The morning sun filtered through the windows of Emberkeep. Lucan had barely finished breakfast when the summons came, Lord Emberlily wanted to see him. No explanation, no urgency, but he was getting used to this.
He was led not to the hall but to the lord's private study. Emberlily stood beside the window, arms crossed behind his back, looking out over the hold.
"Come," he said without turning. "Tell me. What did you think of last night?"
Lucan blinked. "Of the dinner?"
"Of the people." Emberlily turned now, gaze steady. "They were not just eating."
Lucan hesitated before speaking. "They're… different. All of them."
"That they are. Which of them do you trust the least?"
Lucan frowned. "I don't know if I'd say I trust any of them, really."
Emberlily allowed a faint curve of a smile. "Good. But choose one."
Lucan took a breath. "Lord Redwyn is blunt, but I can read him. He wants coin and influence. He's ambitious, but that's something you can predict. Lady Wulfrain… she doesn't seem to care for politics, but her convictions are strong. You can trust someone like that to act on principle, even if it causes trouble."
"And?"
"Lord Haldrick," Lucan said slowly. "He's harder. Quiet, thoughtful, but I couldn't get a read on what he wanted or where he stands. That makes him dangerous."
Emberlily studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "You see more than you used to."
Lucan shifted. "Does it matter what I see?"
"It always matters. What you see, what you say, and what you don't. Learn that now, and you'll live longer."
He turned back to the window. "Go. Thorne's waiting, I heard he's got quite the surprise for failing to take a day off."
"Oh great..." Lucan mumbled to himself as he walked out.
Lucan stepped into the courtyard, where the sound of steel and yelling was overpowering. Thorne was speaking to a group of recruits when he caught sight of him.
"There you are," Thorne grunted. "Since you didn't want to take a break yesterday, I'll give you what you want: some high-quality training."
"About that," Lucan said. "I did take this morning off to get some rest."
Thorne snorted. "Good. Because you're not resting for much longer."
Lucan raised an eyebrow.
"At the end of the month, you're sparring me," Thorne said. "Proper bout. Not some training scuffle. You've got another week to stop fighting like a hopeful and start fighting like a soldier."
Lucan swallowed, then gave a short nod.
Thorne's grin was all teeth. "Get to it, then."
...
One Week Later
After grueling training from dawn to dusk, the blade no longer felt like a stranger in his hands. Nor was he one to the soldiers. Every day more had come around to him, able to speak and joke around with even the full soldiers.
The training yard was so busy it looked like they were preparing for war.
Word had spread quickly, Thorne was finally going to spar with Lucan. Soldiers ringed the yard, leaning on spears and wooden staves, some with arms crossed, others already grinning. The morning sun had barely cleared the ramparts, but the air felt thick with anticipation.
Lucan stepped into the dirt, gripping his wooden sword. His palms were already damp. He tried not to look at the crowd. Some probably wanted him to win, but he guessed many still would enjoy seeing him land face first into the mud.
Thorne stood across from him, arms folded, stoic as ever.
"Hope you stretched," Thorne said. "Wouldn't want to tear something when I knock you on your ass."
Lucan didn't expect trash talk but just took his place silently while a soldier called for them to begin.
They circled once, twice, and then Thorne struck. It was a blur of movement, faster than Lucan had expected. The blade smacked against Lucan's ribs before he could parry, drawing a grunt of pain.
"Sloppy guard," Thorne muttered.
Lucan reset, biting back the sting. He focused, tried to read the next move, but Thorne didn't give him time. A low sweep caught his ankle, and he staggered, barely keeping his footing. Another hit landed on his shoulder. Then one across the thigh.
The crowd gave a few laughs and winces.
Thorne backed up, tilting his head. "That the best you've got, boy?"
Lucan gritted his teeth. He lifted his sword again, too high this time, and Thorne punished it immediately by smacking his wrist and then jabbing him in the stomach hard enough to double him over.
"You move like a drunk with a shovel. You want to pass the academy test? Can't even stand straight."
Lucan's ears rang, more from shame than pain. His body ached, his pride worse. He'd trained for this. He'd bled for this. And Thorne was making a fool out of him in front of all the soldiers.
"Still nothing?" Thorne spat. "No fire? No fight? Maybe Emberlily was wrong. Maybe you're just another stray dog, actually not even, no. Dogs can be trained. You? You don't listen, you don't obey, and you sure as hell don't bite."
Something snapped.
Lucan straightened. Not in anger, but in something hotter, something that burned clean, drive. The type of focus that he brought to tournaments, the unwavering focus where his eyes pierced the screen.
He exhaled slowly, and Thorne lunged again. But this time, Lucan saw it. The twitch in the shoulder, the drop in the front foot. He sidestepped and slammed his blade across Thorne's ribs with a crack.
The courtyard went silent.
Thorne blinked, stunned. "Not bad-"
But Lucan didn't wait.
He lunged, not recklessly, but with purpose, eyes locked onto Thorne's footing. His sword flashed left, a feint that then snapped right in a vicious arc. It struck Thorne's guard hard enough to jolt the older man's stance.
The second hit landed. The soldiers gasped. Lucan's mind roared.
He stepped in again, pivoting on his heel, bringing the blade low and across. A third strike slammed into Thorne's ribs. The rhythm was no longer Thorne's, it was Lucan's.
Every swing was deliberate. Every hit a revelation.
The fourth came fast and high, battering Thorne's shoulder with a sharp crack of wood on wood. Lucan's heart begged for mercy, but his grip held true.
He stepped left, reversed the blade's momentum, and brought it down diagonally. The impact echoed in the courtyard. Thorne stumbled.
A sixth drove straight through Thorne's defense, slamming into his side and forcing him back another step, eyes wide now with disbelief.
Lucan pressed on, not out of rage, but clarity. Every strike was a memory transformed into motion. Every blow said, I learned. I see you.
And for the first time, Thorne was not stoic. His eyes were wide, not ready for this side of Lucan even though he had tried to bring it out.
"Is that..." one soldier whispered.
Thorne grunted as a hit landed on his thigh. Another near his elbow. He snarled and swung wide, but Lucan ducked and swept his foot out, forcing him to stumble.
Lucan raised his sword for the final strike.
Crack.
Thorne's blade came around in a blur, slamming against Lucan's back with the weight of a hammer. He crashed to the mud, face first. The broken pieces of Thorne's training sword fell to his side.
For a breath, no one moved.
Thorne stood over him, breathing hard, face unreadable. Then he stepped back, dropped his broken handle, and turned toward the barracks.
"You passed," he said.
And walked away.
Lucan lay there in the muck, cheek pressed to the dirt, chest heaving.
The soldiers didn't laugh. They didn't cheer either.
They just stared.