The pre-dawn darkness was Robin's favorite time. The castle slept. Guards changed shifts with predictable timing. Servants hadn't yet begun their morning routines.
It was the perfect time to train without witnesses.
Robin moved through the silent corridors, using passages he'd mapped over weeks of nocturnal exploration.
His improved agility made navigation easier, footsteps lighter, movements quieter.
He emerged into a secluded courtyard on the eastern side of the castle. A forgotten space, really. Once it had been a garden, but years of neglect had turned it into an overgrown tangle of weeds and cracked stone.
Perfect for his purposes.
Robin had discovered it a week ago during one of his library expeditions. The courtyard was isolated, surrounded by high walls. No windows overlooked it directly. The few that came close were shuttered or belonged to storage rooms no one used.
Privacy. Finally.
He'd been limited in his training, confined to his small room where real practice was impossible. But here, he had space. Room to move. To practice forms properly.
Robin set down the rusty dagger he'd stolen from the refuse pile. Drew it slowly, feeling its weight. The balance was terrible, this blade had never been meant for combat. But it was better than nothing.
He began with the basic stance. Weight distributed evenly. Knees slightly bent. Blade held in a middle guard position.
Focus on fundamentals. Master the basics before attempting advanced techniques.
Justin's knowledge was perfect, crystalline. Twenty years of muscle memory encoded into neural pathways. But this body had never held a sword before. The disconnect between knowing and doing was frustrating.
Robin executed a simple thrust. His form was correct, angle perfect, weight transfer smooth. But the execution lacked speed. Lacked power.
Again.
Thrust. Recovery. Reset.
Again.
His muscles burned. Not from exhaustion from learning. Building new pathways. Teaching this young body what Justin's old body had known instinctively.
[WEAPON MASTERY (DAGGER): 47/100 USES TO NEXT RANK]
Robin continued. Slash patterns now. High, middle, low. Each cut precise, economical. No wasted motion.
The system tracked everything. Every swing, every thrust. Quantifying improvement with cold mathematical certainty.
He moved through the fundamental forms. Block, parry, riposte. The dance of blade work that separated trained fighters from brawlers.
Fifty-three more repetitions. Then this skill ranks up to E.
The sky was lightening. Gray pre-dawn giving way to the promise of sunrise. Robin had maybe twenty minutes before servants began their morning routines.
He pushed harder. Faster. The dagger became a blur or as close to a blur as his ten year-old body could manage.
Too slow. Still too slow.
In his previous life, Justin's blade work had been legendary. Opponents described it as facing a steel whirlwind. Strikes coming from impossible angles at speeds that defied tracking.
This? This was a child waving a rusty knife.
But it's improving. Every day, faster. Stronger. More precise.
Robin executed a spinning slash, using momentum to add power. His form was perfect.
The sound of shifting stone froze him mid-recovery.
Someone was here.
Robin's enhanced perception kicked in. He didn't turn, didn't obviously react. But his awareness expanded, searching for the source.
There. Behind the pillar to his left. Small. Trying to stay hidden.
How long have they been watching?
His mind raced through options. Run? No, running implied guilt. Attack? Absurd. Whoever it was, they were probably not a threat.
Find out who first. Then decide.
Robin lowered his dagger slowly. Turned toward the pillar as if he'd just noticed something.
"You can come out," he said quietly. "I know you're there."
Silence. Then a small figure stepped from behind the pillar.
A girl. Maybe eight years old. Silver hair, the Stark signature pulled back in a simple braid. Wide eyes that held curiosity rather than fear or contempt.
Sarah Stark. My sister.
Robin recognized her from his previous life. Or rather, from Justin's memories. Sarah Stark, who would grow up to be a proud swordswoman. Who would fight on the walls during the Void breach.
But this Sarah was just a child. Innocent and Curious.
And she'd just watched him training with a blade at dawn in a secret courtyard.
Complications.
"What are you doing?" Sarah asked. No fear in her voice. Just genuine curiosity.
Robin considered his options. Lie? Claim he was just playing? No, she'd seen enough to know better.
Deflect? Send her away?
Or...
"Training," Robin said simply.
Sarah stepped closer. Her eyes went to the dagger in his hand. "With that? It's all rusty."
"It's what I have."
"Why are you training? You're..." She paused, clearly struggling with how to phrase it. "You're not supposed to be a warrior. Everyone says you're too weak."
"Everyone's wrong." Robin kept his voice flat. Unemotional.
Sarah tilted her head, studying him. "You don't look weak. Not anymore. You look... different."
