The bandages had been removed, but some wounds still had neat stitches, and a few scars continued to ache in the morning cold. Lucan sat on the edge of the cot, spine straight, as the physician prodded at his side with fingers that smelled faintly of dried herbs and ink.
"You've not gone soft," the man muttered.
"I feel like wet bread," Lucan replied.
"Hm. Then you're healing fine."
Lucan grunted. "Don't suppose you had a healing mage tucked away in the cupboard this whole time?"
The physician scoffed. "Healing mages? What do you think this is, the royal court of Highstone?"
Lucan raised a brow.
"They exist, yes. But not like the stories. They don't wave their hands and patch holes in hearts. Most just slow bleeding, ease pain, and sometimes help a wound knit faster. Expensive, rare, and half of them don't even know what they're doing."
"So why don't we have one?"
"We?" He gave Lucan a sideways glance. "Emberkeep isn't that kind of place. A mage like that might serve a duke, maybe a capital temple if they're lucky. Not a lord with three villages and a town to his name."
Lucan smirked. "Didn't know you cared so much for the city's standing."
"I care about people asking me for miracles I can't give. Now hold still."
The old man pressed a thumb along a scar below Lucan's ribs. The boy winced, biting down a curse. Outside, the murmurs of morning activity carried in through the shutters. A pair of soldiers leaned against a stone wall not far below.
"Greenreach won't budge," one said. "Raised the price again. Lord Emberlily's near out of patience to negotiate."
"Bastards know we're stretched thin," the other replied. "Word is he's called for new trade lines. But roads east are crawling."
"Bandits?"
A pause.
"Or worse."
Lucan leaned slightly toward the window, but the conversation drifted away as the men moved on.
The physician stood and wiped his hands on a cloth. He hesitated, then placed one hand on Lucan's shoulder, not heavy, just firm.
"I'm done with you. I wish you good fortune, boy."
Lucan looked up at him. "Thanks. For the company. Three weeks is a long time to sit with nothing but pain and silence."
The old man gave a rare, almost-smile. "You talk enough for two men. It wasn't silent."
As he walked off, the door creaked open. A soldier leaned against the frame, he was lean, bearded, with the kind of relaxed posture that came from confidence in himself.
"Morning, Lucan. You've recovered, so that means you're ours now."
Lucan stood slowly, stretching sore muscles. "I'm nervous," he admitted.
"Good. You should be. Means you'll be careful. Want advice?"
Lucan nodded.
"Keep your back straight, your mouth shut, and never try to outstare the captain. He eats lads like you before breakfast."
"That's comforting."
They walked through the keep's halls, Lucan trailing close behind, throwing questions like stones. Finally, the soldier stopped and turned, exasperated.
"Gods, enough. You might not know how to kill with a sword yet, but damn do your words sting."
The soldier stopped before a doorway with some light coming through, he grinned and motioned him forward. Together, they stepped into the outer courtyard. The sun hadn't climbed high yet, and the air still carried the bite of dew.
Captain Thorne stood in the center, arms crossed, gaze fixed like a drawn arrow. He wasn't speaking. He was waiting.
He looked different this morning. No dry wit. No half-scowl. Just focused, Lucan used to look like this before a tournament.
Lucan swallowed hard.
"You're late," Thorne said.
Lucan glanced at the sun. "Only by a-"
"You're late," Thorne repeated. "That's all that matters."
Lucan shut his mouth.
The soldier who brought him clapped him on the back and whispered, "Try not to throw up. He hates that."
Then he left.
Thorne didn't move. He just studied Lucan the way someone might size up a tool before deciding if it was worth sharpening. "You walk straight," he said finally. "That's a good start."
"I've been recovering," Lucan said. "Three weeks."
Thorne raised an eyebrow. "And what did recovery teach you?"
"That I hate lying in bed."
Thorne almost smiled, or maybe it was a twitch.
"Good," he said. "Because you'll hate this more."
He tossed something. Lucan caught it awkwardly, a wooden sword, heavier than it looked and slightly off-balance. Thorne walked a slow circle around him.
"We start simple," he said. "No blade work yet. Just your body. You learn that, and the sword follows."
He stopped in front of Lucan and jabbed two fingers toward his feet. "Widen your stance. No, not that wide. Are you planning to give birth? Bring it in. There."
Lucan adjusted, knees slightly bent. Thorne nodded.
"That's your root. All movement begins here. Shift wrong, stumble, and a blade finds your neck."
Lucan tried to hold the stance, but his thighs started to burn in less than a minute.
"Hurt?" Thorne asked.
Lucan gritted his teeth. "A bit."
"Good. That means you're doing it right."
He barked the first drill. "Forward. Back. Right. Left." Lucan obeyed, stepping awkwardly at first, the wooden sword bumping against his hip. Thorne stopped him every few seconds.
"Don't cross your feet."
"Too slow."
"You're dragging your leg like a corpse. Are you trying to get sympathy? You won't get anything from me, boy."
Lucan flushed and moved faster.
After fifteen minutes of that, he was panting, arms aching just from holding the sword steady.
Thorne finally let him stop. "Now strike. Just air. Diagonal. Top right to bottom left."
Lucan swung. The motion was clumsy, too much shoulder, not enough hips.
"Again," Thorne said. "But this time, don't aim to scare a leaf."
Lucan swung again. And again. Thirty times. Then fifty.
His arm started to shake.
"Better," Thorne said. "Your arms are not ropes. Cut like you mean it."
"I thought we weren't using real blades," Lucan muttered.
Thorne gave a dry look. "I'm giving you habits. Good ones don't care what weapon's in your hand."
Then he tossed a pebble at Lucan's face. Lucan flinched, barely blocking it with his forearm.
"Reflexes are pathetic," Thorne said. "We'll fix that."
Lucan let out a breath and wiped sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his tunic.
"Any questions?"
Lucan, half-joking, raised a hand. "Yeah. When do I learn how to actually stab someone?"
Thorne stepped closer. "You'll learn that the day I think you won't get stabbed first."
Lucan laughed, then realized Thorne wasn't joking.
"Now," Thorne said, stepping back. "Ten laps around the courtyard. You don't run, you repeat the stance drills until dusk."
Lucan stared at him, jaw slack. "Isn't the first day supposed to be more lax?"
"Move."
He moved.
Thorne set a brutal pace. They ran through the lower courtyard, along the perimeter of the training fields, past the crumbling stone fence, and back around to the start. Again and again.
Lucan's legs turned to lead by the second lap. By the fourth, his breaths came in ragged gasps. His vision blurred at the edges.
"Keep moving," Thorne called from behind. "Half of battle is not dying while you're tired."
Lucan couldn't answer. He was too focused on staying upright.
By the sixth lap, something gave way. Not in his mind but in his stomach.
His steps staggered. He stumbled to the side of the field, leaned over, and retched. A horrible noise escaped from deep inside him, and then breakfast came up in a hot, sour rush.
A couple of soldiers resting by the stone wall burst out laughing.
"Thought he could hold out," one said.
"You owe me a silver," the other replied.
Lucan wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He glanced up and saw Thorne watching.
The captain didn't smile or laugh. He just gave a short nod.
"Good. Now your body knows its limits. Next time, it'll do better."
Lucan blinked. "Next time?"
"Tomorrow. Before dawn."
Lucan groaned and slumped against the wall, the taste of bile still on his tongue, the smell not helping either.
So this was real training.