The first training began before dawn touched the spires of Castle Götthain.
Sir Gregor was waiting in the backwoods, an area even regular hunters seldom ventured into. A winter mist hung low among the trunks of beech and oak, rendering the world detached, silent, and alien.
"This world," Gregor said in a voice lower than the morning wind's whisper, "doesn't care if you are noble or peasant. Here, there are only three laws: see, listen, and remain unseen."
Albert, dressed in the simple rough-wool hunting garb Gregor had prepared, stood straight. His breath formed small clouds in the frigid air.
His twelve-year-old body felt frail amid the raw, awakening wilderness. But in his chest, that heart beat with a familiar rhythm: the rhythm before a mission, the rhythm of holding a trench under bombardment.
"First," Gregor continued, walking slowly around him like an old wolf observing its cub, "you must know the ground you tread upon." He bent down, scooping up a handful of soil mixed with leaf litter. "This is not just dirt. It is history. Look."
Albert observed. In Gregor's gnarled grip, he saw more than soil.
"Darker here, meaning it's damp. There's an underground stream or a seasonal pool. Fresh deer tracks nearby—see the pattern and depth—means he stopped to drink here this morning. The tracks head east, seeking sunlight to warm up after a cold night."
Gregor let the soil sift back to the earth. "And this," he pointed to small, pellet-like droppings on a rock, "rabbit. Still moist. He passed recently. And if you look closely..." his crooked finger touched faint claw marks on the bark, at adult waist height, "... a wolf caught his scent."
Albert drew a deep breath. In Ukraine, reading terrain meant seeking cover from drones, estimating artillery range, and spotting likely pre-plotted target coordinates. Here, the danger was organic, immediate, and required a different kind of interpretation.
"Do you grasp it?" asked Gregor, his eyes sharp.
"I grasp that here, every creature is both spy and executioner," Albert replied slowly. "They leave reports readable by anyone who knows the language."
Gregor gave a curt nod, satisfied. "Good. Now, your first task. Follow me from here to the small northern stream, one mile. Without a sound. Without being seen. And without leaving a trail clearer than a squirrel's."
***
Albert's first step was a disaster.
He stepped on a dry twig that snapped with a sound like gunfire in the forest's hush. Gregor didn't even turn, merely shaking his head slowly.
By the fifth step, his cloak snagged on a thorn bush, tearing the fabric and emitting a loud, rasping noise. He tried to yank it free with a rough motion—the move of a frustrated soldier in an obstacle course, not a hunter.
"Stop," said Gregor, suddenly beside him. His voice was like blunt steel. "You move like an ox in the forest. You are fighting the forest, not working with it."
He bent, freeing the thorn from the fabric with a gentle, precise twist. "See. This thorn hooks the opposite way. Fighting it only drives it deeper. You must understand its direction, then release it along its grain."
The principle pierced Albert deeper than any thorn. Fighting only drives it deeper. Hadn't that been his previous life? Fighting the tide of failure, the system, the war? And look where it led.
"How does one 'work with it'?" he asked, his voice lower, more earnest.
"First, you must feel light," said Gregor, scrutinizing him from toe to head. "Your weight. Never commit it fully to one foot. Distribute it, like mist touching the ground. Feel the earth with your sole before you trust your weight to it."
He demonstrated. His movements were slow, measured. His right foot stepped out, touching down from heel to toe, sensing texture and firmness before his body weight fully shifted. His torso angled, avoiding branches, following the land's contour rather than opposing it.
"Try," Gregor commanded.
Albert exhaled, calming himself. He closed his eyes briefly, recalling the feel of soil under his wet military boots, the mud that sucked at every step in the trenches. It was different. There, survival meant running, crouching, or digging. Not stalking.
He opened his eyes and tried to mimic. The first step was still stiff. But the second, he began to "listen" with his feet.
The feel of a small stone, the softness of moss, the sponginess of wet earth. He stepped with care, like descending a dark staircase.
"Better," Gregor murmured. "Now, your body. Don't stand tall. Bend slightly, reduce your profile. But don't look like a thief. Let your shoulders move with your hips, like flowing water."
It was exhausting. Muscles in Albert's back and legs, trained for the rigid posture of swordplay, were now forced to bend, flex, and stay low. Every muscle screamed protest. A cold sweat dampened his back despite the biting air.
