Chapter 2: Blades in the Dark
The torches along the yard burned low, their flames guttering in the wind. Most of the boys had long since retreated to the barracks, their laughter echoing faintly from stone corridors. Only the whisper of frost and the distant call of a night owl remained.
I stood alone beneath the shadow of the keep, the wooden practice sword heavy in my hand. My arms still ached from the day's humiliation, and blisters tugged at the edges of my palms. Every part of me wanted to collapse into bed. But I waited. Joran had asked me to.
When he finally appeared, it was without ceremony. He carried no torch, only the faint glimmer of moonlight catching the edge of his blade. Not a practice stick—steel.
"You came," he said simply.
I nodded, though unease twisted in my stomach. "I wasn't sure if you were serious."
"I don't joke about steel," he replied, handing me another wooden blade from the rack. "Tonight, you learn what Hale doesn't have the patience to teach."
The yard felt different in the silence of night. The cold bit deeper, and the shadows seemed to lean closer. My grip trembled, but I raised the sword anyway.
Joran circled me, movements smooth and deliberate. "First lesson: fear. You feel it, don't you?"
I swallowed. "Yes."
"Good. Fear is a blade of its own. It cuts both ways. If you let it control you, it weakens you. But if you sharpen it—if you use it—it becomes your edge. Never deny it. Harness it."
His sword flashed in a blur, striking my practice blade. The impact rattled my bones. I staggered back, breath catching.
"Again," he said.
We moved slowly at first. He corrected my stance, forcing my feet wider, adjusting the tilt of my blade. Each mistake was punished by a quick strike to my shoulder or arm, sharp enough to sting but not break. My frustration grew with every blow, yet Joran's eyes held no mockery—only expectation.
"You think too much," he reminded me. "Feel. React."
I tried. When he lunged again, my body moved before my mind could argue. Our blades clashed, and for the first time, I didn't stumble.
Joran gave a small nod. "Better."
Hours blurred. My arms grew leaden, my breath ragged, but something shifted within me. Each correction carved away weakness, each failure taught me more than success ever could. For the first time, I felt a rhythm in the fight—a pulse beneath the chaos.
When we finally stopped, sweat froze on my skin, steaming in the night air. My chest heaved, and my fingers cramped around the wooden hilt. Yet a strange exhilaration hummed in my veins.
"You lasted longer than I thought," Joran said, sheathing his blade. "There's something in you. Buried deep, maybe, but it's there."
I almost laughed, though exhaustion stole the breath for it. "That's the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me here."
His expression softened, just for a heartbeat. "Don't expect kindness. Expect steel. That's all this world offers. But if you learn to master it, no one can take it from you."
We walked back toward the barracks in silence, the snow crunching beneath our boots. Yet the weight I carried felt lighter than it had that morning.
---
Sleep did not come easily. My body throbbed with aches, but my mind blazed with restless energy. I saw flashes of battles yet to come—armies marching under banners I recognized from history, the rise of kings whose names I had once only read. In those visions, I was always powerless, an observer watching doom unfold.
But now, for the first time, I wondered if that could change.
---
The next morning, Hale barked us awake with his usual fury. The yard filled with the groans of boys dragging themselves into line. I braced for another day of shame, but when my turn came at the dummies, something was different.
My stance no longer sagged. My grip, though raw, held firm. The blade moved with more certainty, guided not by thought but by memory. Hale's one good eye narrowed.
"Better," he muttered. Then, louder, "Still pathetic. But better."
The insult stung less than before. I heard the unspoken truth in his voice: progress.
As training dragged on, I caught Joran's faint smile across the yard. He said nothing, but he didn't need to.
For the first time since awakening in this world, I felt the fragile beginnings of belonging.
---
That night, as I collapsed into my cot, whispers reached my ears from the far end of the barracks.
"…Frostborn's not so hopeless after all."
"…Joran's wasting his time."
"…Or maybe the bastard's hiding something."
Their words cut, but beneath the sting, another spark burned—defiance. Let them whisper. I would make them choke on their doubts.
Because deep down, I knew the truth: this world was barreling toward a storm none of them could imagine. And when it came, every drop of training, every scar, every moment of pain would matter.
I closed my eyes, clenching my fists.
This time, I would not be powerless.
This time, I would fight.
[End of Chapter]
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