Marc had been training for two weeks when he heard a loud crash from outside the training hall, followed by panicked shouting.
"I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY! I DIDN'T MEAN TO!"
Marc paused mid-form and turned toward the doorway just as a large figure stumbled in, tripped over his own feet, and crashed into a weapons rack with enough force to send practice swords clattering across the floor.
"OW OW OW! Why does everything hurt so much?!"
Silver-white hair. Ice-blue eyes. Built like a young ox—broad shoulders and developing muscle mass that was unusual for a ten-year-old.
Theron Valekrest. The youngest brother.
"Theron." Marc set down his practice saber. "What are you doing here?"
The boy scrambled to his feet, face flushed with embarrassment, and immediately began gathering the scattered weapons with frantic energy. "I was walking by! Just walking! I wasn't trying to spy or anything! But then I saw you training and I stopped to watch but then a maid asked me what I was doing and I got startled and I backed into the door and it opened and I fell and—"
"Breathe," Marc interrupted.
Theron sucked in a huge breath, then let it out in a whoosh. "Sorry, eldest brother. I'm really sorry. I'll just... I'll just go..." He turned to leave, still holding an armful of practice swords.
"The weapons stay here."
"Right! Right! Of course!" Theron rushed back to the rack, fumbling with the swords. One slipped from his grip. He lunged to catch it, overcorrected, and nearly fell again. "Why am I like this?! Why can't I just do things normally?!"
Marc watched this display with growing confusion. This was nothing like the Theron he'd written—the quiet, overlooked youngest child. This Theron was loud, clumsy, and seemingly incapable of basic coordination despite having the physical build of a young warrior.
What happened to the gentle, tragic character I created?
Then Arden's memories supplied context: Theron had always been like this. Big for his age, strong as an ox, but cursed with terrible coordination and crippling anxiety. The other siblings found him embarrassing. Casmir called him "the family disgrace." Lyanna ignored him. The twins mocked him.
And Arden—the original Arden—had been too busy with heir duties to intervene.
Great. I wrote a minor tragic character and instead got... this.
"Theron," Marc said firmly. "Stop panicking and look at me."
The boy froze mid-fumble, then slowly turned. His ice-blue eyes were wide with anxiety. "I'm in trouble, aren't I? I'm sorry! I know I shouldn't be in the advanced hall! I know I'm not allowed to—"
"You're not in trouble. I invited you to come in."
"You... you did?" Theron blinked. "But I thought you'd be angry that I was watching—"
"Why would I be angry?"
"Because everyone's always angry at me! Casmir says I'm an embarrassment! Lyanna says I should just stay in my room! The knights laugh when I try to train!" Theron's voice pitched higher with each sentence. "And they're right! I'm terrible! I can't even walk without tripping! How am I supposed to be a Valekrest when I can't even hold a sword without dropping it?!"
"Have you actually tried holding a sword recently?"
"Well... no... but I know I'll be terrible at it! I'm terrible at everything!"
Marc sighed. This was going to be more complicated than he'd anticipated.
"Pick up a sword."
Theron's face went pale. "What? No! I can't! I'll hurt myself! Or hurt you! Or break something expensive! Or—"
"Pick. Up. A. Sword." Marc's tone left no room for argument.
With trembling hands, Theron selected the smallest practice saber from the rack—the one designed for children. He held it like it might explode.
"Now show me your stance."
"I don't know the stance! I've never learned! Nobody will teach me because they know I'll just mess it up!"
"You've lived in this manor for ten years. You've watched the knights train. You've seen your siblings practice." Marc moved closer. "Show me what you remember."
Theron whimpered but shifted into what was... actually a surprisingly solid ready position. His feet were properly spaced, his blade angled correctly, his center of gravity low and balanced.
"Now execute the first form of Winter's Edge."
"I CAN'T! I'LL MESS IT UP!"
"Do it anyway."
With a sound that was half-sob, half-groan, Theron moved through the opening sequence of Winter's Edge.
And it was... perfect.
Not just good. Not just adequate for a ten-year-old who claimed to have never trained.
Perfect.
The movements were smooth, powerful, and executed with textbook precision. His large frame—which seemed so clumsy when walking—moved with fluid grace when wielding the blade.
