Chapter 3: Shadows of Blood
The bells of Frosthold Keep rang out at dawn, their iron voices shaking the walls and rattling sleep from weary bones. The sound was no stranger to us—it marked drills, assemblies, or the occasional announcement from the lord of the keep. But this morning, it carried something heavier, a weight that settled in my chest before I even knew why.
We filed into the yard, breath steaming, boots crunching frost. Master Hale waited there, his single eye gleaming with something colder than usual.
"Today," he barked, "we stop pretending. No more toys. No more sticks."
Behind him, a squire dragged forward a cart. Upon it gleamed racks of real steel—short swords, long blades, even battered shields with old scars still etched into their faces. My throat tightened.
Hale's gaze swept over us. "A warrior who never tastes steel before battle is already dead. Today, you bleed. And you learn."
The boys around me buzzed with nervous excitement. Some grinned, eager for the chance to prove themselves. Others shifted uneasily, fear gnawing at their bravado. I stood frozen, staring at the weapons. Steel was no game. Steel was final.
Joran's shoulder brushed mine. "Steady. Breathe."
I nodded stiffly, forcing my hands not to shake. When Hale called my name, I stepped forward, lifting a sword from the rack. The blade was cold as ice, heavier than any wooden stick I had held. It seemed to pull at me, demanding more than I could give.
My opponent was a boy named Cedric—broad-shouldered, with a grin that promised cruelty. He had mocked me often, whispering "Frostborn" like a curse. Now he held a blade with the confidence of one who expected victory.
"Begin!" Hale roared.
Cedric came at me fast, steel hissing through the air. I barely raised my sword in time. The clash rang in my skull, jarring my arms. The impact forced me back a step, then another. He pressed forward, blows raining down like thunder.
My grip faltered. My feet stumbled. Fear clawed at me.
Then I heard Joran's voice in my mind: Fear is a blade. Sharpen it.
I forced myself to breathe. Instead of retreating blindly, I let the fear steady me, sharpen me. When Cedric swung again, I angled my blade—not perfectly, but enough. His strike glanced aside, throwing him slightly off balance.
I lunged clumsily, barely grazing his arm. His grin faltered, just for a heartbeat.
Rage replaced it. He swung harder, wilder, determined to break me. Pain bloomed in my shoulder as his edge bit shallowly through my tunic. The sting of blood shocked me—but it also woke something fierce inside.
No more stumbling. No more shame.
I roared, lifting my blade with both hands, meeting his strike head-on. The sound rang through the yard, steel on steel. My knees buckled, but I held. And for the first time, Cedric blinked, surprised.
Before he could recover, Hale's voice cut through the air. "Enough!"
The fight ended as suddenly as it began. I staggered back, chest heaving, blood warm on my shoulder. Cedric glared at me, furious that he had not broken me.
"Pathetic footwork," Hale growled. "But you didn't fall. That's something."
His words, backhanded as they were, felt like victory.
---
The rest of the day passed in a haze of blood and bruises. Boy after boy stepped onto the field, and the yard filled with the music of steel—clashing, cutting, crying. Some walked away with shallow wounds, others limped, and one was carried off entirely, his leg split open.
War did not forgive weakness. Hale made certain we understood.
By dusk, I could barely lift my arms. My tunic stuck to the cut on my shoulder, and every breath felt like fire. Yet beneath the pain, I carried something new: proof. I had faced steel. I had bled, but I had not broken.
---
That night, Joran found me sitting against the barrack wall, staring at the stars.
"You didn't disgrace yourself," he said quietly.
I laughed bitterly. "I nearly lost in the first minute."
He shook his head. "You didn't quit. That's the difference. Hale saw it too."
"Then why did he call me pathetic?"
A faint smile tugged at Joran's lips. "Because you are. For now. But pathetic men don't last against Cedric. You did. That means you won't always be."
His words lit a small fire in my chest. For the first time, I believed it.
---
Sleep was restless. My shoulder throbbed, and visions haunted me—visions I had carried since waking in this world. Armies clashing on frozen fields. A shadow rising from the North, wreathed in endless winter. Kings and lords locked in wars they could not win.
And always, in the heart of it, I saw Frosthold burning.
I woke drenched in sweat, my hand clutching for a blade that wasn't there.
---
The next day, the keep buzzed with rumors. Raiders had been spotted along the coast—ships with black sails slipping through the fog. The same raiders who had taken Hale's eye years ago.
Training was suspended. Guards rushed to the walls. The boys whispered, fear thinly veiled in bravado.
For me, the whispers were a warning. I remembered history—or something like it. These raids were not isolated. They were the first sparks of fire that would spread across kingdoms, igniting wars that would change everything.
And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me more than the winter air, that my time of preparation was shorter than I had believed.
The storm was coming.
And I was still far too weak to stand against it.
[End of Chapter]
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