Sleep avoided me that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the weight of the wooden blade in my hands and saw the moment it stopped—so close to the young lord's throat that my breath had caught.
I had not meant to win.
That truth disturbed me more than the victory itself.
Because it meant something inside me had acted without asking permission.
Morning came without mercy.
The bell rang before dawn, sharp and unforgiving, and the trainees rose in tired silence. I joined them, my movements steady, my thoughts anything but.
The instructor did not correct me during drills. He did not even look at me.
When breakfast ended, a servant approached.
"You," he said, pointing directly at me. "Come with me."
No name.
No explanation.
The noble house felt different from the outside.
The training grounds were loud, brutal, alive.
The halls were quiet.
Stone walls swallowed sound. Every step echoed just enough to remind me I was alone. Servants passed without meeting my eyes, their faces trained into careful neutrality.
We stopped before a tall door of dark wood.
"Wait here," the servant said.
Then he left.
I stood alone.
Minutes passed. Or hours.
When the door finally opened, I was ushered inside without ceremony.
The young lord sat at a wide desk, dressed in fine clothes rather than training gear. His sword rested against the wall behind him, cleaned as if yesterday had been an insignificant inconvenience.
He looked up and smiled faintly.
"You came," he said.
I bowed—not deeply, but enough.
"You never told me your name," he continued, folding his hands together. "Was that because you feared me?"
"No," I answered carefully.
"Then why?"
"Because names matter."
His eyes sharpened.
"And who taught you that?"
I hesitated.
"Experience."
A pause.
Then he laughed softly.
"I like that," he said. "Experience is honest."
He stood and walked toward me, circling slowly, measuring.
"You know," he said, "most trainees would have dropped their swords the moment they were chosen."
"I know."
"And yet you didn't."
I met his gaze.
"I didn't know how."
The words came out before I could soften them.
For a moment, he only studied me.
Then he nodded, as if confirming something to himself.
"You embarrassed me," he said lightly.
My chest tightened.
"But you also intrigued me," he added. "Which is far more dangerous."
He stopped in front of me.
"This house does not allow things it cannot understand," he continued. "So I will understand you."
I remained silent.
"You will train under my authority from now on," he said. "Not as a knight. Not as a servant."
My breath caught.
"This is not a reward," he clarified. "It is an observation."
I bowed again.
"I accept."
As I turned to leave, he spoke once more.
"One more thing."
I stopped.
"You cannot continue without a name," he said. "And whatever you were called before is irrelevant here."
The room felt smaller.
He studied me briefly, then spoke.
"From today, you will be called Cael."
The word settled on me—clean, simple, heavy.
"It's temporary," he added calmly. "Names are earned in this house."
I bowed.
"Yes, my lord."
At the door, his voice stopped me again.
"Cael."
I turned.
"If you draw your blade like that again," he said, smiling pleasantly, "make sure you finish what you start."
The door closed behind me.
As I walked back through the halls, the name echoed in my thoughts.
Cael.
It was not the name I had been born with.
It was not the name Elisa had whispered to me in fear and hope.
But it was the name this house had chosen to give me.
And refusing it—
Would have been a mistake.