The second morning was more painful than the first.
Leon hardly succeeded in propping himself up. His shoulders throbbed, his thighs hurt with each movement, and his wrists seemed as if nails had been driven through the joints. He rotated gradually in bed, his arms quivering, and伸手 towards the jug next to his table. Half of it dripped onto his chest before he could bring it to his lips.
He did not swear. Didn't complain.
He simply inhaled.
The pain indicated that yesterday was not a dream.
That idea encouraged him to rise.
This time he got dressed more slowly—simple tunic, snugger sash, boots that no longer fit properly. His body wasn't accustomed to being held intact. The gentleness rendered everything seem unfamiliar. However, he showed no reluctance as he entered the hall.
The attendants attempted to hide their astonishment.
They continued to observe.
Leon's boots struck the stones more forcefully than necessary. He walked past the shiny windows, glimpsed his reflection once—round face, swollen eyes, hair partly damp from sweat—and continued on his way.
He reached the courtyard before the sun had completely risen.
Nobody was present at that moment. Satisfactory.
He went directly to the shed.
Identical sword. Identical weight. No enchanting flicker. Only sweat and determination.
He grasped the handle, entered the arena, and commenced anew.
The initial swing shot pain into his shoulder.
The second caused his knees to give way.
The third one nearly didn't occur.
However, it indeed did.
He clenched his jaw and reconfigured.
Elbow kept close. Wider legs. Maintain the motion of the blade.
Once more.
The tip dipped too far. He corrected.
Again.
This time, it came faster. Still wrong, but closer.
He could feel it—something under the surface, like a memory trying to claw its way into his limbs. Not strength. Just... order.
The blade moved. His feet adjusted. He slipped once in the dirt but caught himself.
Not enough.
He kept going.
"Didn't expect to find you here."
The voice came from behind the hedges.
Leon slowed, breath scraping through his throat, but he didn't stop. One more swing. Then he turned.
Roderic leaned against the archway, arms crossed. Tall. Fit. Smug as ever.
His older brother had always looked good in uniform.
"I thought you hated this yard," Roderic said. "Said it was 'a peasant's place.' Your words, not mine."
Leon lowered the sword, but not by much. "I changed my mind."
Roderic smirked. "About time. Father said you've been out here swinging since dawn. What, trying to impress him now that you've passed out in front of the stables?"
Leon didn't answer.
"Or maybe it's Elena." Roderic tilted his head. "She's here again, you know. With her father."
Leon adjusted his grip.
Roderic's smile widened. "Don't tell me you think a few broken drills and sweat stains will get you noticed."
Leon walked to the center of the ring. "You want something?"
"Sure." Roderic pushed off the wall. "A laugh."
He stepped into the ring and tossed a wooden sword toward Leon's feet.
Leon looked down. Then back up.
Roderic picked up another and spun it once through the air with practiced ease.
"Go on," he said. "One pass. If you're serious about this training nonsense, let's see it."
Leon said nothing.
But he bent. Picked up the second sword.
The brothers faced each other.
Birds chirped somewhere in the hedges. A soft wind rolled across the grass.
Then Roderic moved.
Fast. Too fast.
Leon barely blocked the first strike. The impact rang through his arms. He stumbled back.
Roderic didn't stop. His blade came again, shoulder-height this time, angling down.
Leon turned. It clipped his side. Not hard, but enough to sting.
"You've got a long way to go," Roderic said, grinning.
Leon exhaled. Stepped again. Feet wider now.
He waited.
Roderic lunged.
Leon dropped low, braced his weight, and swung hard at the ribs.
Roderic's eyes widened—just for a second. He twisted, deflected it with his forearm, and knocked Leon's blade away.
Leon stepped back, panting.
Roderic rubbed his elbow, then nodded once. "You've actually been practicing."
Leon straightened. Said nothing.
"Still sloppy," Roderic added. "But... less pathetic."
Then he turned and left the ring.
Leon stayed there long after he was gone.
His side ached. His arm throbbed.
But inside his chest, something steady had taken root.
Not pride. Not anger.
Just pressure. A sense that it was working. Slowly.
He raised the blade again.
And trained until the sun reached the edge of the trees.
That evening, he sat quietly on the stone steps just outside the servant's quarters. He didn't belong in the parlor with the guests, not like this. His hands still shook. His clothes stuck to his back. Every inch of him felt sore.
The smell of stew drifted through the corridor.
He heard laughter—Elena's voice, bright and warm—and it didn't sting. Not the way it used to.
He wasn't ready for her.
Not yet.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and breathed.
His vision blurred for a second, and not from tears. Just heat. Exhaustion. He blinked through it.
Someone sat beside him.
He didn't look.
"You still swing like a sack of grain," Yundar said, voice dry.
Leon almost smiled.
The old knight scratched his beard. "But you don't fall over as fast."
Leon nodded once.
"You eat?"
"No."
"Good. Keep starving. Teaches humility."
Leon closed his eyes.
Yundar stood and dropped something into his lap. A waterskin. Then a bundle wrapped in cloth—half bread, half salted meat.
Leon looked up.
"Rest," Yundar muttered. "Before I make you run hill drills before dawn."
The knight vanished down the corridor.
Leon didn't move right away. He just sat there, fingers curled around the bread.
The world was still turning.
But something had changed.
He looked at the calluses starting to form on his hands.
A start.
And not a single word of it needed to be spoken.
Leon stood.
joints cracking, and turned back toward the training ring. The torchlight behind him cast a long shadow.
He kept walking.