The winter light had barely climbed above the walls of the training field when Kel diverted his attention.
His gaze had finished its quiet sweep over the soldiers. Names were not yet chosen—but the seeds of possibility had been sown.
Now it was time to move.
He left the edge of the training courtyard and turned toward the far side, where a small structure stood apart from the main building. Stone at the base, darkwood above—less like a construction and more like a sculpted fragment of the manor itself.
It was where Samuel, the sword instructor, housed his tools… and his quiet discipline.
The cold morning air scraped against Kel's cheeks.
His steps never faltered.
Inside the Instructor's Quarters
He did not knock.
Samuel, already aware of his presence, turned before the door closed behind Kel.
The instructor stood by a rack of practice blades, inspecting one with deliberate calm. His broad shoulders and stern posture gave him the bearing of a man who had forged himself through battle, not privilege.
He wore no ceremonial coat today—only a dark training uniform, sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing faint scars beneath the leather bracers. His hair was tied back, his gaze sharp as he assessed the sword he held.
Kel paused three steps into the room.
Samuel's eyes met his.
Silence first.
Proper.
Measured.
Then Kel spoke.
"Sir," he said quietly, "I need two of the finest knights from those training today. I would like you to consider helping me find them."
His voice was soft.
But there was nothing hesitant in it.
Samuel's brows shifted slightly.
A flicker of surprise?
A flicker only—and then gone.
He set the sword back on the rack with precise care, turning fully toward Kel.
"Young Master," he began slowly, "but the Duke—"
Kel's response cut through his words, measured and calm.
"The Duke has given me permission for this."
A pause.
Samuel studied him for a long heartbeat.
Nothing in Kel's posture wavered.
He stood with the elegance expected of a noble heir—but there was that quiet undertone of steel, visible only to those who had seen him fight.
Samuel exhaled slowly.
Not disbelief.
Acknowledgment.
"Certainly," he said at last, voice low. "After your performance in the banquet duel… his Grace would be expected to allow it."
He moved past Kel toward the window overlooking the training ground.
His expression, usually unreadable, held a trace—just a trace—of something thoughtful.
"The knights," Samuel added, "are talking about it nonstop, you know."
Kel leaned slightly toward the light without moving his feet.
"Talking?"
Samuel's lips curved—barely.
A muted smile, worn by an instructor who had watched his silent student surprise an entire hall.
"How you defeated him," he said. "Without visible aura. With one strike, after predicting movement. They say it was like watching someone who trained not to win… but to avoid dying."
Kel said nothing.
His eyes remained still.
Samuel looked at him with greater scrutiny.
Then continued.
"There is one issue, Young Master."
Kel tilted his head slightly.
Samuel folded his arms.
"All the knights here," he said plainly, "are fine. Calling only two the 'finest'… may be a matter of perception. Every knight on this ground is trained to the highest Rosenfeld standards."
Kel let silence settle for a moment before answering.
Then—
"Then let's make it simple," Kel replied calmly. "A contest of power."
Samuel's gaze sharpened.
Kel continued, stepping toward the wall of weapons—though he did not reach for one.
"Every knight will compete for first position," Kel said. "I intend to select my companions from among the top finalists."
"How about it?"
Samuel said nothing.
Then a slow breath left him.
He nodded once.
"We can do that."
Kel's eyes narrowed just slightly.
Not in doubt.
In calculation.
He took one more step forward.
"Tell the knights this is a Duke's order."
Samuel's eyes flickered.
Kel kept speaking.
"Whoever takes first place…"
His voice neither rose nor fell.
It simply decided.
"…will receive a special-crafted sword as a reward."
Samuel's brow lifted.
Kel continued as smoothly as ever.
"Second place will receive an advanced aura technique."
"Third place," he added, "will be given a strength enhancement potion."
Samuel stared.
Not stunned.
Measuring.
"Young Master…" he began slowly, "does the Duke intend to award such things?"
Kel met his eyes directly.
His answer was quiet.
Unmoving.
"No."
Samuel said nothing.
Kel's tone did not shift.
"I will."
He adjusted the gloves on his hands.
The faintest curve of a smile appeared.
Not warm.
Strategic.
Calculated.
"But in the name of the Duke."
A Moment of Stillness
The silence that followed was heavy—not oppressive, but profound.
Samuel stood very still.
Several breaths passed.
Then he nodded, once.
With precision.
With understanding.
Not just accepting an order.
Acknowledging a decision.
"Very well," he said quietly. "I will arrange it."
Kel gave a slow nod.
Samuel did not move immediately.
Instead, he looked at Kel again—eyes narrowing as though peering through layers beneath cultivated calm.
"Young Master," he spoke, softly now, "do you understand what you are asking?"
Kel's expression did not change.
Only his eyes sharpened.
"I am asking," he replied, "for two people willing to walk beside me."
He paused.
His next words were quieter.
"Not as protectors."
"As companions."
Samuel's gaze held his.
In the silence that followed, there was no hierarchy.
Only recognition.
Then Samuel turned to his desk.
Took up a small leather case, used for formal announcements.
"I will summon them," he said. "The contest will be held before dusk."
Kel nodded once.
He made no gesture of gratitude.
None was necessary.
He turned toward the door.
His hand paused at the handle.
Without looking back—
"Thank you, Sir."
Samuel did not reply.
Not verbally.
But his silence carried approval.
Kel stepped out, closing the door quietly behind him.
Beyond the Walls
As he walked away from the instructor's quarters, morning light cut through the mist across the courtyard.
The knights continued their training.
Unaware.
That by sundown—
Their lives might change.
Or remain as cold and unchanged as the frost beneath their boots.
Kel walked slowly back to the corridor.
The sound of his footsteps matched the beat of his heart.
Measured.
Calm.
Alive.
Two companions…
Not chosen for title, or strength…
But for resolve.
He could already hear the clamor that would erupt once Samuel made the announcement.
People would fight harder than usual.
Some for reward.
Some for pride.
A few…
Because they understood the quiet, unvoiced challenge in the word "companion."
Kel stopped by a window.
Outside, frost glinted across the field.
His reflection stared back.
Black coat.
Unmoving eyes.
The faintest shadow beneath.
"If they seek glory," he whispered, "they will fail."
His expression hardened.
"If they seek purpose…"
His eyes narrowed.
"Then perhaps—"
He turned.
Walking on.
As the winter morning slowly sharpened into day.
By Evening, the Contest Will Begin
Behind him—
Samuel stepped into the courtyard, voice carrying across the training field.
"Attention!"
The swords stopped.
Bodies turned.
Eyes lifted.
"By direct order of Duke Rosenfeld," Samuel announced, "a contest will be held before dusk. Every knight is to participate. First position will receive a newly crafted sword. Second place, an advanced aura technique. Third, a strength-enhancement potion."
A ripple of shock.
Then excitement.
Whispers.
Confusion.
Samuel paused.
Then added, his gaze briefly flicking toward the shadow where Kel had stood moments earlier:
"And the top finalists… will be considered for a confidential role."
A hush fell.
A breath.
He finished—
"Those prepared to fight… may step forward."
Steel was drawn.
Resolve awakened.
Kel, now unseen beyond the archway, walked on without looking back.
He did not need to.
The contest had already begun.
Long before the swords would meet.