The morning arrived cold and gray. Rylan was on the training yard before dawn, alone, executing basic forms with mechanical movements. Every strike was precise but empty. His mind was not on the technique, it was on the duel. On the murmurs. On the glances.
'Tactical error,' he repeated to himself.
'Nothing more.'
But the lie tasted bitter.
"Drop the sword."
Rylan stopped. Master Torin was at the edge of the yard with his arms crossed and an indecipherable expression in the early light.
"We need to talk."
They walked toward the armory in silence. The space smelled of sword oil and old leather. Armors hung from the walls like metal skeletons. Torin closed the door behind them.
"In one week, you will depart with me for the Edge Mountains," Torin said without preamble.
"Cleanup expedition. Bandits. Twenty to thirty men according to reports. Fifteen veterans under my command. You will lead the charge when we reach them."
Rylan blinked.
"Me? Why me? After... after the duel, I thought that..."
"You thought that losing a duel disqualified you for everything?" Torin let out a sound that might have been a laugh.
"Don't be stupid. You lost against your brother in controlled combat with artificial rules. You learned something, I hope. Now you are going to learn something more important: how it feels when the enemy truly wants to stick a knife in your stomach."
"Real combat," Rylan murmured.
"Real blood. Real fear. Real death. Not wooden sticks in a safe courtyard where the worst result is wounded pride," Torin approached.
"Twenty days. Five to get there, a week to hunt and eliminate the threat, five to return. You come back a man or you don't come back. Understood?"
Rylan felt something warm expand in his chest. Opportunity. Redemption. Purpose.
"Understood."
"Good. The veterans are outside. Time to meet them."
The armory had a side door that led to a secondary courtyard. Fifteen men waited there, all veterans with years, sometimes decades, of service etched into their weathered faces. Some cleaned weapons. Others checked armor. All stopped when Torin and Rylan entered.
"Attention," Torin ordered.
The fifteen formed a line. Not perfect, veterans were not parade soldiers, but respectable.
"This is Rylan Drayvar. Heir. Fifth-Layer Apprentice. He has never killed anyone. He has never seen a comrade die. He has never felt real fear in combat," Torin paused.
"It is your job to keep him alive while he learns those things. And it is your job, Rylan, not to make their deaths in vain by being a reckless idiot. Clear?"
"Clear," both Rylan and the veterans replied at the same time.
Torin began the introductions.
"Captain Aldwen. Real second-in-command. Forty-five years of service. If I order something stupid that will kill them, he will override me. If you order something stupid that will kill them, he will ignore you. Get used to it."
Aldwen stepped forward. A man in his forties, with scars crisscrossing his neck like a map of past battles. His eyes were hard but fair.
"Lord Rylan," he greeted with a nod.
"Captain," Rylan replied.
"Garron. Two meters of muscle and contained violence. Prefers an axe. Hates archers. Has a sense of humor darker than a lightless tomb."
A giant stepped forward, literally two meters tall, with shoulders that looked capable of carrying oxen. He smiled, showing a broken front tooth.
"I heard you lost against your younger brother," he said with a grave voice like distant thunder.
"Don't worry. I also lost against my younger brother once."
"You did?" Rylan asked cautiously.
"Yes. Of course, he was four years old and bit my ankle while I was sleeping. Different context," Garron laughed, the sound like rocks crashing together.
"But a loss is a loss, isn't it?"
Some veterans laughed. Rylan didn't know whether to be offended or to join in.
"Zella. Stormvale's best archer. Silent. Never wastes a word or an arrow. If she speaks, listen."
A woman in her thirties, black hair pulled back in a practical braid, bow hanging from her back. She nodded to Rylan without smiling. Her eyes were gray, cold, calculating; a hunter's eyes.
"And these two idiots are Vek and Tor. Twins. Lancers. They will finish each other's sentences because apparently they cannot function as individual humans."
Two identical men stepped forward: blonde hair, synchronized smiles, they even stood in the same posture.
"So you're the one who..." Vek began.
"...lost against his younger brother," Tor finished.
"Don't worry..." Vek.
"...we also lose..." Tor.
"...against our younger brother..." Vek.
"...all the time," Tor.
"Although he's..." Vek.
"...six years old," they both finished in unison.
More laughs. This time, Rylan smiled slightly. Impossible not to. Torin continued introducing the other ten: names, specialties, experiences. Each one was a proven veteran, with enough scars and years to make it real.
When he finished, Aldwen approached Rylan, pulling him slightly aside from the group.
"Ignore them," he said in a low voice.
"Veterans always test the new ones. They need to know if you're the kind of guy who abandons them when the blood starts to flow, or the kind of guy who stays and bleeds with them."
"And how do I prove that?" Rylan asked.
Aldwen looked him directly in the eye.
"By not running away when a bandit tries to stick a knife in your stomach. Simple. Direct. Stay alive. Keep your men alive. Everything else is ornamentation."
"Understood."
"Good. Because if you die, I have to carry your corpse back. And you're heavy," Aldwen clapped him on the shoulder.
"Prepare your things. We depart in exactly one week. Dawn."
