The yard was quiet except for the crunch of gravel under Daniel's shoes as he stepped into the open space behind the church. The air was cool, still carrying a trace of the night's chill. Gabriel stood in the center, stripped down to a simple white training tunic, a wooden practice sword in one hand and a round shield in the other.
"Take your stance," the priest said.
Daniel took the wooden sword Gabriel had left for him. It felt strange—balanced differently than anything he'd used in school sports.
Gabriel paced toward him, slow and deliberate. Daniel noticed it immediately—how his own heart seemed to steady just from being in the man's presence. The knot of nerves in his stomach loosened, replaced by a faint hum of focus, like someone had lit a candle behind his eyes.
"You're feeling it," Gabriel said. "The brand resonates with mine. When I lead, you will follow. That's how the Order fights as one."
Daniel didn't have time to answer—Gabriel moved.
The first strike was slow, almost casual, but Daniel's body tensed, an invisible whisper in his blood telling him to step back a fraction before the blade whistled past his nose.
"That," Gabriel said, "is your Guardian's Instinct. Trust it."
Daniel came forward, trying a simple thrust. Gabriel turned his wrist, batted it away, and stepped aside before Daniel could reset. The older man didn't just block—he knew where Daniel's foot would land before it touched the ground. Every feint Daniel tried died before it started.
"You're not reading me," Gabriel said between parries. "You're letting me read you. Stop thinking about the sword. Think about me."
Daniel tried again—faster this time. Two strikes in quick succession, a shield feint, then a low sweep. Gabriel's shield turned the sweep aside, and his sword tapped Daniel's ribs just hard enough to sting.
"Dead," Gabriel said simply.
They went again. And again. Every exchange ended the same—Gabriel untouched, Daniel struggling to land even a glancing blow.
At one point, Daniel lunged harder than before, forcing Gabriel back a step. For a moment, Daniel felt a rush of triumph—until Gabriel's voice cut through the space between them, sharp as a blade:
"Stop."
It wasn't a shout. It wasn't even loud. But Daniel's body froze mid-swing, heart stuttering. He realized, with a sudden chill, that if Gabriel had wanted to, he could have walked past him and into any crowd, and Daniel would have followed that voice without hesitation.
Gabriel lowered his practice sword. "That's the weight of command. You'll need to carry it yourself one day."
Daniel caught his breath. "Me?"
"Yes. Once you finish training, you'll be given charge of men. Not Templars. They trained, but their hearts were impure. They live normal lives until called to serve. They bear only a small mark—" Gabriel touched his own wrist, "—a tattoo here to signify allegiance."
Daniel frowned. "Why me?"
"Because when crisis comes, someone must lead them. And I would rather it be a man who once stood against his own to protect a child than someone who only obeys orders."
The weight of it settled in Daniel's chest—not crushing, but heavy enough to make him realize that the sparring was the easy part.
Gabriel stepped past him toward the rectory, tossing his practice sword to the ground. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we push harder."
Later that night, Gabriel sat alone in his office, the glow from the desk lamp pooling over a single piece of paper with Daniel's name written at the top. He picked up the phone, dialing without looking.
The line clicked.
"I expect that by the morning," Gabriel said, voice calm and cold, "I'll have good news."
On the other side, a man chuckled softly. "Worry not, Father. Those who have wronged the recruit will have their karma by the morning."
Gabriel hung up without another word.
The lamp's light caught the sword mounted on the wall, its steel glinting faintly in the dark.