They walked—or more accurately, stalked—for an hour. Gregor paused occasionally, pointing silently: a bird's nest on a low branch to avoid because the mother would make noise, a rocky area better for passing as it left no clear prints, tall grass that offered perfect concealment.
Albert learned. Quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. But it wasn't natural talent. It was the mental discipline of one who had lived where a single mistake meant death. Here, a mistake meant failing a lesson. In his mind, he equated the consequences.
When they finally reached the small stream—clear water rushing over stones—Albert felt as if he'd just fought a minor battle. He was panting, his muscles trembling with fatigue, but a strange, tickling satisfaction was there.
Gregor inspected him. "Your trail is still that of a sick fawn. Too deep in the heel, uneven stride. But... for a first attempt, not wretched. You learn fast."
"Because I must," Albert answered simply, gazing at the flowing water. It reminded him of trenches filled with rainwater and the remnants of comrades and enemies.
"Why?" asked Gregor, sitting on a large rock. "Why must? A young lord like you, your life is assured. Castle, lands, servants. Why learn to stalk like a thief or a poacher?"
Albert bent, splashing the stinging cold water on his face. The answer hissed in his mind.
Because I've had a life 'assured' by the state and seen how it ends. Because a world that promises security is the greatest lie. Because when the cage comes again, I want to have the key.
But what left his lips was: "Because assurances can be revoked at any moment, Sir Gregor. And it is better to be a live thief than a dead landlord with honor."
Gregor looked at him for a long moment. In those old eyes was a flicker of recognition. "You speak like one who has already lost everything."
Albert merely turned away, hiding his expression. "What is the next task?"
The training continued until the sun was high.
Gregor taught him how to cross open ground using shadows and contours, how to climb a slope in silence, and the hardest of all: how to sit still and become part of the forest.
"Most fail because they cannot be still," Gregor whispered as they sat concealed behind a thick holly bush, observing a doe and her fawn drink. "Their minds are noisy. Their bodies itch. They feel time is wasted. But this is where everything happens. In the silence, the world whispers its secrets."
Albert tried. But stillness was his greatest enemy. In the quiet, memories surged. Dmytro's voice saying he'd buy his daughter a bicycle. The light from a drone hovering like an angel of death. The taste of blood on his tongue.
His fists clenched. His breath hitched slightly.
"Control it," Gregor hissed in his ear, his voice clear and firm though barely audible. "Your breath is music to him." He pointed to the deer, whose ears twitched warily. "Draw slowly, from here." His calloused hand tapped Albert's diaphragm. "Not from your chest. Feel the world pulling and pushing you with each breath."
Albert tried. He focused on the physical sensations: the cold of the earth seeping through his clothes, the scent of damp soil and decaying leaves, the near-silent rustle of wind in the high canopy.
Slowly, the noise in his head receded. He grew quieter. The deer drank, her fawn gamboled. The world carried on, indifferent to his trauma or his plans.
For a moment, brief and fleeting, there was peace.
But it was banished by Gregor's rough touch on his shoulder. "Enough. Now, return. The same way. I will follow at a distance. If you know where I am, today's lesson is a success."
The return journey was better. Albert was more confident, more in sync with the forest's rhythm.
He still made mistakes—too-clear prints in muddy patches, breath growing ragged on an incline—but he felt progress. And more importantly, he felt the forest, he didn't just move through it.
He reached the forest's edge, right behind the castle, without once seeing or hearing Gregor. But when he turned, Gregor stood three paces behind him, as if materializing from shadow.
"How did I do?" Albert asked, heart pounding.
"For a first day?" Gregor nodded, his expression neutral. "Adequate. You have instinct. But this is just the beginning. Tomorrow is harder. And the day after, harder still. Until it becomes like breathing."
Albert nodded, weary but satisfied. His body trembled, but his mind was clear.
Today's deeper lesson, beyond stalking, was this: to survive, you must first understand and become part of what wants to kill you.
***
The bath in his chamber felt like a purification ritual. The servants had prepared a wooden tub of water, warmed over the hearth before his return. Steam rose, carrying the scent of cedar oil and lavender.
Albert shed the dirty, mud-streaked, torn hunting clothes. His still-boyish body was beginning to change.