The main training yard was busy that afternoon. Lyssara was in the center, facing a fourteen-year-old initiate named Bren. The boy was new, he had arrived two weeks ago, the son of a lesser noble from the east. And he was clearly not used to training with women.
"Why is she here?" Bren whispered to another initiate, loud enough for Lyssara to hear.
"She should be learning to sew or something useful."
Lyssara lowered her practice sword. Slowly. Her eyes, gray like a storm, locked onto Bren.
"Sewing?" she repeated with a dangerously calm voice.
"Interesting choice of word. Do you know what else requires precision with needles? Acupuncture. Specific points of the body. Exact pressure. Let me show you."
She approached Bren, sword in guard.
"Duel. Now. Unless you're afraid of being 'stitched up' by a woman."
Bren, trapped between pride and fear, assumed a defensive position.
"I'm not afraid of..."
Lyssara attacked.
Three strikes. Thirty seconds. Bren was on the ground with his sword flying three meters away and the flat of Lyssara's sword pressing against his throat.
"Sewing teaches patience and precision," Lyssara said without even breathing heavily.
"Two things that you clearly don't have. Now, any other comments about my place?"
Absolute silence in the yard.
"Good," Lyssara removed her sword and extended a hand to help Bren up. The boy took it, red with embarrassment but, to his credit, he nodded with respect.
"I'm sorry, Lady Lyssara."
"Just Lyssara. And the next time you question someone's ability based on what's between their legs, make sure you can back up your words with steel."
Favius approached as Bren walked away, brushing off dust of humiliation.
"That was... impressive," he said with a nervous smile.
"And a little terrifying. Mostly impressive."
Lyssara glanced at him.
"Do you also have something to say about women warriors, Favius?"
"No! I mean, I always knew you were... that you could... um..." Favius stumbled over his words.
"You're very good. With the sword. I mean, obviously. Everyone knows it. I know it. I always knew it."
Lyssara smiled a small, almost gentle smile.
"Relax, Favius. I'm not going to stab you. Probably."
"That... that's not as comforting as you think."
The sunset found Rylan walking through the gardens. He needed space, some air. Something other than preparations and glances. And he found Lyssara sitting on the same bench where, weeks ago, Sareth had been humiliated. The coincidence was awkward.
"Upset?" Rylan asked.
Lyssara looked up.
"It depends. Are you coming to talk about feelings or to tell me I should be inside learning manners?"
"Neither. Just... looking for a quiet place."
"This one is occupied. Look for another."
But her tone was not hostile. Just... tired. Rylan sat down anyway, leaving a respectable space between them. Silence. The sea roared in the distance. The shadows lengthened.
"I heard you're going off to hunt bandits," Lyssara finally said.
"How convenient. Right after Kael humiliated you in front of everyone."
Rylan clenched his jaw.
"It wasn't humiliation. It was a tactical error."
"Ah, tactical error," Lyssara smiled without humor.
"That's what we call losing against a nine-year-old boy who weighs less than your sword now."
"Are you here to mock me or do you have something useful to say?"
"Neither. I came here because the gardens are the only places where people don't stare at me like a freak show," Lyssara sighed.
"Although I suppose you're here now, so advantage lost."
Silence again. But less tense.
"I'm jealous," Lyssara said abruptly.
Rylan looked at her.
"What?"
"Of you. Of your expedition, of real combat, the opportunity to prove your worth with blood and steel. I train the same as you, harder, probably, but no one will offer me a mission like that. Because I was born a woman. Because my worth is supposed to come from who I marry, not how many enemies I can kill."
"Lyssara..."
"No," she raised a hand.
"Let me finish. You lose a duel and they give you an opportunity to redeem yourself by killing bandits. I defeat initiates daily and they tell me 'very impressive, now learn to smile properly for when we marry you off to some old noble who needs heirs.'"
Rylan did not reply immediately. He processed her words, the real pain behind them.
"You're right," he finally said.
"It's unfair."
Lyssara blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"It's unfair. You're better than half the initiates. Probably better than me in speed and technique. But Father will never send you to real combat because you're a woman. And that's stupid."
Lyssara stared at him.
"Did you just admit that I'm better than you at something?"
"In speed and technique. Not in brute strength. Or endurance. Or..."
"I'll take that as an absolute victory."
A small shared smile. Brief. But real.
"When I return from the expedition," Rylan said after a pause,
"if I return, I will speak with Father. About you. About giving you real opportunities beyond political marriages."
"I don't need your charity, brother."
"It's not charity. It's my recognition. You are a Drayvar. You have the right to fight like a Drayvar. With a sword, not just with smiles at banquets."
Lyssara studied him. Looking for sarcasm, mockery. She found none.
"...Thank you."
"Although," Rylan smiled slightly,
"if I die against bandits after losing against Kael, my reputation will be quite... pathetic."
"Absolutely pathetic," Lyssara agreed.
"Legendarily pathetic. Songs will be written about your patheticness."
"Thank you for the unconditional support, sister."
"That's what family is for. To remind you of your failures at inopportune moments," Lyssara leaned back.
"You know? Sometimes I miss when you were the serious brother who only trained and never spoke."
