The next morning opened under frost.
The manor's courtyard shimmered with a pale glow, the sand frozen solid, the training dummies dusted with a fine layer of ice. Every breath, from horse or man, rose in ghostly plumes. It was still dark when Caelum arrived — bow on his back, gloves stiff with yesterday's sweat.
Sir Barion was already waiting.
No greeting, no questions. Just a curt nod toward the weapon racks.
"Take a practice sword," he said.
Caelum obeyed with barely a moment's hesitation. The weapon was heavier than expected. Poorly balanced. Built to punish mistakes.
Barion nodded toward the training circle.
"You'll be with the others today."
Caelum stepped into the circle, surrounded by half a dozen soldiers in varied armor. All bore the green and silver crest of House Yllar — a maned wolf, roaring eastward, flanked by two inverted crescent moons. The deep green evoked the northern woods, and the silver gleamed like moonlit frost. A sigil of ferocity, silence... and waiting. Some were barely older than him — arrogant squires. Others were scarred veterans with eyes that refused to smile.
They all looked at him the same way:Like a joke no one had bothered to tell.
A tall man with a crooked nose sneered.
"That's the stable boy the captain took under his wing?"
A younger one added, "His arms look like wet ropes. Don't tug too hard, he might snap."
Caelum didn't answer. He met each gaze in silence. Let them laugh. Let them spit. He wasn't here for them. He was here to stand.
The first exercise was stances — foot placement, balance, rotations. Barion barked commands like hammer strikes.
For the others, it was second nature. For Caelum, a storm. His body knew movement — but not this one. Hunting had taught him to walk quietly, to draw, to vanish. Not to strike. Not to parry. Each blow jarred his shoulders. Each block rattled his wrists.
He fell. Twice. The third time, someone laughed.
"Sure you're not here to sweep the courtyard instead?"
Barion said nothing. He didn't defend him. He watched. And that was worse.
But Caelum stood again. This time, steadier.
Then came close combat. No rhythm. Just cold, muddy chaos.
His partner was the youngest guard — skinny, overconfident, chasing glory. Caelum barely raised his blade before the first blow slammed into his arm. He staggered back, stunned. The boy advanced, sword high, striking relentlessly.
"Don't blink, stable boy!"
Caelum parried as best he could. Dodged. Stumbled. But his movements weren't those of a swordsman. They were those of a survivor.
Then he slipped — a patch of ice beneath his boot. He fell hard. His sword rolled away.
The boy stepped forward, sure of himself. And froze.
Barion's voice cut the air — calm, flat, glacial:"If you drop your guard again, I'll send you patrolling the woods with a stick."
Silence fell. The young guard backed off, confused. Caelum rose — slower now, jaw clenched, shoulder throbbing.
Barion stepped into the circle. He looked at Caelum for a long moment.
"You're weak," he said. "Too thin. Your guard is sloppy. No reach."
Then, quieter:"But you don't quit."
He turned to the others."None of you will train with him again... until he earns it. He'll fight with me."
Murmurs spread. Caelum felt his stomach tighten.
But Barion simply gestured to the center."Pick up your weapon."
They fought. It wasn't a duel. It was a lesson — in pain and pressure.
Barion didn't strike at full force, but he didn't hold back either. Every move sought a weakness. Every angle tested a limit. He didn't aim to wound — he aimed to make Caelum learn.
Caelum fell seven times. But each time, he rose faster.
The eighth time, he blocked a clean strike. Barion paused. Hesitated. Then nodded."That's enough."
Later, arms trembling, Caelum returned his sword to the rack. His tunic was soaked. His lip split. His shoulder buzzed. But his back remained straight.
Barion was already speaking with another officer. He didn't look back. He didn't have to.
Caelum understood. No praise. No reward. But a place — now — in the circle.
That afternoon, while the others ate in the mess hall or gambled in the shade of the stables, Caelum returned alone to the training yard, his crude bow slung over his shoulder, misshapen arrows clutched to his side.
The sun was still high, but shadows stretched long across the stone tiles warmed by daylight. The air carried the scent of leather and churned sand. A few guards passed nearby, chatting in low tones. Squires moved lances into storage. No one stopped him. But everyone saw him.
He ignored their eyes.
He propped a worn-out straw target against the west wall — the one no one used anymore. Then he stepped back. Slowly. Counted his paces. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
He stopped. Drew an arrow. Nocked it. Pulled gently.
The first shot missed.The second struck the lower corner.The third… grazed the center.
That's when the System stirred.
Not through words. Not through stats. Through sensation.
A trace of instability in his left shoulder. A breath too short. A release too early on the string.
Adjust your hips. Let the string speak, not your force. See before you aim.
No instructions. Just deeper awareness. A presence — always there — between heartbeats.
Caelum listened. Adjusted. Repeated. Shot after shot.
Patrols passed behind him. A young guard paused, curious. A squire muttered something to another. There were chuckles — but quieter now. Less certain.
The stable boy didn't look like he was playing.
He continued. Arms sore. Fingers raw from the string. Sweat soaking his back. But he didn't stop.
Each arrow was a fight. Each impact — even off-center — a win.
The sun dipped lower, casting golden light across the silent yard. Guards returned to the mess. The stables quieted.
But he remained. Alone. Yet no longer invisible.
From the top of a tower overlooking the training yard, Baron Yllar spoke with Barion.
The wind stirred the folds of the baron's green cloak. His face, hard and weathered, stayed still as he watched Caelum — firing arrows one by one.
"He comes every day?" the baron asked, eyes never leaving the yard.
"Without fail," Barion replied. "Used to train only at dawn and dusk. Now, even after sword drills, he continues. Alone. Never complains."
The baron crossed his arms, squinting slightly.
"He's too frail to hold the line. Has neither the name nor the stature."
"And yet," Barion murmured, "he holds better than half your vassals' sons."
Silence.
Then the baron finally turned from the courtyard to face the knight.
"What are you looking for in him, Barion? That boy has no name, no coin."
"I'm not looking for anything," the commander said. "But sometimes, a man isn't born to carry a name. He's born to make one worth carrying."
The baron said nothing for a moment. Then looked down again — just as Caelum loosed another arrow. The shot flew — straight, quiet — striking the target dead-on.
"Watch him," Yllar said. "I want to know how far he means to go."
Barion nodded silently.
Below, Caelum released another arrow, breath short, gaze steady.He had no idea that at that moment, two men — silently — had marked the beginning of a path far greater than himself.