Theron finished the form and immediately dropped the sword, covering his face with his hands. "That was terrible, wasn't it?! I knew it! I knew I'd be awful! I should never have—"
"That was flawless," Marc interrupted.
Theron peeked through his fingers. "...What?"
"Your form was perfect. Better than perfect, actually. You moved like you've been training for years."
"But... but I'm clumsy! I trip over everything! I dropped three plates at breakfast yesterday! I walked into a door this morning! I'm a disaster!"
Marc stared at his youngest brother, pieces clicking into place.
He's not actually clumsy. He just thinks he is.
His body is naturally coordinated when he's not thinking about it—when he's focused on something specific like sword forms. But the moment he becomes self-aware, the moment he starts worrying about messing up, he falls apart.
It's all anxiety. Pure, crippling anxiety.
"Theron," Marc said carefully. "How long have you been watching the knights train?"
"Um... since I was six? But I only watch from hiding because if they see me they'll—"
"And have you been... mentally practicing? Going through the forms in your head?"
Theron's face flushed. "Maybe? Sometimes? When I can't sleep I imagine myself training and it calms me down but I know it's stupid because imagining and doing are different and I'll never actually be able to—"
"You've been doing visualization training for four years."
"I've been doing what?"
Marc couldn't help but smile. "Visualization training. It's a legitimate technique where you mentally rehearse movements to build muscle memory. Combined with watching skilled practitioners... you've basically been training this whole time without realizing it."
"But I'm terrible at everything!"
"You're terrible at things when you're anxious and overthinking. But when you're focused on something specific—like sword forms—your body knows exactly what to do." Marc picked up the fallen practice saber and handed it back to Theron. "Do the second form."
"But I'll—"
"Just do it. Don't think. Just move."
Theron squeezed his eyes shut and executed the second form of Winter's Edge.
Perfect again.
"Third form."
Perfect.
"Fourth form."
Still perfect.
When Theron opened his eyes, he looked stunned. "I... I did them? Without messing up?"
"You did them perfectly. Because you stopped thinking about failing and just acted." Marc set his own practice blade aside. "Theron, you're not talentless. You're not a disaster. You have a strong body and you've been unconsciously training for years. Your only problem is that you've convinced yourself you're going to fail before you even try."
"But everyone says I'm useless—"
"Everyone is wrong." Marc's voice was firm. "And I'm going to prove it to you."
Theron's eyes went wide. "How?"
"By training you. Every morning, every afternoon. You and me." Marc gestured to the training hall. "We're going to build your confidence until you stop sabotaging yourself. Until you realize that the strong body you have isn't a burden—it's an advantage."
"But what if I mess up?! What if I let you down?!"
"Then you mess up and we try again. That's how training works." Marc's expression softened slightly. "Theron, I'm leaving for Northern Military Academy in two weeks. I need to know that you'll be okay while I'm gone. That you'll be able to defend yourself. That you won't just accept everyone calling you useless."
"You... you really think I can do this?"
"I know you can. You just showed me." Marc held out his hand. "So what do you say? Two weeks of intensive training. Let's see what happens when you stop assuming you'll fail."
Theron stared at Marc's hand like it was a lifeline. Then, with a deep breath that was almost a sob, he grabbed it.
"Okay. Okay! I'll try! I'll probably cry a lot and panic and mess things up but I'll try!"
"That's all I'm asking."
Marc had no idea what he'd just signed up for. But watching his youngest brother—this anxious, self-sabotaging giant of a ten-year-old—look at him with desperate hope...
In my novel, Theron dies scared and helpless. But this Theron? He's not helpless. He's just convinced himself he is.
Two weeks to break through that mental barrier. Two weeks to turn his greatest weakness—his anxiety—into something manageable.
I can work with this.
The next morning, Marc learned exactly what he'd gotten himself into.
Theron arrived at the training hall at 6:45 AM, fifteen minutes early, already panicking.
"I couldn't sleep! I was too nervous! What if I forgot everything from yesterday?! What if it was just a fluke?! What if—"
"Breathe," Marc commanded.
Theron sucked in a huge breath.
"Hold it. Four counts."
Theron's face started turning red.