Robin sheathed the dagger, if shoving it through his belt could be called sheathing. "What are you doing here? This courtyard is abandoned."
"I come here sometimes," Sarah said. "To think. To be alone. No one knows about it." She paused. "I thought."
"I won't tell anyone you come here."
"And I won't tell anyone about your training?" She made it a question.
Robin looked at her. She was offering a trade. Silence for silence.
But could he trust her? She was a Stark. His sister, technically, but also part of the family that had abandoned him. That would one day betray Justin.
She's eight years old. A child.
But children talked. Children made mistakes.
"Why would you keep my secret?" Robin asked.
Sarah looked down at her hands. "Because I know what it's like when everyone expects you to be something you're not." She met his eyes. "Father says I should focus on being a lady. Learning to manage a household. Finding a good marriage."
Her voice took on an edge. "But I want to learn the sword. Like Marcus. Like Leo."
Ah. We're alike in that way.
Both of them trying to become something the family didn't want them to be.
"Does he let you train?" Robin asked, though he already knew the answer.
"No. He says it's not appropriate for a girl. That I should leave fighting to my brothers." Her hands clenched into small fists. "But I watch them practice. I learn the forms by watching."
Robin made a decision. Probably a mistake, but calculated.
"Then watch this."
He drew his dagger again. Moved through a basic sequence, thrust, parry, riposte. His movements were clean, precise. Slow enough that Sarah could follow.
She watched with intense focus. Her eyes tracked every motion.
When Robin finished, she nodded slowly. "That's beautiful."
"It's functional," Robin corrected. "Beauty doesn't matter. Only effectiveness."
"Can you teach me?"
There it is.
Robin had expected this. Sarah wasn't here by accident. She'd probably been coming to this courtyard for weeks, maybe months. Had seen him that first morning and kept watching.
"No," Robin said flatly.
Sarah's face fell. "Why not? You know how. And I.... "
"Because you're a Stark," Robin interrupted. "Because father would notice if you suddenly developed real skill. Because teaching you would draw attention to me." He sheathed the dagger. "Because I have my own goals and teaching you doesn't serve them."
Harsh. Cruel, even. But necessary.
Robin needed Sarah to understand that he wasn't her friend. Wasn't her ally. Was barely her brother in anything but blood.
He turned to leave.
"I won't tell anyone," Sarah said softly behind him. "About you training. About this place. I promise."
Robin paused. Didn't turn around.
"Why should I believe you?"
"Because we're the same," Sarah said. "Both of us trying to become something they don't want us to be.
Both of us training in secret, working toward goals they'd stop if they knew." Her voice was quiet but firm. "I understand what it's like to be dismissed. To be told you're not good enough. That you should know your place."
Know your place.
The Duke's words. Apparently, he'd said them to Sarah too.
Robin felt something in his chest. Something uncomfortable. He crushed it immediately.
No attachments. No connections. They're all part of the family that will betray me.
"Nothing that concerns you," Robin said coldly, throwing her own future words back at her or rather, the words he'd say to her in the future that hadn't happened yet.
He walked away without looking back.
Behind him, he heard Sarah's soft voice. "I won't tell. I promise."
Robin left the courtyard. Navigated back through the passages to his room. His mind churned with implications.
Sarah had seen him. Knew he was training. Knew he was stronger than everyone believed.
She'd promised silence, but promises from eight-year-olds were fragile things.
I should have been more careful. Should have checked the courtyard before starting.
But part of him, the part that was still Justin, that remembered honor and loyalty respected Sarah's determination. Her desire to transcend the limitations placed on her.
She wants what I want. Freedom from others' expectations.
Robin pushed the thought away. Sarah Stark was not his concern. She was part of the family. Part of the system that had discarded him.
If she kept his secret, fine. If she didn't...
I'll deal with that when it happens.
Robin changed clothes. Hid the dagger in his usual spot beneath a loose floorboard. Splashed water on his face.
The morning bell rang. Another day beginning.
Robin lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His body ached pleasantly from training. His mind was already planning tomorrow's session.
He'd find a new location. Somewhere even more isolated. Somewhere no curious sisters could stumble upon him.
No attachments. No distractions. Just the path forward.
But as he closed his eyes, he couldn't quite shake the image of Sarah's face. The hope that had bloomed when he'd drawn his dagger. The disappointment when he'd refused to teach her.
She'll learn to live with disappointment, Robin thought coldly. We all do.
The Starks had taught him that lesson well.
Now he was teaching it to them, one rejection at a time.