Dawn crept into the manor silently.
It did not announce itself with birdsong or warmth—winter had banished such softness long ago. Instead, the new day filtered through high glass windows as faint silver, diffused through frost that clung to the edges like whispers etched in ice.
When Kel's eyes opened, the room was still dim.
The curtains, drawn half aside, allowed a single shard of morning light to cross the floor. It reached him slowly, crawling across the sheets like a cautious touch.
Kel remained still for several seconds.
Not fully awake.
Not fully asleep.
Only listening—to the faint pulse within his ribs, to the stiffness lining his limbs, to the hollow whisper of the curse buried deep but not dormant.
Still alive.
He exhaled quietly.
The day had begun.
And so would he.
Morning Ritual
He rose without rushing, carefully pushing himself upright. The white linen nightshirt shifted against his frame, light yet carrying the faint scent of dried herbs from the cleaning Marine had done the night before. His bare feet pressed against the cold hardwood floor, the chill climbing his bones before he forced his body to stop reacting.
He crossed the room in silent steps, entering the adjoining bath chamber.
The water was cool—not icy, but brisk enough to stir the remnants of fatigue from his muscles. He submerged his hands slowly, then splashed water across his face, down his neck, letting it run through his hair.
In the mirror's reflection, he paused.
Kel von Rosenfeld stared back.
The boy was pale, skin smooth but lacking the softness usually seen at his age. His grey eyes—calm, unreadable—slightly shadowed beneath. His lips held no color.
He looked less like someone waking…
…and more like someone preparing to endure.
A faint drop of water trickled down his jaw.
He did not wipe it.
Instead, he reached for the towel, dried himself with composed motions, and changed.
Clothing for the Day
He chose not the formal attire of last night, nor the relaxed nightwear.
He selected something in between.
A fitted black training garment—fine material, tailored to noble standards but flexible for movement. The sleeves were long, cuffed at the wrists with matte silver fastening. The fabric wrapped him closely yet did not restrict his breathing.
He pulled a heavier coat over it—dark charcoal, minimal embroidery, only a single muted line of metallic thread tracing the left sleeve. Not to impress.
To endure the cold.
He adjusted the collar.
Straightened it.
Gloved his hands again, this time in softer, reinforced leather built for training.
He looked once more at the mirror.
This time, there was no stillness.
There was decision.
And beneath it—
A faint echo of something like resolve drawing in its first breath of the morning.
The Walk
The corridors were quieter at this hour.
Most nobles slept later, indulgent in post-banquet recovery. Only servants moved in the distance, footsteps hushed against the carpet as they began their morning routines.
Kel moved through the hallway with silent steps, the chill of stone walls brushing faintly against the air.
He passed a tall window overlooking the courtyard.
Frost lay across the grounds.
He watched it for a heartbeat.
Then continued.
Toward the Training Field
The manor's inner training grounds were past the east wing—a wide, open space enclosed by tall stone walls, their surfaces marked by years of steel, sweat, and bruising winters.
As Kel approached, the crisp air grew sharper.
A faint clang echoed.
Metal meeting metal.
Footsteps pacing.
Voices low with discipline.
He stepped through the archway entrance.
The scene before him unfolded with precise clarity.
A Quiet Observation
Dozens of knights were already training.
They moved in synchronized exercises—weapon forms, conditioning, combat drills. The sound of swords striking practice dummies reverberated through the courtyard like measured thunder.
Most did not notice his arrival.
His presence—unannounced, unaccompanied—blended almost seamlessly with the cold morning air.
But some noticed.
Not immediately.
But gradually.
A few heads turned.
Eyes flickered.
Not openly staring—too disciplined for that—but acknowledging quietly.
The cursed heir… came to the training grounds?
Kel did not step onto the central path.
Instead, he walked along the outer boundary of the field, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight.
He observed.
Not as a noble.
As someone searching.
He watched the movements.
