Ren woke to the sound of birds singing.
For a blissful moment, he was in his own bed, the familiar weight of his quilt pressing down on him. Then he opened his eyes. The ceiling above him was not the familiar white of his apartment, but a canopy of deep blue silk, embroidered with silver thread that sparkled in the weak morning light.
He sat up slowly, his body aching in ways he didn't recognize. The bed was enormous, soft enough to swallow him whole, with more pillows than he had ever seen in his life. The room around him was equally absurd. Tapestries depicting forests and unicorns hung on the stone walls. A fire crackled softly in a marble hearth. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn back from a tall window, revealing a sky streaked with pink and orange.
The sun hung low in the sky. Dawn.
Sir Kaelen's words echoed in his mind. We begin at dawn. Do not be late.
Ren scrambled out of the bed, his feet sinking into a fur rug so thick it felt like snow. He was still wearing the strange clothes they had given him last night—a simple linen shirt and soft wool trousers. They felt foreign against his skin, too rough, too real.
A soft knock came at the heavy wooden door. Before Ren could respond, it creaked open. A young woman entered, carrying a tray. She had simple, kind features and wore a plain grey dress with a white apron. A servant.
"Good morning, my lord," she said with a slight bow, setting the tray on a small table near the window. "I've brought you breakfast. Sir Kaelen requests your presence in the training yard after you have eaten."
"My lord," Ren repeated, the word feeling ridiculous. "I'm not a lord. I'm just Ren."
The servant smiled, a small, shy thing. "As you say, my lord." She slipped out of the room before he could argue further.
Breakfast was a simple affair—warm bread, a bowl of porridge with honey, and a cup of cool water. But to Ren, who hadn't eaten since yesterday morning in another world entirely, it was the most delicious meal he had ever tasted. He ate quickly, barely tasting the food, his mind a whirlwind of anxiety and disbelief.
When he finished, he found a set of clothes laid out for him on a chest at the foot of the bed. Sturdy leather trousers, a thicker linen shirt, and a pair of soft leather boots that laced up his calves. They fit surprisingly well. Someone had measured him while he slept, or perhaps the magic of this world simply provided.
He left the room and stepped into a long, stone corridor. Torches flickered in iron brackets along the walls, casting dancing shadows. He had no idea where he was going. He walked, his boots echoing against the stone, past closed doors and empty hallways, until he stumbled upon a spiral staircase leading down.
The staircase opened onto a courtyard. The training yard.
It was a large, open space paved with flat stones. Racks of wooden swords and shields lined one wall. Dummies stuffed with straw stood in a row, their burlap faces worn and torn. And in the center, waiting with the patience of a mountain, stood Sir Kaelen.
He was not wearing his armor today. Instead, he wore simple training clothes similar to Ren's, though his arms were corded with muscle and crisscrossed with old scars. He held a wooden sword in one hand, gripping it loosely, comfortably.
"You are late," Sir Kaelen said. His voice was flat, without anger.
"I didn't know the way," Ren admitted.
Sir Kaelen nodded slowly, accepting the explanation. He tossed another wooden sword toward Ren. Ren fumbled, nearly dropping it, the wood rough and heavier than he expected.
"Today, we see what you are," Sir Kaelen said, stepping forward. "Hold your sword. Show me how you would defend yourself."
Ren gripped the wooden sword with both hands, holding it out in front of him like a baseball bat. It felt clumsy, unwieldy. He had never held a weapon in his life. The closest he had come was swinging a tennis racket badly in gym class.
Sir Kaelen sighed. It was a small sound, but it carried the weight of deep disappointment. He moved with a speed that seemed impossible for a man his size. His wooden sword flicked out, smacking Ren's knuckles. Ren yelped, his fingers stinging, and nearly dropped his weapon.
"Too tight," Sir Kaelen said. "You hold it like a broom. Your hands are too close together. You leave your entire left side open."
He reached out and adjusted Ren's grip, moving his hands apart on the hilt. "Like this. Firm, but not rigid. The sword is an extension of your arm, not a separate object."
Ren tried to mimic the position. It felt awkward, unnatural.
Sir Kaelen circled him, his eyes missing nothing. "Your stance is wrong. Your feet are too close. You will fall if someone breathes on you." He nudged Ren's left foot with his own, pushing it outward. "Wider. Bend your knees. Lower your center. You are not a tree in a storm. You are a rock in a river. Let the water flow around you."
Ren adjusted his stance, bending his knees. His thighs immediately began to burn.
"Better," Sir Kaelen admitted, though it sounded like a concession. "Now. I will attack. You will block. Do not try to strike me. Only block. Understood?"
Ren nodded, his mouth dry.
Sir Kaelen moved. His wooden sword arced through the air, aimed at Ren's head. Ren threw his sword up, closing his eyes. The impact jarred his arms all the way to his shoulders. He stumbled backward, his feet tangling, and fell hard on the stone floor.
