The next morning, the mess hall was louder than the clash of swords.
Wooden spoons scraped against tin bowls. The smell of thin soup and burnt bread filled the air. Recruits huddled together at long tables, some laughing too loudly, others whispering too low. Beneath the noise, one name passed from mouth to mouth like a curse.
"William."
He sat alone at the far end of the table. His head bowed, his hands steady as he broke a piece of bread. Around him, words sharpened like blades.
"No one beats the captain in their first duel."
"He cheated."
"The general must favor him."
"A peasant boy, assistant captain? Ridiculous."
Each whisper was meant to reach his ears — and it did.
But William didn't raise his head. He chewed slowly, silently, letting their venom slide past him.
He had no need to prove himself to those who hadn't seen the promise that kept him alive.
When the meal ended, he stood and left without a word. The hall fell quiet behind him, their silence heavier than their insults.
Outside, the sun cut through a pale mist, throwing long shadows across the training yard. Swords glinted like mirrors of yesterday's triumph. The recruits filed out one by one, their armor creaking, their faces taut with exhaustion and pride.
The general's voice boomed over the courtyard.
"Begin drills!"
Wood struck wood. Steel rang. Sweat darkened the earth.
William trained alone, his movements relentless.
When his arms burned, he swung again.
When his breath broke, he inhaled through the pain.
Each strike was a conversation with memory — his mother's face, her fading smile, the blood on cobblestones.
The others slowed. Their blades faltered, their footing slipped.
But William didn't stop.
His hands bled; his muscles screamed. Still, he fought on — as if each swing was a heartbeat that kept him from falling apart.
From the mansion balcony, the girl in the white gown watched again. The morning wind teased her hair as she leaned forward, her eyes following him through the haze of heat and dust.
Around her, nobles spoke softly about promotions, power, and politics.
But she only saw the boy below —
the one who didn't flinch beneath scorn,
the one whose eyes held grief instead of glory.
"Strange," she murmured. "He fights like he's already lost everything."
By midday, half the recruits lay in the dirt, panting, broken. The others dragged themselves through half-hearted drills. Only William remained standing — sweat-soaked, trembling, but unyielding.
The general lowered his arms, watching closely.
There was something about the boy's silence that unsettled him. Not pride. Not arrogance.
It was conviction — cold, absolute, and dangerous.
As the sun climbed higher, the captain stepped beside the general.
"You see it too," he said quietly.
The general nodded. "Yes. That boy… isn't fighting to rise. He's fighting to remember."
When the day ended, the yard emptied. The recruits limped back to their quarters, muttering under their breath.
William stayed until the light faded.
He drove his blade into the dirt and stared at it, his reflection trembling in the steel.
"I will not stop," he whispered, his voice rough.
"Not until I make them pay."
The wind stirred — carrying dust, sweat, and a vow the world had long forgotten.