The little fortress of packed earth and timber stood quietly in the morning mist, its walls beaded with dew. It wasn't majestic, not in the least—but it looked solid, dependable, built to endure.
Silhouettes of sentries moved along the battlements, and from afar, faint curls of smoke rose lazily, carrying the scent of woodfire and barley porridge through the chill dawn air.
A sudden rush of footsteps shattered the stillness.
Aeneas came running up to the gate, drenched in sweat and panting so hard it seemed his lungs might burst.
Under his bronze helmet, his dark-golden curls stuck to his forehead in damp strands, trembling with every ragged breath.
His armor was splattered with grass and dirt; his boots dragged clumps of wet mud behind him.
One hand gripped his spear, the other his shield, as though both were the only things keeping him upright.
Yet somehow—stubbornly—he forced his back straight, determined to look composed even as his body screamed otherwise.
For a heartbeat, the gate guards just stared.
This wasn't the elegant young master they knew—the one who spoke with calm precision and never raised his voice. No, this one looked like he'd wrestled the earth itself and barely won.
"My lord!"
A deep voice cut through the fog. Callippus, out on his morning inspection, strode over in heavy armor that clanked with every hurried step.
His expression tightened instantly; one hand went to his sword, eyes sharp as blades as they swept over Aeneas from head to toe.
"You were ambushed?! Who dared to—"
Aeneas tried to wave him off but ended up coughing instead, breath hitching. "C–Captain… relax… not an ambush… just… training…"
Callippus froze mid-step, frowning hard. His eyes narrowed, studying every smear of mud, every tremor in the boy's limbs, searching for blood. Only when he found none did his shoulders drop, a heavy sigh of relief escaping him.
Then—suddenly—he laughed. A booming, full-bellied laugh that rolled through the camp and sent a few nearby birds scattering from the trees.
"Ha! That's more like it! Now you look like someone ready to lead an army, not just watch one!"
He slapped his breastplate with a clang. "Far better than those pampered peacocks strutting around the parade ground!"
The commotion drew curious faces from inside the camp. Soldiers peeked out from tents and cookfires, blinking in surprise.
When they saw Aeneas—mud-streaked, gasping, but still standing tall—their suspicion shifted first to astonishment, then to admiration.
One or two straightened their posture unconsciously, as if refusing to be outdone by their noble-born lord.
Aeneas felt their eyes on him. His lungs still burned, his legs trembled from exertion, but the corner of his mouth tugged up anyway, a crooked, self-satisfied grin spreading across his face.
"Don't mind the state I'm in," he said between breaths. "This is what we call… 'masochist mode.' Don't worry—I'll get used to it soon."
The soldiers blinked, puzzled. The phrase meant nothing to them, but his tone—half joking, half proud—was infectious. Laughter spread like sunlight breaking over the fog.
Aeneas stayed by the gate a moment longer, catching his breath, chest heaving like a bellows. He wiped the sweat from his brow, slung the heavy bronze shield back onto his shoulder, and twirled his spear in one hand before tucking it beneath his arm.
Then he glanced at Callippus, mischief glinting in his tired eyes.
"Captain," he rasped, still smiling, "I'm going for a few more laps."
Callippus arched a brow, mouth half-open as if to stop him. But in the end, he only nodded, arms folded across his chest, watching in silence as the young man turned back toward the misty training ground.
Aeneas drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and broke into a run along the wooden palisade of the camp.
Each step struck the ground with a solid clang as his armor and shield shuddered in rhythm—a harsh, metallic heartbeat echoing through the dawn, as if invisible war drums were marking his pace.
At first, only a handful of soldiers looked up from their work, puzzled to see their young lord circling the training field.
But soon spoons were lowered, porridge bowls forgotten. Men drifted over from the fires, smelling of smoke and sweat, drawn by curiosity.
One crossed his arms; another tilted his head; someone whispered something that made a few others grin.
By the time Aeneas had finished his first lap, an entire ring of spectators had silently formed around the field.
His breathing grew ragged. His chest felt as though a forge had been lit inside it.
Gods, he thought, this is torture… but—hah!—worth it.
Through the corner of his eye, he caught the looks fixed on him—eyes shining, not with mockery or doubt, but something deeper. Respect, maybe. Admiration, even.
Well, he teased himself inwardly, aren't you blushing, my lord?
But the thought warmed him more than it embarrassed him. Those stares carried trust, the kind of trust no title or chariot ride could buy.
So this is how you earn it, he realized. Not from the saddle, not behind a desk—but right here, in sweat and dust.
His legs urged him onward. For a mad second, he even considered running all the way down to the valley town for a lap of glory.
Then he glanced down at himself—mud-caked, armor clattering, face streaked with grime—and rolled his eyes.
Right. That'd go well. The villagers would think the bandits are back.
He smirked. Here's fine. Got my live audience already.
By the third lap, his pace had slowed. Every stride was a battle, but his feet refused to stop.
His shoulders rose and fell violently with each breath; sweat ran down his neck, soaking the padding beneath his armor, sticking hot and itchy against his skin.
Still, he clenched his jaw and pressed on—one step, and another, and another.
