I turned ten the same way I turned nine and eight.
Quietly.
There was no celebration, no candle, no words marking the day. Elisa noticed, of course—she always did—but all she gave me was a longer look than usual and a small nod, as if acknowledging a dangerous milestone.
Ten was old enough to be noticed.
And being noticed was never safe.
The noble house rose above the surrounding land like a thing that had never learned humility. Stone walls, iron gates, banners heavy with color and history—everything about it existed to remind you who mattered and who did not.
People like me existed to fill the spaces between.
I was a trainee now.
Not a page. Not a servant.
A trainee in the household's knight program—taken in not for promise, but for usefulness. Strong backs were always needed, and nobility preferred their strength obedient and nameless.
The training ground smelled of dust and sweat and old metal. Wooden swords struck against one another in dull, hollow sounds. Orders were barked, mistakes punished, silence enforced.
I learned quickly.
Not because I wanted to be great—
But because being average was dangerous.
Elisa worked inside the house.
As a maid.
She kept her head down and her hands busy, blending into the background the way she had taught me to do since I could walk. We did not speak openly. We did not acknowledge one another in public.
To the house, she was a servant.
To me, she was the only reason I was still alive.
That day, training ended later than usual.
The sun hung low, painting the ground gold and red, when the atmosphere shifted.
The instructors straightened. Voices lowered. Movements became sharper, more careful.
Someone important had arrived.
I felt it before I saw him.
The young lord of the house stepped onto the training ground, thirteen years old, dressed not in armor but in finely tailored practice clothes. His sword was real. Its edge had been dulled, but only barely.
His eyes moved over us like we were tools laid out on a table.
He smiled.
"I'm bored," he said casually. "Pick someone."
Silence followed.
No one wanted to be chosen.
And yet—
I felt it.
That quiet pressure in my chest, the same one I had felt years ago in the snow. The air seemed to tighten around me, as if waiting.
The instructor's gaze landed on me.
And stayed.
"You," he said.
My fingers curled around the wooden sword.
I stepped forward.
The young lord studied me with open curiosity, head tilted slightly, as if he had found something unexpected in a familiar room.
"What's your name?" he asked.
I hesitated.
Names carried weight.
"—I don't matter," I said finally.
His smile widened.
"Good," he replied. "That makes this easier."
The duel was not meant to be fair.
I knew that the moment we faced each other.
He was faster. Better trained. His stance was perfect, drilled by masters who had never worried about hunger or punishment.
But I had learned something else.
How to endure.
Each strike rattled my arms. Each block sent pain up my shoulders. The wooden sword bruised my palms raw, but I did not retreat.
I couldn't.
Backing away felt… wrong.
As if something inside me refused the idea entirely.
"Begin," the instructor ordered.
And I moved.
Not elegantly. Not skillfully.
I moved because standing still felt like dying.
The clash echoed across the ground. Blows traded. Dust rose. Breath burned.
I didn't try to overpower him.
I waited.
For the opening that came from arrogance.
And when it did–
I struck.
The tip of my sword stopped an inch from his throat.
The world went silent.
No one spoke.
The young lord stared at the blade, then at me.
Slowly, his smile returned.
"Well," he said softly, stepping back. "That was interesting."
He turned and left without another word.
I did not feel victory.
I felt exposed.
That night, as I lay awake in the trainee quarters, staring at the ceiling, one thought circled endlessly in my mind:
I had been seen.
And tomorrow—
Someone would decide what that meant.