"Open your eyes," Sir Kaelen said, standing over him. "You cannot block what you cannot see."
Ren pushed himself up, his palms stinging from the fall. His arms ached. His knuckles throbbed. They had been training for less than five minutes.
They went again. And again. And again.
Each time, Sir Kaelen's wooden sword found its mark. Ren's ribs. His shoulder. His thigh. His other thigh. The man pulled his strikes, Ren realized. He wasn't trying to hurt him, merely to teach. But the constant impact left bruises blooming under his skin like dark flowers.
"You hesitate," Sir Kaelen said after what felt like an hour of continuous failure. "You think before you move. In a fight, thinking is death. You must feel. Your body must know what to do before your mind has time to form the thought."
"How do I do that?" Ren gasped, sweat dripping into his eyes.
"Repetition," Sir Kaelen said simply. "Ten thousand times. A hundred thousand times. Until the movement is as natural as breathing. Until your sword is not a thing you hold, but a part of you."
Ren wanted to cry. He wanted to sit down and refuse to move. His body screamed for rest. But something in Sir Kaelen's steady gaze, in his complete lack of mockery or pity, made him lift his sword again.
"Again," Ren said.
Sir Kaelen almost smiled. Almost.
They continued until the sun hung high in the sky, blazing down on the training yard. By then, Ren could barely lift his arms. His legs trembled with every step. His lungs burned. But somewhere in the haze of exhaustion, he had managed to block three strikes in a row. Three. It was a tiny victory, insignificant in the grand scheme, but it felt monumental.
Sir Kaelen finally lowered his sword. "Enough for today. Rest. Eat. We do this again tomorrow."
Ren nodded, unable to speak. He staggered toward the shade of the colonnade surrounding the yard, his body one massive ache.
A servant appeared with a cup of water. Ren took it with shaking hands, drinking deeply. The water was cool and clean, the best thing he had ever tasted.
He sat there, slumped against a stone pillar, watching Sir Kaelen walk away with the easy grace of a man who had not just spent hours beating a teenager with a stick. The training yard was empty now, quiet except for the distant sounds of the castle waking up.
Ren looked down at his hands. They were red, blistered, already callousing in places he didn't know could callous. They were not the hands of a student anymore. They were the hands of someone learning to hold a sword.
A shadow fell over him. He looked up.
Queen Elara stood there, dressed simply today in a deep blue gown without the crown. Her silver hair was pulled back, and she looked younger, almost approachable. In her hands, she held a small cloth bundle.
"I heard you trained hard today," she said softly.
Ren laughed, a short, bitter sound. "I got hit a lot. I'm not sure that's training."
"It is the first step," she said, sitting on a stone bench nearby. She unwrapped the bundle, revealing a small jar of pale salve. "For your hands. It will help with the blisters."
Ren stared at the jar, then at her. "The queen is bringing me first aid?"
"You are our hero," she said simply. "And you are far from home. It is the least I can do."
She held out the jar. Ren took it, their fingers brushing briefly. Her hands were soft, but her grip was steady.
"Why me?" Ren asked quietly, the question that had been burning in him since he arrived. "There has to be someone else. Someone stronger. Someone who actually knows how to fight."
Queen Elara was silent for a long moment, gazing out across the empty training yard. "The Codex of Light is ancient," she said finally. "Older than this castle. Older than my kingdom. It has never been wrong. It spoke of a hero from a world without magic, a world of steel and glass and great knowledge. A world where people do not rely on spells or blessings, but on their own minds and hands."
She turned to look at him, her stormy eyes soft. "You may not be a warrior yet, Ren. But you are here. You answered the call, even if you did not choose it. That counts for something."
"I didn't answer," Ren muttered. "I was grabbed."
"And yet you are still here," she said. "You could have refused to train. You could have hidden in your room. But you came to the yard. You stood against Sir Kaelen, the finest knight in my kingdom, and you did not run. That is courage, Ren. The simple courage to stay."
He had no response to that. He just looked at the jar in his hands, feeling the weight of her words settle next to the weight of everything else.
The Queen rose. "Rest well. Tomorrow will be harder."
She left him there, sitting in the shade, his body broken and his mind spinning. He opened the jar. The salve smelled of herbs, clean and sharp. He spread it on his blistered hands, and the cooling relief was immediate.
The sun continued its arc across the unfamiliar sky. Ren watched it, thinking of another sun, another world, another life that felt a million miles away. He thought of his friends, his school, his small apartment. He wondered if they missed him. He wondered if anyone had even noticed he was gone.
A cool breeze swept through the training yard, carrying the scent of flowers from some hidden garden. Ren closed his eyes and let it wash over him. Tomorrow would be harder. But for now, he had a moment of peace.
For now, that was enough.