Muscles were forming—not a brawler's bulk, but a long-distance runner's leanness: slim, strong, with budding endurance. Bruises mottled his shins, scratches from thorns and branches marked his arms.
He sank into the water, hissing softly as the warmth met his chilled, weary skin. It washed away sweat, grime, and tension. He submerged his head, holding himself in that wet silence for a moment.
Underwater, the world's sounds were muffled. Like being in a grave.
He surfaced, drawing a deep breath. His still-childish face rippled in the disturbed water. He had to thank his mother for this handsome face.
But sometimes, in moments like this, he barely recognized himself. Those green eyes were too old for that face. Their gaze held too much weight.
He scrubbed himself with coarse soap that left a faint floral scent.
Each scrub was an attempt to cleanse not just the day's dirt, but the residue of his past life still clinging to his soul. But it was like an old wine stain—never truly gone, only faded.
After dressing in simple attire—a dark green linen tunic and practical trousers, free of ostentatious noble markings—Albert decided to go down to the village.
It wasn't his first time, but usually he was accompanied by guards or tutors. Today, he wanted to go alone. To see with his own eyes, through his new perspective shaped by the conversation behind the tapestry and the lesson in the woods.
Götthain was actually the castle's and the region's name. The nearest, largest village was called Steinbach, named for the stony brook that bisected it. It was only a half-mile walk down the hillside.
The afternoon air smelled of woodsmoke, baking bread, and manure—the not entirely unpleasant scent of busy rural life. Albert walked along the dirt path, its edges beginning to freeze. A few peasants returning from fields or workshops noticed him. They bowed, awkward, their eyes avoiding direct contact.
"My Lord," they murmured, voices full of a respect mixed with faint bewilderment.
Albert nodded to them, attempting a smile. It felt stiff on his face. "Good afternoon," he replied, trying to make his voice sound friendly, not commanding.
An old woman sitting before a small stone cottage, peeling potatoes, glanced at him. Her eyes were wrinkled, sharp. "They say this winter will be a long one, My Lord," she said suddenly, her voice raspy like dry leaves. "Is it true?"
Albert stopped. This wasn't an idle question. It was a probe, an indirect inquiry into what the young noble might know. In the peasants' world, information about weather could mean the difference between life and death.
"My father says the same," Albert answered carefully. "The wood and fodder stores are being checked."
The woman nodded, returning to her potatoes. "Pray it's enough," she muttered, and her meaning was clear. Pray you nobles are thinking of more than just the king's taxes.
The word "taxes" hung in the air like a struck bell. Albert could feel the hidden tension beneath the seemingly peaceful afternoon activity.
He continued, heading toward the smithy. The sound of hammer on steel was the heartbeat of Steinbach. Inside the smoke-filled, heat-radiating workshop, Borin, the blacksmith, was forging a sickle. His body was like a living chunk of granite, muscles gleaming with sweat and soot.
Borin saw him, gave a brief nod—the salute of a proud craftsman to his lord, but nothing more. "My Lord. Something needs fixing?"
"Not today, Borin. Just observing."
Borin eyed him for a moment, then returned to his work. The hammer rose and fell in a steady rhythm. "Observing what? The grimy work of a smith?"
"Observing skill," Albert replied, stepping closer carefully, respecting the man's space. "Observing how hard iron can be shaped into something useful."
Borin paused, wiping his brow. "Useful," he repeated, with a strange tone. "Aye. A sickle for harvest. A knife for cutting. A plowshare for turning earth." He set the hammer down, picked up a half-forged blade. "But the same iron, with a different form..." his hand made a thrusting motion in the air, "... becomes something else entirely."
It means weapons.
"Has there been much demand for... different forms lately?" Albert asked, trying to sound casual.
Borin looked at him. His eyes were black, deep, like coals. "Demand comes from where demand comes from, My Lord. I'm just a smith. I forge what's asked for, so long as the material's there." He leaned in slightly. "And lately, the ore from our mine's been scarcer, costlier. Due to the taxes, they say. For the war, they say."
There was a challenge in his voice. What will you do about it, My Lord?
Albert felt the forge's heat on his face, and another heat: the burn of dawning responsibility. "Götthain iron is known for its toughness, if not its purity," he said, repeating something he'd read. "Perhaps its strength isn't in purity, but in the working of it."
