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In these past months, I've realized something important: I'm much better at swordsmanship than at archery. There's a key skill in sword combat that I've mastered for years—one that most still don't even understand—and that is: not being afraid of your opponent's weapon.
And of course, I'm not afraid of bullets.
Because closing your eyes does nothing against a bullet. You can't dodge it if it's already coming for you. If it's going to kill you, it will—just like that. So why would I fear a long sharp knife shaped like a sword? Or worse yet, a wooden sword. That difference, that switch in my head that no longer freezes in the face of danger, has given me a massive advantage over the other pages.
They're still afraid of getting hit. They don't want a blow to the face, they don't want to be humiliated. I've already been through that. So every time I thrust high, aiming straight for their faces, they flinch. Some step back, others drop their guard, others blink at the worst possible moment. Doesn't matter if my strikes are pathetic, slow, or clumsy. Their fear does the rest.
And that, little by little, has allowed me to start dominating.
I can now beat half the pages I train with without much difficulty. Between those distracted expecting a kick, those who tremble when I raise the sword near their eyes, and those who can't handle the pressure of someone who doesn't give up or back down—I've been taking them down one by one.
I'm far from the best, but I'm no longer the helpless newcomer who didn't even know how to hold a sword. Now they fear me. And for now, that's enough.
I had finally adapted to the routine. At least I knew what to expect each day of the week. Once a week: clean the latrine. Three times: the stables. Twice: sweep the fortress halls. Those were the "special" chores. The rest of the time, it was the usual: serving meals or acting as cupbearer for the margrave's family.
Being a cupbearer was considered a "privilege," but only on paper. Because every time I had to stand beside the table, Joachim, the eldest son, wouldn't stop glaring at me with hatred. And if he could give me more work, he did it without hesitation. Commanding, loading, repeating tasks—any excuse was good to try to wear me down or humiliate me.
Going to the market to buy things was more random, but whenever I got that task, I made the most of it. I already knew most of the trustworthy merchants. I'd learned to haggle, to point out flaws, to watch how the locals got their prices lowered. I picked it up fast. Every coin I managed to save on those errands, I hid. I found a loose brick in one of the market buildings, loosened it more, and started using it as a stash. That's where I hid the extra coins. When the margrave's leftovers were too few—or just trash—I used my secret fund to buy decent food: dried meat, crusty bread, some broth with real flavor.
Though of course, you had to know how to choose.
One time I got overconfident and spent almost all I had saved on a soup from a fancy stall. It looked luxurious, full of spices, with a rich aroma that made your stomach growl. But something was wrong. Not even two hours had passed before my gut twisted like a wounded snake. I spent the rest of the day locked in the latrines, cursing every damn coin I had dropped on that damn soup. And of course, as if fate were mocking me, I had to clean the latrine afterward.
For a moment, sweating from the pain, I considered stealing. Just once. A quick sleight of hand in the chaos of the market—no one would notice. The temptation was strong. But so was the memory of how justice worked in the Empire. Even being a noble, even being the margrave's page... I wasn't stupid. They could break my fingers—or worse—if I got caught. I chose to stay honest. Not out of virtue. Out of common sense.
The only days one could truly rest were when the margrave went off to campaign. Sometimes he'd leave because the forests were overflowing with beasts, orcs, or goblins. Other times, because bandits on the road to Bretonnia were disrupting trade. On those days, we only prepared food for those staying behind, and everything was more relaxed.
There was also a break when the margrave left for some party in Altdorf and took his family with him. A whole week without having to endure his fat ass or Joachim's whining. We had free time, though there wasn't much we could do with it. We weren't allowed to leave the fortress except for errands, so all that was left was to train, eat, sleep, and repeat.
I spent my days bruising my fingers with the wooden sword. Over and over. Nothing else.
"Albrecht… Albrecht… wake up," someone said, shaking me by the shoulder.
"What…?" I mumbled without opening my eyes. I was sunbathing in a hidden corner of the garden, where warm rays passed through the stone wall.
"Margrave Reinhardt is looking for all of us. He wants to go hunting. And this time it's going to be a long one, so he wants all the pages to come along," said one of the pages, from a noble house in Ussingen.
I opened my eyes, sighed, and stood up.
"But… if the margrave was at a party in Altdorf, shouldn't he be coming back… next week or something?" I asked, mentally going over the calendar we had pinned up next to the kitchen.
"For some reason he came back early… and now he wants us to get everything ready for a long hunt. So we better get moving, there's a lot to pack and not much time," said the page, already walking quickly toward the main courtyard.
"And what exactly are we supposed to do? Be living decorations, standing beside the tents like human banners?" I said as I stretched, still stiff from the morning's training.
