"Nobles learn to fight for glory. Commoners learn to fight because the alternative is dying."
***
The training grounds lay empty in the grey light before dawn.
Worn dirt. Weathered stone. Not a soul in sight. The only sounds were distant servants starting their duties in the kitchens and the occasional cry of a crow against the slate sky.
Rhys Blackwood stood alone at the center of the largest sparring circle. His breath formed small clouds that hung in the frigid air for a heartbeat before vanishing. The cold bit at his exposed skin. Numbed his fingers. Made his joints ache with a familiar stiffness he'd learned to ignore years ago on the frozen borderlands.
His calloused hands worked at the leather wrapping around his spear's shaft. Each strip came away slowly. The ritual demanded patience. Demanded respect.
His father had taught him that much on winter nights so cold the water in their well froze solid.
