Ren woke to pain.
Every muscle in his body screamed in protest as he shifted beneath the silk canopy. His arms felt like they had been pulled from their sockets and poorly reattached. His ribs ached with each breath. Even his fingers throbbed where the blisters had formed.
The sun hung low in the sky again. Dawn. The enemy.
He lay still for a long moment, staring at the embroidered silver thread above him, and considered the possibility of simply never moving again. It was a tempting thought. He could stay here, in this absurdly comfortable bed, and let the world of Eldoria sort out its own demon problems.
But Sir Kaelen's voice echoed in his mind. Do not be late.
Ren groaned and forced himself upright. His body protested violently. He ignored it, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and planting his feet on the fur rug. The salve Queen Elara had given him had worked wonders—his hands were sore, but the blisters had faded to pink tenderness rather than open wounds.
The same servant from yesterday appeared with his breakfast. The same warm bread, the same porridge with honey. Ren ate mechanically, his mind already dreading what was to come.
When he arrived at the training yard, Sir Kaelen was already there, as immovable as the stone walls around them. He held two wooden swords this time, and he tossed one to Ren without preamble.
"Today, we work on footwork," Sir Kaelen said. "A sword is useless if you cannot move. You will learn to dance before you learn to strike."
Ren caught the sword—actually caught it, which felt like a small victory—and took his stance. Wider feet. Bent knees. Sword held correctly, hands apart, grip firm but not rigid.
Sir Kaelen circled him, nodding slowly. "Better. You remembered. That is good."
For the next hour, they did not swing their swords once. Instead, Ren shuffled across the training yard, following Sir Kaelen's commands. Forward. Back. Left. Right. Pivot. The movements were simple, but maintaining the stance while moving was torture. His thighs burned. Sweat dripped into his eyes. His back screamed.
"Again," Sir Kaelen said, every time Ren thought he might collapse.
And Ren obeyed. Every time.
The sun climbed higher, the heat building, but Sir Kaelen showed no mercy. He demonstrated a simple pattern—a step forward, a step back, a pivot to the side—and made Ren repeat it until the movements became almost automatic.
"You are thinking again," Sir Kaelen said, rapping Ren's shoulder with his wooden sword. Not hard, but enough to sting. "Your feet hesitate while your mind decides. Stop deciding. Move."
Ren gritted his teeth and tried again. Forward. Back. Pivot. This time, he didn't think about the steps. He just let his body follow the memory of the last hundred repetitions. It wasn't smooth, but it was faster.
Sir Kaelen said nothing, which Ren was learning meant approval.
They broke briefly when the sun reached its peak. A servant brought water and a simple meal of bread and cheese. Ren sat in the shade, too exhausted to speak, while Sir Kaelen ate standing, watching the yard with quiet vigilance.
"You did well this morning," Sir Kaelen said finally.
Ren blinked, surprised. "I spent the whole morning walking in a circle."
"Footwork is the foundation," Sir Kaelen replied. "A strong swing means nothing if you are not in position to deliver it. A perfect block means nothing if you cannot reach it in time. You learned. You improved. That is doing well."
It was the longest speech Sir Kaelen had made since Ren arrived. He wasn't sure if he should feel honored or terrified.
The afternoon brought a new challenge. Sir Kaelen produced a training dummy—a post wrapped in rope with a rough burlap head—and showed Ren how to strike.
"The sword is an extension of your arm," he said, demonstrating with a slow, controlled swing that ended with a solid thump against the dummy's midsection. "Do not swing with your shoulder alone. Use your whole body. Your feet start the motion. Your hips turn. Your back follows. Your arm is merely the final delivery."
Ren tried to copy the motion. His swing was awkward, all arm, and the wooden sword bounced harmlessly off the dummy.
"Again," Sir Kaelen said.
Ren tried again. Slightly better, but still wrong.
"Again."
Again. Again. Again.
By the time the sun began its descent, Ren had landed perhaps a dozen solid strikes. Each one felt like a genuine achievement, a small victory against the unyielding dummy. His arms were beyond sore now, reduced to a kind of numb exhaustion that made even lifting the wooden sword feel like a monumental effort.
Sir Kaelen finally called a halt. "Enough for today. Rest. Tomorrow, we add a shield."