Borin frowned. "Meaning?"
"I'm not sure," Albert admitted honestly. "But if the source is dwindling, maybe we must learn to work it smarter. Make less material mean more."
The smith fell silent for a long while. Then, for the first time, there was a light in his eyes other than firelight. "That's..."
"We live in unusual times," Albert replied. He gave Borin a nod, then departed, leaving the man to ponder before his forge.
The next encounter was lighter. By the brook, a group of children—some younger than Albert, some his age—were playing, skipping flat stones across the water's surface. They were breathless, faces red from the cold and excitement.
One of them, a sturdy boy with rust-red hair, spotted Albert. The play stopped.
The joy faded, replaced by awkward silence. They froze like deer sensing a predator. Even in simple clothes, he was still nobility.
Albert smiled, this time more naturally. "May I try?"
The children exchanged glances, disbelieving. The red-haired boy, seemingly the boldest, gave a slow nod. "Y... yes, My Lord."
Albert selected a smooth, flat stone from the brook's edge. The motion reminded him of something far away—throwing a grenade.
The technique was different, but the principle the same: grip, swing, release. He swung his arm, releasing the stone with a flick of his wrist.
Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop.
The stone skipped four times before sinking.
The children were awestruck. "Four skips!" one exclaimed.
The red-haired boy looked at Albert with newfound respect. "You're good, My Lord! Usually it's three, at most!"
"That was luck," Albert said, and it was true. But their smiles were genuine, unlike the bowed smiles of the adults earlier. "What's your name?"
"Kurt, My Lord," answered the redhead. "My father's a woodcutter."
"You have a strong throw, Kurt," Albert praised. "Your balance is good."
The boy flushed with pride. For a moment, the barrier between noble and commoner thinned, pierced by the simplicity of a game and a child's skill.
But then a woman—likely Kurt's mother—called from a cottage door. Her voice was tense. "Kurt! Inside, now!"
Kurt's expression changed. The excitement faded, replaced by awareness of his place. He nodded to Albert, then scampered off with his friends, retreating from the young lord's presence.
Albert stood alone by the brook. His smile vanished. He watched the flowing water, the stone he'd thrown now lost downstream. He had just touched something real, something human, and it had been snatched away again. Not out of malice, but out of fear. Fear of the structure, the consequences, the unknown.
He turned and began the walk back to the castle. The late afternoon sun was low, bathing Steinbach in a beautiful, melancholic golden light.
Smoke curled from chimneys, signaling supper preparations. In the distance, he could hear sheep being penned, carts creaking homeward.
He saw it all. He saw: An old man eyeing his stacked woodpile with a grim face, calculating how long it would last. Two young men whispering intently near the well, stopping when they saw him. A young mother holding an infant, her eyes empty as she stared down the road.
The village looked peaceful, but like the forest that morning, beneath the surface lay unease, wariness, and survival instinct.
They were reading their own terrain. And that terrain whispered: danger approaches. Rising taxes. Conscription. Dwindling iron. They knew, because they would feel it directly in their bellies, on their backs, in their children.
Albert reached the castle gate. The gray stone edifice seemed solid, eternal. But he knew now—from the experience of two lives—that nothing was truly eternal. Only defense and preparation could delay collapse.
He entered the courtyard, where oil lamps and torches were being lit. Servants bustled preparing the evening meal. From the study window, he saw the silhouette of his father, Baron Friedrich, still seated at his desk, head bowed over a pile of documents.
They all depend on us, Albert thought, gazing down at the village now sinking into shadow. And we nobles depend on them. But are we strong enough, clever enough, to bear that weight?
He raised his hand, looking at his palm, already growing calloused from sword practice and today from gripping stones and branches.
These were no longer Dilan's desperate hands. Nor were they yet fully Albert the nobleman's hands. They were the hands of someone striving to build a bridge—between two worlds, between two lives, between castle and village.
And tonight, as he sat for the quiet supper with his parents, he would look at the food on his plate—the rye bread, the thick soup with smoked meat, the local cheese—and he would know exactly how much toil and worry was in every mouthful.
He would hear the silence between his parents' words, and know it was a silence filled by the shadows of royal messengers and the threat of war.
Today's training wasn't over. The real training had just begun. And the terrain was all of Götthain.