(Vladford POV)
The men moved when I raised my hand.
Not because of a title written on parchment, nor because a crown had ever acknowledged me—but because they had bled beside me, starved with me, and watched me stand when it would have been easier to fall.
"Again," I ordered.
Steel rang across the training field.
Morning mist still clung to the half-reclaimed valley, drifting low over churned earth and scorched stone. The banners of Heathfield—no longer pristine, no longer ceremonial—fluttered from rough-hewn poles driven into the ground. They were patched, mended, stitched together by hands that had lost homes and refused to lose hope.
Fire answered my call.
Not wild. Not furious.
A controlled surge rolled from my palm, curling around the blade of my sword in a thin, disciplined arc. Heat shimmered through the air as I stepped forward, parrying a strike meant for my shoulder, twisting, and knocking my opponent off balance without burning him.
