward plans for those precious free hours.
Instructor Halbrecht, ever perceptive, noticed the distraction. "I realize Sir Varic has changed your afternoons," he said dryly, not looking up from his notes. "But knowledge still matters. A well-rested fool is still a fool. And a dead one, when the monsters come."
A few squires had the grace to look embarrassed. Most simply endured, waiting.
When the bells finally rang dismissal, the exodus was immediate and chaotic.
Some squires bolted for the barracks, eager to claim beds and horizontal positions they'd been fantasizing about for hours. Others rushed toward the mess, planning to spend their freedom in the comfort of food and fellowship. A significant group headed toward the academy gates, eager to explore the city properly for the first time, to see markets and taverns and normal life beyond training grounds.
But a few—quieter, sharper, more focused—turned toward the training yards, blades still at their hips, determination in their eyes.
Adrian lingered only long enough to watch, to catalog. He saw who laughed loudest as they fled toward leisure. Who slipped away quietly toward beds. Who vanished immediately into the city's embrace. And he noted carefully who stayed behind, who tightened grips on their hilts, whose eyes held the same hungry fire that drove him.
This is the real tournament, he thought, watching the divide form before his eyes. The one fought before the sand is laid. The one no nobles will witness, no headmasters will judge directly. The one that will decide everything when the official matches begin.
He turned and walked toward the training yard, his steps measured and purposeful.
Finn followed without a word, silent as always, his decision evident in action rather than announcement.
Brann hesitated, torn between the siren call of rest and the fear of falling behind. Then, with a resigned curse, he reluctantly trailed after them.
Edric wavered longest, actually taking several steps toward the barracks before stopping, turning back, his face showing the internal war between exhaustion and determination. Finally, with visible effort, he redirected toward the training ground.
"You're all mad," he muttered, but he came anyway.
Evening
By the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold, the academy grounds told two very different stories.
In the barracks, laughter and conversation spilled from the mouths of squires who had spent their afternoon in games of dice and idle chatter. Some dozed on their cots, content to squander precious hours in sleep, their bodies grateful for rest but their skills no sharper than they'd been at dawn. A few returned from the city markets, bragging loudly about the sights they'd seen, the food they'd eaten, the freedom they'd tasted.
But in the training yard, the clang of steel still echoed.
Adrian's blade flashed in clean arcs, each strike honed with the kind of precision that came from thousands of repetitions. His white flame shimmered faint but steady, never flickering, never faltering. Sweat poured down his face, soaked his tunic, but his movements remained controlled, economical, perfect.
Finn mirrored him nearby, silent and focused, sweat streaming down his brow. His approach was different—less focused on speed, more on efficiency, finding the minimal effort required for maximum effect. The fisherman's patience, applied to swordwork.
Brann groaned with every swing, cursing his exhausted body but refusing to quit. His style was aggressive, powerful, each strike carrying more force than necessary but building the kind of devastating strength that could shatter defenses. "If I die... before the tournament," he gasped between strikes, "tell them... I died training... like an idiot."
"You're not dying," Finn said without breaking rhythm. "You're just complaining."
"Same... thing..."
Edric stumbled, fell to one knee, pushed himself back up with trembling arms. His face was pale, his breathing ragged, but determination burned in his eyes. He was the weakest of them physically, but he refused to let that gap widen through laziness. "Again," he whispered to himself. "Just... one more set."
No instructors watched. No masters barked corrections. No schedule demanded they continue or permitted them to stop. Only the sand beneath their feet, the sweat on their skin, and their own will driving them forward.
Adrian's lips tightened in faint satisfaction as he noted the others around the yard—some he recognized, some he didn't, but all sharing the same hunger. Lady Mira Elbrecht trained alone in a corner, her form impeccable, her dedication evident. A few common-born squires formed a small group, pushing each other through exhaustion. Even Ryn Veynar was there, though surrounded by his noble companions, his pride refusing to let him appear weak.
This was the true test, and already the divide was showing. Not between noble and common. Not between strong and weak. But between those who would forge themselves and those who would settle.
By the time the patrol bell finally rang, they sheathed their blades and trudged toward the muster point, their bodies screaming protest but their spirits satisfied. They joined squires emerging from barracks and city streets, and the contrast was immediate.
Many arrived late, eyes heavy from afternoon naps or stiff from hours of sitting idle. The patrol captains took note, their sharp eyes cataloging who looked ready and who looked soft, who moved with purpose and who dragged with lethargy.
Adrian said nothing as he took his position, but his gray eyes missed nothing. He watched the casual squires joke about their free afternoons. Watched the sharp squires maintaining readiness despite exhaustion. Watched the instructors watching everyone.
The test had begun in earnest, and already some had failed without even realizing they'd been tested.
Two months until the tournament. Sixty days to separate those who would become knights from those who would only remain squires.
And every afternoon, the choice would be the same: comfort or growth, rest or readiness, the easy path or the hard one.
Adrian knew which he would choose. Every single time.
The question was how many others would make the same choice when the momentary satisfaction of freedom faded and the grinding reality of self-discipline settled in.
He suspected the answer would surprise no one who'd been paying attention.