One practice dummy after another collapsed beneath Andras' blade.
They were dragged aside and stacked near the far edge of the yard, broken frames and torn straw forming a rough pile that would later be burned for warmth. Straw clung to the ground, caught in the grooves of the earth and stuck to his boots. Each cut left something behind. Each swing took something out of him.
The sword never truly rested. It moved in arcs and lines that spoke of long hours drilled into muscle memory. Steel met straw with a dull, tearing sound, over and over, until breath came harsh and uneven. His arms burned. His hands throbbed. Still, he continued.
The sun hovered past its height, no longer cruel but no longer kind. What remained of its strength spilled across the yard, catching in the strands of Andras' fiery hair, darkened by sweat that ran freely down his temples and neck. Heat clung to the air, thick with the scent of exertion. The kind of smell earned, not hidden. Man, sweat, iron, dust.
"You keep favoring the wrong angle, my lord."
Kynt's voice cut through the steady rhythm of strikes. Calm. Measured. He stood a short distance away, eyes narrowed against the light. Years of training had carved definition into him, muscle shifting beneath sun-warmed skin as he folded his arms.
Andras adjusted his grip but did not answer. He stepped in again and struck.
The dummy barely swayed before the next blow landed. It was not a contest. It was an outlet. And yet, despite the force behind each swing, there was grace in the way he moved. Too much grace. His footwork was precise, his posture upright, his shoulders carried like he belonged beneath chandeliers instead of open sky.
He moved as though he were being watched.
"Slow," Kynt said. "You rush when you grow frustrated."
Andras exhaled sharply and struck again, harder this time.
The dummy finally gave, its bindings snapping as it slumped forward. Straw spilled at his feet. He stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping from his jaw.
"The straw will not bow to manners," Kynt added, quieter now. "Nor will an enemy."
Andras turned slightly, irritation flashing across his face. "I am not bowing."
"No," Kynt replied, unmoved. "You are performing."
That earned him a glare.
Andras reset his stance and tried again, slower. The sword felt heavier than it should have. Each motion carried a trace of hesitation, as if part of him still expected correction before commitment. The weight surprised him every time, no matter how often he held it.
There it was again. That flicker of disbelief.
He had been told often enough that he was old enough. Old enough to ride. Old enough to stand beside his father. Old enough to understand war. Yet steel did not care for reassurance. It exposed every uncertainty.
Kynt watched in silence for several moments before letting out a low breath. He reached for his own sword, lifting it from where it rested against a post, and slid it back into its sheath with a deliberate sound.
"That will be enough for today."
Andras froze mid-motion and turned fully this time. "Enough?"
"You are tiring," Kynt said. "And when you tire, your form worsens."
"And whose fault is that?" Andras snapped. "We have done this for three moons. The same drills. The same corrections."
Kynt walked past him toward the fallen dummy. "Mastery does not arrive because one grows impatient with repetition."
"I am not impatient." Andras' jaw tightened. "I am stagnant."
He bent, seized his sword, and hurled it across the yard. The blade struck the ground with a sharp clang that echoed against stone walls.
"Three moons," he continued. "Three. And I am still here."
Kynt straightened slowly. "You are here because this is where you must be."
"That is easy to say," Andras shot back. "You are already a knight."
Kynt met his gaze. "And you are not."
The words landed harder than steel.
"I am here to teach," Kynt went on, voice level. "Not to flatter you. Being His Grace's son gives you time. It gives you expectation. It does not give you skill."
Andras' hands curled at his sides.
"Your body resists discipline," Kynt said. "That is not my failing."
Silence stretched.
Then the sword on the ground began to tremble.
A faint red glow traced along its edge, subtle at first, like heat shimmering above stone. It lifted, slowly, as though drawn by something unseen.
Kynt noticed at once. His posture shifted, feet planting wider. He did not draw his blade, but his attention sharpened.
Andras' hair glowed brighter now, light bleeding through each strand. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. Still, there was no blood. Fear lingered there. Fear of pain. Fear of consequence.
But beneath it burned something dangerous.
"If you still have strength," Kynt said carefully, "use it for control. Anger dulls the blade."
"Do not speak to me as if I am a child," Andras hissed.
"I speak as one who survived being one," Kynt replied. "My master once told me I would never be fit to fight. He was wrong. But not because I shouted."
Performing?
The words echoed.
"Performing?" Andras repeated, voice rising.
He strode forward and struck the table meant for receiving guests. Wood splintered as it slammed into the wall. The sound cracked across the room, sharp enough to make servants recoil where they stood.
"My lord," the butler said, approaching cautiously. "Please. What troubles you?"
Andras turned on him.
His gaze was sharp, almost empty, light burning too brightly behind it. Magic pulsed unevenly, feeding the storm in his chest. Several servants flinched under his stare.
Then something broke.
His expression faltered. His shoulders slumped. He turned away, head lowering as if the weight had finally become too much. His vision blurred. Tears slipped free before he could stop them.
He pressed his lips together, breathing hard.
His pride had always been rooted in promise. In ability. In the certainty that he was meant for more.
And now that certainty wavered.
The son of a great man. The son of a remarkable woman. Born of houses that shaped history.
"Where is it?" he whispered. "Where am I supposed to be?"
The butler heard him and said nothing. He stepped back, offering space rather than comfort. Some questions were not meant to be answered aloud.
.
.
.
The next day, the yard felt different.
The air was heavier. The heat more oppressive. Andras returned alone, jaw set, eyes clear with a resolve sharper than rage.
The dummies suffered for it.
They did not fall cleanly this time. They were reduced piece by piece, bindings cut through, frames shattered. Straw clung to his skin, stuck to sweat-slicked arms and bloodied palms.
He had shed his shirt early on. Servants stood at the edges of the yard, watching in uneasy silence as hours passed. Blood seeped from torn skin, thin trails streaking down his hands, mixing with sweat before dripping into the dirt.
"My lord," a voice called out.
A knight approached, similarly dressed, his bare torso marked by old scars. "We have run out of dummies."
Andras paused, breathing hard.
"There are a few reserved," the knight added. "For the rest of us."
Andras glanced at the ruin around him and exhaled. He dragged a hand across his face.
"My mistake, Ser Grim," he said quietly.
Grim smiled. "I would rather see you driven than idle."
A tired sound escaped Andras, halfway between a laugh and a breath. He accepted his sheath and slid the blade home. The sound rang clean and final.
He dismissed Grim with a nod and crossed the field. A towel was pressed into his hands. He wiped sweat and grime from his skin, movements slow now, fatigue settling deep into his bones.
Beneath the shade of a growing tree, he paused. As he tossed the damp cloth aside, his attention caught on two soldiers pushing a large wooden cart, its contents hidden beneath a stained cloth.
"Glen," he said.
"Yes, my lord."
"Where are they taking that?"
Glen followed his gaze. "Likely rations. Supplies for the outer grounds."
Andras watched until the cart disappeared from sight. Then he turned toward the manor, the heat of the yard lingering behind him as he passed through the open halls.