"I don't know… they just said be useful or hide well," answered the page, then disappeared around the corridor.
"What a load of crap…" I muttered as I stepped outside the fortress, fastening my leather belt.
Outside, the activity was frantic. A large entourage was preparing: servants running, soldiers checking weapons, cooks loading provisions, stablehands holding horses. The air was full of dust and shouted orders. A mountain of gear was being piled up: spears, crossbows, bows, nets, cages… I even saw a few bear traps.
I immediately began to help, loading cargo onto wagons and securing crates. If anyone saw me idle, I'd be given double the work. I already knew that game.
When everything was finally ready, I mounted my horse, who now recognized me well, and joined the retinue heading toward the family's hunting grounds. We formed a long column of squires, guards, pages, hunters, nobles, and loaded carriages.
We passed through Osburg without stopping and entered the dense woods. The trees rose like black columns above us. Some guards started talking about how beastmen still roamed these areas, or wolves far too large.
Eventually, after several hours, we reached a deep clearing in the forest. Some tents were already set up—I assumed others had arrived earlier to prepare the ground.
Without wasting time, I set up the tent I'd be sharing with other pages. It wasn't comfortable, but compared to sleeping in the open, it was a luxury. With the help of two others, we finished quickly.
With that done, I took a few moments to look around, curious about the margrave's guests. It was one of the few chances I had to see other nobles and their strange companions.
That's when I saw him.
It was impossible not to notice him: a man shorter than me, but with a torso like an iron barrel. He had a reddish beard, braided and adorned with copper pieces that gleamed in the evening light. A dwarf, without a doubt.
He was arranging weapons on a campaign table. Short pistols, arquebuses, black powder flasks, daggers, hammers. Everything meticulously arranged. The table groaned under the weight.
"Albrecht… I assume you've finished your tasks if you're already standing idle," said the margrave, appearing behind me with that voice you could never quite tell if it was a joke or a warning.
"Of course, milord. I completed my duties as instructed," I replied instantly.
The margrave's attention turned to the table. His firm steps approached the arsenal, and he stopped beside the dwarf, silently inspecting the weapons.
"So this is what you brought me this time, dwarf. I suppose it's something much better than last time," said the margrave, his gaze sweeping over the crowded table.
"Ah, milord manling, about time you showed up. The best my forge can produce, as always," the dwarf replied, running his thick hands over the weapons like he was blessing his metal children.
The margrave turned to me and raised one of the pistols."I assume you've seen something like this before… only these are unmatched in quality. Only dwarfs can produce a piece so exquisite, worthy of my grand hunt," he said,
The dwarf crossed his arms and looked up at the margrave with an air of pride.
"Certainly," I said, examining the pistol under the light filtering through the branches. "The finish is flawless… I assume it was hand-worked, since there are no casting lines," I added, watching the pistol in the margrave's hands.
The margrave raised an eyebrow.
"And what do you know about firearms, Albrecht? They're expensive… I doubt your father ever bought one. He's always preferred his faithful greatsword," said the margrave.
"I've always wanted one," I replied, still focused on the weapon. "But as they say, they're expensive. And black powder is hard to come by," I said, turning to look at the arquebus.
The margrave let out a low chuckle.
"Oh, is that so… then tell me what you see," he said, handing me the pistol with a sarcastic gesture.
The dwarf frowned immediately. He grunted like someone being asked to hand over their firstborn.
I took the pistol carefully, feeling its balanced weight. I turned it respectfully, studying every detail.
"Rifled barrel…" I said, gently running a finger inside the muzzle. "The spiral grooves inside… they make the bullet spin when fired, giving it better accuracy, like an arrow. A difficult and time-consuming job if done by hand—everything suggests it was."
I looked at the dwarf. He no longer frowned. He was watching me with interest.
"The trigger is light, with almost no resistance. That means the internal mechanism is polished and well-assembled. The flintlock reacts nearly instantly, so the internal clockwork must be refined. No loose parts. Every piece forged and fitted by hand. Even the stock… black wood… I don't know what kind, but probably oiled with tallow and beeswax. A weapon made to last generations."
The margrave raised both eyebrows. The dwarf let out a soft grunt, like someone trying to hide how much they appreciated a compliment.
"Huh… didn't expect that… how come—" murmured the margrave.
"Nor did I," added the dwarf, now looking at me with a bit more respect. "Few manlings can recognize a good weapon when they hold one. Fewer still when they're just a human pup."
"Albrecht, go… help with the food… you're wasting time here," said the margrave, taking the pistol from my hands.
"As you command, milord," I replied, stepping away.
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