The training.
The discipline.
The strength.
But those were not what he sought first.
He wasn't looking for the strongest sword.
He was looking for something rarer.
Eyes.
Stance.
People who remained unshaken not when attacking…
…but when facing collapse.
People who fought to live, not merely to win.
Internal Reflection
Two companions, he reminded himself.
His father's words followed.
"Men who travel with you… not as guards, not as chains… but as blades at your side."
He let his gaze scan the field.
Who would be reckless enough…
or courageous enough…
to follow a cursed heir into two years of uncertainty?
A sword struck a shield with a sharp clank, drawing his attention.
A knight staggered back, then regained stance—posture stable, eyes calm.
Kel noted him.
Strong. Disciplined. Unshaken.
But his next movement was too precise.
Too formal.
Too crafted for noble display.
Kel looked away.
Someone who only knew how to fight under structure would break outside it.
He continued walking.
A Subtle Shift
The commanders began to notice his inspection.
Samuel, the sword instructor—the one who had witnessed Kel's dawn training weeks prior—stood at the far end of the field.
He made no move to approach.
His sharp eyes followed silently.
You're searching, his gaze seemed to say.
Kel did not acknowledge him.
Not yet.
His walk continued.
He passed younger knights.
Veterans.
Swordsmen.
Spearmen.
Each move measured.
Each step reading.
Then he saw him.
A man of middle years—mid-thirties, perhaps—sword in hand. Not handsome. Scars crossed his jaw. His stance showed endurance over elegance.
He fought with resilience, not flourish.
His opponent struck hard.
He absorbed it.
Not with strength.
With controlled acceptance.
Letting the strike flow.
Then countering.
Not brilliantly.
But decisively.
Kel watched.
Just once, the man's eyes flickered up.
They met Kel's.
No surprise.
No awe.
No ridicule.
Just recognition.
Then the man returned to training.
Kel's gaze lingered.
Perhaps.
He continued.
Moments later, he stopped again.
A young knight—barely older than seventeen.
Her blade movements were swift, not precise.
Flawed in form.
But every strike held purpose.
Her expression was not fierce.
Not proud.
Simply concentrated.
When she slipped, her expression did not falter in frustration.
She exhaled.
Reset.
Moved again.
Not afraid to fail.
Kel's eyes narrowed slightly.
Interesting.
Not strong enough.
Yet.
But strength was not first.
Will was.
A Realization
I expected this to be difficult, he thought.
But it may not be impossible.
He stood still, lowering his hands from behind his back. The leather of his gloves creased slightly as his fingers flexed.
Those who do not see the point in following me… will not consider it.
Those who see only the curse… will not approach.
Those who look beyond weakness… perhaps…
A faint breath escaped him.
Perhaps two such exist.
He turned.
Samuel, from the far side, watched.
Kel gave a faint nod.
Not to greet.
To acknowledge awareness.
Samuel inclined his head back.
Kel began to walk toward the exit.
A figure intercepted him at the edge of the training ground.
A young knight, unsure, eyes darting as if afraid to speak.
He opened his mouth.
"L—Lord Kel, shall I—"
Kel raised a hand gently.
Not harsh.
But final.
"No," he said softly. "Continue training."
The knight stepped back immediately, bowing, relieved.
Kel walked past.
As He Left
His thoughts sharpened.
Tomorrow, I leave.
Today, I will choose.
He could already see two shadows forming beside his own.
Not clearly.
Not confirmed.
Just… possible.
His steps slowed at the archway.
He looked back once more at the courtyard.
The swords rose.
Fell.
Gleamed under winter light.
He exhaled.
"If they are willing to walk at my side," he whispered to himself, "then I will let them."
He turned.
Walking away.
Seeking clarity.
As the morning sun began to claw its way through the frost, painting faint gold across the cold stones.
And behind him—
Two potential fates continued their training.
Unaware.
That their master might choose them today.