"Now let it out slowly. Six counts."
The breath whooshed out.
"Again. And keep doing it until you stop spiraling."
It took five minutes of breathing exercises before Theron calmed down enough to function.
This is going to be interesting.
"Today we're starting with something simple," Marc said. "Basic conditioning. Running, bodyweight exercises, flexibility work. No swords, no forms, just building your foundation."
"I'm terrible at running! I always trip!"
"Then we'll go slow. And if you trip, you get up and keep going."
They started with a jog around the training hall's perimeter. Theron lasted about thirty seconds before his anxiety kicked in.
"I'm going to trip! I'm going to—" He tripped.
"Get up."
"See?! I told you! I'm a disaster!"
"Get. Up."
Theron scrambled to his feet and started jogging again. Ten seconds later, he tripped again.
Marc didn't say anything this time. Just pointed.
Theron got up and continued.
Trip. Rise. Continue.
Trip. Rise. Continue.
By the tenth lap, something changed. Theron stopped predicting his failures. He just... ran. And when he tripped, he got up without the dramatic self-flagellation.
"Better," Marc said when they finished. "Now push-ups. Twenty."
"I can't do twenty! I'll collapse after five!"
"Then collapse after five and rest. Then do five more."
Theron did seven before his arms gave out. He lay on the ground, groaning dramatically. "I'm dying! I'm actually dying!"
"You're not dying. Rest for thirty seconds, then give me five more."
"I can't!"
"You can. Your body is strong enough. Your mind just quits before your muscles do."
Theron managed four more, then three, then two. By the end, he'd completed sixteen total push-ups and was sprawled on the ground like he'd run a marathon.
"I did it," he gasped. "I actually... I can't believe I..."
"Sixteen is good for your first attempt. Tomorrow we'll aim for seventeen."
"Tomorrow?! We're doing this again tomorrow?!"
"Every day for two weeks. Then you'll continue on your own while I'm at the academy." Marc pulled Theron to his feet—the boy was heavy, all solid muscle under the anxiety. "Your body is naturally strong, Theron. Stronger than Casmir's, probably stronger than mine will be at your age. We just need to train your mind to match."
"But my mind is terrible! It just panics about everything!"
"So we'll train that too. Mental conditioning is just as important as physical conditioning."
For the rest of the session, Marc put Theron through basic exercises while implementing what he remembered from sports psychology courses he'd taken in college.
"Don't think about the full workout. Just focus on the current rep."
"Don't predict failure. Stay present."
"When you notice anxious thoughts, acknowledge them and return to counting."
It was exhausting—not because Theron lacked physical capability, but because every single exercise required emotional management.
By the end of the first session, Theron was a sweaty, anxious mess.
"I was terrible, wasn't I?" he asked, voice small.
"You completed every exercise I gave you. That's not terrible."
"But I complained the whole time! And I almost cried twice! And I—"
"And you still finished. That's what matters." Marc handed him a towel. "Complaining is fine. Crying is fine. As long as you keep going, I don't care how much noise you make."
Theron looked at him with wide eyes. "Really?"
"Really. Now go eat breakfast and rest. We train again this afternoon."
"What are we doing this afternoon?" Theron's voice immediately pitched higher with anxiety.
"Sword forms. The thing you're actually good at."
"But what if I can't do them anymore?! What if yesterday was a fluke?! What if—"
"Then we'll figure it out. Stop borrowing tomorrow's problems."
After Theron left—still catastrophizing about the afternoon session—Marc sat heavily on a training bench.
Two weeks of this. Two weeks of managing a ten-year-old's catastrophic anxiety while teaching him to fight.
What was I thinking?
But then he remembered the way Theron's face had lit up when he realized he'd completed all the push-ups. The desperate hope in his eyes when Marc had said he could be trained.
I was thinking that this kid deserves better than dying scared and helpless at eighteen.
I was thinking that everyone's written him off as useless when he's actually strong—he just needs someone to believe in him.
Marc stood and returned to his own training, but his mind was already planning the afternoon session.
Start with forms he's good at. Build confidence. Then gradually introduce sparring and practical application.
And somehow, teach him to manage his anxiety well enough to function in combat.
No pressure.