The heavy rhythm of his boots filled the air, pulsing through the stillness until even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
No one spoke. Every man was listening—to that sound, that relentless beat of will.
When Aeneas finally staggered to a halt, gasping, braced against his shield, a low murmur rippled through the crowd.
No one mocked him now. The last trace of doubt in their eyes had vanished.
Callippus stood near the edge of the circle, lips still pressed in a soldier's habitual line, but there was laughter hidden in his eyes.
He didn't say a word. He simply nodded once, slow and deliberate.
Aeneas straightened, chest heaving, face dripping with sweat—and grinned, boyish and irrepressible.
"So," he panted, "whew… that cardio combo should've kicked my appetite wide open."
A few soldiers chuckled. The tension snapped like a rope, and warmth—quiet, human warmth—flowed through the camp.
That morning, beneath the pale sun, the young lord waved to his men and jogged off toward the Dardan estate.
But in every soldier's eyes, he no longer looked like some distant heir, a noble sealed behind ceremony and command.
He looked like one of them—someone who would bleed beside them when the time came.
Golden light spilled over Mount Ida's ridge, flooding the Dardan Valley in a soft, honeyed glow.
The dew still clung to the leaves; when the wind stirred, it glittered as though someone had scattered silver dust through the forest.
Aeneas jogged along the dirt road back toward the manor. The air was cool against his flushed skin. His breath came hard, his pace now little more than a brisk walk—but his chest felt oddly light, as if exhaustion had burned itself into contentment.
He was wiping the sweat from his brow when three patrolling soldiers appeared ahead on the path.
They'd seen him earlier that morning. Now, as one, they stopped, straightened, and raised their right arms in a flawless salute.
He was wiping the sweat from his brow when three patrolling soldiers appeared ahead on the path.
They'd seen him earlier that morning. Now, as one, they stopped, straightened, and raised their right arms in a flawless salute.
Aeneas froze for half a heartbeat, then couldn't help chuckling inwardly.
Now this… this feels good.
Better than shouting a hundred slogans—sweat was far more convincing than speeches.
Well then, looks like charisma and leadership just leveled up by accident.
He raised a hand in casual acknowledgment to the saluting guards, pretending it was nothing, though his steps had grown lighter. Even the fatigue in his limbs felt somehow rinsed clean.
When the manor's stone walls finally came into view, Aeneas slowed his pace. His chest still heaved, his breath catching like a bellows on overdrive.
He pressed a hand to his chest, forced a long, quiet exhale, and strode up to the gate.
Two sentries stood stiffly by the entrance. At the sight of him, both dipped their heads.
Aeneas lowered his voice, keeping it deliberately offhand. "Have my father and mother risen yet?"
The older guard answered at once, "The lord and lady are still resting, young master."
Relief gusted through Aeneas's chest like a cool breeze. He grinned—an unguarded, boyish sort of smile.
His shoulders sagged in ease, the corners of his eyes curving with mischief.
Then, on tiptoe like a thief sneaking home past curfew, he crept across the courtyard, holding his breath as though the air itself might betray him.
The morning garden still carried the chill of night. Dew clung to the petals and leaves, glimmering in the early light. Aeneas made a careful detour around the bushes most likely to drip if nudged.
Each step on the flagstones drew a silent prayer in his mind—please don't squeak, don't echo, don't—
Because if his mother caught sight of him like this—sweat-soaked, panting like a half-drowned cat—she'd start fussing about how he was overexerting himself again,
…then drown him in a small mountain of "restorative" delicacies.
No, no, low profile is the way to survive today.
He smothered a laugh, half amused, half terrified by his own imagination, and quickened his pace. Only when the familiar wooden gate of his courtyard came into sight did he let out a long sigh of triumph.
Just as Aeneas was about to slip inside unnoticed, a flash of motion darted out of the morning mist like a startled fawn—and blocked his path.
It was Terani.
Her eyes sparkled like sunlight on water, and a few strands of her honey-brown hair caught the light as she spun to face him, all energy and grace.
Hands on her hips, she looked for all the world like a woodland sprite freshly escaped from the forest, her voice bright and crisp as the birdsong over Mount Ida.
"Good morning, young master! Were you practicing that… that 'cat's step' again?
So it really is a new training technique! I thought you were just teasing me the other day!"
Aeneas nearly jumped out of his skin. He froze mid-step, chest still rising and falling too fast, then hastily straightened up, trying to school his expression into something dignified.
He cleared his throat. "Your young master is always honest," he said solemnly, his tone grave but eyes glinting with sly amusement.
"When I say it's a new technique, it is a new technique. Would I ever lie?"
The certainty in his voice could've pinned down the morning breeze itself.
Inside, however, he was snickering.
Thank the gods this girl's easy to fool! 'Cat's step'? I made that up on the spot to keep her from pestering me. And she actually bought it! Close call…
Before Terani could ask more, Aeneas flashed a quick grin, turned on his heel, and vanished past her—swift and silent as the dawn wind.
She blinked, watching him go, a puzzled smile spreading across her face.
It never once occurred to her that she'd almost uncovered her young master's little ruse.