Ren nodded, too tired to speak. He stumbled to the shade and collapsed, his back against the cool stone of the colonnade. His body was a single, unified complaint. Every part of him hurt.
He sat there for a long time, watching the shadows lengthen across the training yard. The sky shifted from blue to orange to deep purple, and still he sat, too exhausted to move.
Footsteps approached. Light ones, not the heavy tread of a knight.
Ren looked up. A young woman stood before him, holding a small wooden bucket. She was perhaps his age, with dark hair pulled back in a simple braid and brown eyes that held a quiet warmth. She wore practical clothes—a linen tunic and leather breeches, much like his own training gear.
"You look terrible," she said. Her voice was gentle, teasing without cruelty.
"I feel terrible," Ren admitted.
She smiled and set down the bucket. Inside was water, but not for drinking. Steam rose from its surface, carrying the scent of herbs.
"Put your feet in," she instructed, sitting on the ground nearby. "My mother taught me this. It helps with the soreness."
Ren hesitated, then did as she said. The water was hot, almost too hot, but the warmth seeped into his aching feet and ankles with immediate relief. He sighed, his eyes closing.
"I'm Lyra," the young woman said. "My father is Sir Kaelen."
Ren's eyes snapped open. He looked at her, then toward the training yard where the knight had stood moments ago. Sir Kaelen was gone.
"Your father is terrifying," Ren said honestly.
Lyra laughed, a bright sound in the quiet evening. "He is. But he's also the best knight in the kingdom. If anyone can teach you to survive, it's him."
"Survive," Ren repeated, the word heavy. "Is that what we're aiming for?"
"For now." Lyra's expression softened. "I know about the prophecy. Everyone knows. The hero from another world. I wanted to meet you for myself."
Ren looked at her. She seemed genuine, curious rather than awed or fearful. "And? What do you think?"
She considered him for a moment, her brown eyes thoughtful. "I think you're braver than you know. My father doesn't praise anyone. Ever. But he said you didn't quit. That counts for something."
Ren felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the foot bath. "He said that?"
"Not in so many words," Lyra admitted with a grin. "But I could tell. He stayed for dinner instead of going back to the training yard. That's practically a celebration."
They sat in comfortable silence as the last light faded from the sky. Servants began lighting torches along the colonnade, their flames casting dancing shadows across the stones.
"Why are you here?" Ren asked finally. "In the castle, I mean. Not… out there." He gestured vaguely toward the world beyond the walls.
"My father serves the Queen," Lyra said simply. "And I serve the castle. I help in the infirmary, learning from the healers. It's quiet work, but I like it. I like helping people."
"That's good," Ren said. "Someone should."
Lyra looked at him, a question in her eyes. "Do you miss your home? Your world?"
The question hit harder than Sir Kaelen's wooden sword ever had. Ren was silent for a long moment, staring at the steam rising from the bucket.
"Yes," he said finally. "I miss it. I miss my friends. I miss my bed. I miss knowing what's going to happen tomorrow." He paused. "But I don't think I can go back. So I have to make this work."
Lyra nodded slowly. "That's a heavy thing to carry."
"It is," Ren agreed. "But carrying it is better than dropping it."
She smiled again, that gentle, warm expression. "You'll do well here, Ren. I can tell."
She rose, brushing off her breeches. "Keep your feet in the water until it cools. And tomorrow, after training, come find me in the infirmary. I'll have something for your hands."
Before Ren could respond, she was gone, disappearing into the shadows of the colonnade with the quiet grace of someone who knew the castle intimately.
Ren sat alone in the gathering dark, his feet in the cooling water, and thought about what she had said. You'll do well here. It was the first time anyone had expressed confidence in him that wasn't based on an ancient prophecy or desperate hope.
The stars emerged overhead, unfamiliar constellations scattered across an unfamiliar sky. Somewhere out there, beyond these walls, a demon king waited. Seven generals plotted. An entire world held its breath.
But here, in this quiet moment, Ren felt something he hadn't expected. Not hope, exactly. Not yet. But a small, stubborn spark of determination.
He would learn to fight. He would learn to survive. He would become the hero they needed, even if he had to drag himself there one aching step at a time.
The water cooled. Ren finally pulled his feet out, dried them on the grass, and made his way back to his room. His body still screamed, but it was a familiar scream now. An expected one.
Tomorrow would be harder. But he would be there. At dawn.