Ren woke to the sound of rain.
It pattered against the tall window, a steady rhythm that seemed designed to lull him back to sleep. For a long, glorious moment, he let himself believe that the weather would cancel training. Surely even Sir Kaelen wouldn't drag him out into a downpour.
The sun was nowhere to be seen. Grey light filtered through the curtains, weak and watery. Dawn had come and gone while he slept, hidden behind clouds.
Ren smiled and pulled the blanket higher.
A knock at his door shattered the illusion.
"Training yard," came Sir Kaelen's voice, muffled by the heavy wood. "Rain changes nothing."
Ren groaned into his pillow. Of course it didn't.
When he stumbled into the training yard, the rain was falling in earnest. Cold droplets plastered his hair to his forehead and soaked through his tunic within seconds. Sir Kaelen stood in the center of the yard, utterly indifferent to the weather, water streaming down his face like he was carved from stone.
"Good," Sir Kaelen said as Ren approached. "You came. Many would have stayed in bed."
"The thought crossed my mind," Ren admitted, shivering.
Sir Kaelen almost smiled again. "Today, you learn the shield."
He handed Ren a wooden shield, round and slightly curved, with leather straps on the back. It was heavier than it looked, the weight settling into Ren's already aching arm like an old friend he didn't want.
"The shield is not just for blocking," Sir Kaelen explained, raising his own. "It is a weapon. A tool. An extension of your body, just like the sword. You will learn to move with it, to strike with it, to use it to control the flow of battle."
For the next hour, Ren learned exactly what that meant. Sir Kaelen showed him how to hold the shield properly—not stiffly, but with a slight angle to deflect blows rather than absorb them directly. He showed him how to tuck behind it, presenting the smallest target possible. He showed him how to thrust with the shield's edge, using it to push an opponent off balance.
And then, of course, he made Ren practice. Again and again, in the pouring rain, until the shield felt like it weighed a hundred pounds and Ren's legs threatened to give out entirely.
"The rain is your enemy," Sir Kaelen said, circling him. "It makes the ground slick. It obscures vision. It seeps into your eyes and your mind. You must learn to fight through it, to ignore it, to make it irrelevant."
Ren blinked water from his eyes and tried to focus. His stance was steady, if shaky. His shield was raised. His sword waited at the ready.
"Now," Sir Kaelen said, "you will block my attacks. Not just with your sword, but with your shield. Use both. Learn their rhythm."
The attack came fast. Sir Kaelen's wooden sword arced toward Ren's head. Ren raised his shield, deflecting the blow with a jarring thud. Before he could recover, another strike came, this time toward his legs. He dropped the shield, barely catching the blow on its lower edge.
"Good!" Sir Kaelen barked. "Again!"
The strikes kept coming. High, low, left, right. Ren moved on instinct now, his conscious mind too slow to keep up. Shield up. Sword block. Pivot. Shield thrust. The movements were clumsy, inefficient, but they were working. He was blocking. He was surviving.
Then his foot slipped on the rain-slicked stone.
He went down hard, his shield skittering away across the yard. For a moment, he just lay there, the rain pounding against his face, too exhausted to move.
Sir Kaelen's face appeared above him. "Get up."
"I can't," Ren gasped.
"You can." Sir Kaelen offered his hand. "Get up."
Ren stared at that hand for a long moment. Then, somehow, he found the strength to reach up and take it. Sir Kaelen pulled him to his feet with ridiculous ease, then retrieved the fallen shield and pressed it back into Ren's hands.
"Again," Sir Kaelen said.
And Ren obeyed.
By the time the rain finally stopped, the sun was beginning to break through the clouds, hanging low in the western sky. They had trained for hours. Ren had lost count of how many times he had fallen, how many strikes he had blocked, how many times Sir Kaelen had pulled him back to his feet.
But something had changed. Somewhere in the endless repetition, his body had begun to learn. The shield no longer felt like dead weight. It felt like part of him, an extension of his arm. The sword no longer felt clumsy. It felt natural.