"That version still exists. This is just... nervous pre-battle version."
"Well, tell the nervous version to shut up and come back a hero. Because if you don't, I'll have to be the one to carry the Drayvar name in combat. And honestly, that sounds exhausting."
Rylan laughed. Genuinely. For the first time in days.
"I'll do my best."
Elyn's private chambers smelled of lavender and cedar wood. Rylan entered, finding his mother supervising three maids who were packing provisions into leather saddlebags.
"Extra weapon?" Elyn asked, checking a list.
"Bandages? Wound ointment? Flint and steel for fire? You can't just leave for bandit-infested mountains without proper preparation."
"Mother, the veterans handle provisions. I don't need..."
"You are my son. My firstborn. Heir of this House. You need everything," Elyn turned, her eyes, blue and piercing, fixing on Rylan.
"Sit down."
It was not a suggestion. Rylan sat on the side sofa. The maids finished their work and left discreetly, closing the door. Elyn sat in front of him. For a moment, she just looked at him, studying his face as if memorizing every detail.
"That duel," she began. "With Kael."
"It was a mistake. It won't happen again..."
"I'm not talking about a tactical error," Elyn leaned forward.
"I'm talking about something I saw in your eyes afterward. Doubt. Insecurity. As if you questioned your own worth. That is more dangerous than any bandit with a knife."
Rylan looked away.
"That's why I'm going. To prove to myself that I'm still worthy of being heir. That I can..."
Elyn took his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her.
"You are already worthy. You don't need to prove anything to anyone except yourself. And you certainly don't need to die on a forgotten mountain to validate your worth in the eyes of others."
"I'm not going to die."
"You better not," Elyn's eyes shone, not with tears—Elyn did not cry—but with something fiercer.
"Because if you do, I'll resurrect your corpse just to kill you again for making me suffer. Understood?"
Rylan smiled despite the tension.
"Understood."
Elyn let go of him, leaning back.
"Torin will look after you. He is grumpy and cruel but has never lost a man under his command unless it was inevitable. I trust him."
"I do too."
"Good," Elyn stood up and walked toward a small box on her desk. She opened it, taking something out.
"Your father gave you this when you were five years old. He said you should wear it when you went to your first real battle."
She extended her hand. A silver ring with lightning bolt engravings. The Drayvar symbol.
"Father never mentioned this," Rylan said, taking it.
"Because he hoped you wouldn't need to go to battle so young. But here we are," Elyn closed the box.
"Wear it. Remember who you are. And come home."
Rylan put the ring on. It fit perfectly.
"I promise."
The night before the departure, Lyssara couldn't sleep. She was in her room, looking out the window toward the stables where the veterans were making final preparations. Lamps illuminated the yard. Male voices, men checking gear, joking, preparing. And Rylan, among them. Part of the group. Going to something real.
'Jealous,' she thought. 'Still jealous.'
But also proud. Rylan was an idiot sometimes, arrogant others. But he was a good brother. And he deserved this opportunity. She got up and walked toward her desk. She opened a drawer, taking out something small: a crudely carved wooden amulet. They had made it together when they were children, she and Rylan, during a boring summer years ago.
She looked at it for a moment. Then she made a decision. She went down to the stables. The veterans did not notice her presence, or they politely ignored it. She approached Rylan's saddle, already prepared for tomorrow. She left the amulet in the side pouch. Next to it, a piece of paper with three words in her angular handwriting:
"Don't die, idiot. -L"
She returned to her room unseen. And for the first time in weeks, she slept without restless dreams.
Dawn arrived cold and clear. The main courtyard of Stormvale was full of activity. Sixteen horses, fifteen for veterans, one for Rylan, waited with loaded saddlebags. Weapons secured. Light armor for the journey. Torin personally checked each horse, occasionally murmuring corrections.
Rylan mounted. His father's ring felt heavy on his hand. He had found Lyssara's amulet minutes before. It was in his pocket now, along with the note.
'I won't die, sister. I promise.'
Varen watched from the upper balcony. He did not come down. He did not give a speech. He just watched: a silent presence of authority. Lyssara was in the shadows of the courtyard, where Rylan could not clearly see her. But he knew she was there.
"Ready," Torin declared, mounting his own horse.
The veterans confirmed. Aldwen gave the signal. Garron smiled, anticipation of future violence. Zella checked her bow one last time. The twins Vek and Tor exchanged an identical glance.
"Forward," Torin ordered.
Sixteen riders departed. Hooves echoing on stone. They rode through the gates of Stormvale, the city slowly waking around them. Lyssara watched them disappear down the road that led east. Toward the mountains. Toward blood and trials.
'Twenty days,' she thought. 'Come back different, brother. Come back better.'
'Because when you return, I will be different too.'
The gates closed behind them. And Stormvale, with all its secrets and ambitions, continued its day as if nothing had changed.
But it had changed. It was always changing. Slowly, inexorably. Like waves against cliffs. Like time against stone. Like the future against the past.
And none of them, neither Rylan, nor Lyssara, nor Kael, nor Sareth, would be the same when everything ended.