"You did well today," Sir Kaelen said, his voice quiet in the stillness after the storm. "Rest now. Tomorrow, we begin properly."
Ren nodded, too tired to ask what "properly" meant. He didn't want to know.
He made his way to the infirmary on legs that barely functioned, following the directions a servant had given him. The infirmary was a large, airy room on the castle's lower level, filled with narrow beds and shelves of clay jars. A fire crackled in a stone hearth, spreading warmth through the space.
Lyra was there, grinding something with a mortar and pestle. She looked up as he entered and immediately frowned.
"You look worse than yesterday," she said, setting down her work. "Sit."
Ren collapsed onto a wooden stool, too tired to argue. Lyra moved around him with quiet efficiency, checking his hands, his arms, his shoulders. Her touch was gentle, professional.
"You've got new bruises," she observed. "And your hands are raw again. What did my father do to you?"
"He tried to drown me," Ren said. "With rain. And then he hit me with a stick for several hours."
Lyra laughed, that bright sound that seemed so out of place in the quiet infirmary. "That sounds like him." She retrieved a jar of pale salve, similar to the one the Queen had given him, and began applying it to his hands. "The rain training is his favorite. He says it builds character."
"I have enough character," Ren muttered. "I need functioning limbs."
"You'll get those too." Lyra's hands were warm, her movements soothing. "It just takes time. You've only been here a few days. Your body isn't used to this kind of work yet."
"Will it ever get used to it?"
Lyra considered the question. "Yes. And no. The soreness will fade as you grow stronger. But the work itself never gets easier. My father has trained for forty years, and he still pushes himself every day. That's what makes him who he is."
Ren looked at his hands, now covered in the cooling salve. "I don't know if I can do this for forty years."
"You only need to do it for one," Lyra reminded him gently. "One year, and then the demon king comes. After that..." She shrugged. "After that, who knows?"
The demon king. Ren had almost forgotten, in the haze of exhaustion and training. Somewhere out there, beyond these walls, a darkness waited. Seven generals plotted. An army gathered.
And he was supposed to stop them.
The weight of it settled on his shoulders again, heavier than any shield.
Lyra must have seen something in his expression, because she sat down across from him and took his hands in hers. "Hey. Look at me."
Ren looked up. Her brown eyes were steady, warm, absolutely certain.
"You're going to be okay," she said. "I don't know how I know, but I do. You're going to learn, and you're going to grow, and when the time comes, you're going to stand with us. And we're going to win."
"How can you be so sure?"
She smiled. "Because you're still here. Because you got up every time my father knocked you down. Because you came to the infirmary instead of hiding in your room. Because you're trying, Ren. That's more than most people ever do."
Ren stared at her, something warm kindling in his chest. It wasn't hope, not exactly. But it was close.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Lyra squeezed his hands, then released them. "Get some sleep. And tomorrow, after training, come back. I'll have something for the bruises."
Ren nodded, rose on unsteady legs, and made his way back to his room. The castle was quiet in the evening, torches flickering along the corridors. Servants bowed as he passed, their eyes curious but respectful.
When he finally reached his room, he found a tray waiting on the small table. Hot soup, fresh bread, a pitcher of water. He ate mechanically, his body already drifting toward sleep.
As he lay in the enormous bed, staring up at the embroidered canopy, he thought about Lyra's words. You're going to be okay. It was the first time anyone had said that to him since he arrived. The first time anyone had offered certainty rather than desperate hope.
He didn't know if she was right. He didn't know if he could become the hero they needed. But for the first time, he wanted to try. Not because the prophecy demanded it, or because the Queen needed him, but because someone believed he could.
It was a small thing. A tiny spark in the darkness.
But it was enough to sleep on.
Tomorrow, training began properly. Whatever that meant, he would face it.
He would get up. Again. And again. And again.
Until he couldn't fall down anymore.