Chapter 8: The War Hero's Promise – baby steps
I led Eledy through the manor's corridors toward the west wing. Our footsteps echoed against marble, then changed timber as we crossed into the older section—the part built for function, not beauty.
The air shifted. Warmer. Carrying the scent of leather, steel, and sweat. The smell of soldiers.
We emerged into the backyard training complex.
The sun hung in the east, painting the grounds with its yellowish glow. The warmth was perfect for a fight—steady, balanced. But I'm not here to fight today. Just teach my child how to hold a sword.
I glanced at Eledy beside me, her small frame seeming even smaller against the vast courtyard ahead.
The space opened wide—a massive courtyard ringed by practical structures. Storage buildings, barracks, kitchen quarters where smoke rose from chimneys. And in the center, my knights and new trainees. Two hundred bodies moved in synchronized formation, all in training whites, all following commands barked by my head knight.
Lloyd Ribber stood at the formation's edge, his scarred face turned toward the trainees, his voice carrying across the yard with that battlefield authority I'd trained into him years ago. "Hold that stance! Weight on your front foot!"
Seven women from his elite knight squad moved through the ranks—correcting grips, adjusting stances, demonstrating proper form. Their movements were efficient, practiced. They weren't decorative soldiers. They were some of my best.
The morning sun caught on practice blades. Dust rose with every stamping step. The rhythm of training filled the air—the ground thundering back in answer to the warriors' might, the sound that once defined my entire world.
Lloyd's gaze snapped toward us. His eyes widened a fraction before he caught himself. I signaled him to clear the ground.
"HALT!" His command cut through the noise like a blade.
Two hundred soldiers froze mid-movement. As one, they turned toward us.
"ATTENTION!"
Fists struck chests in perfect unison. The salute echoed across the courtyard like a single heartbeat of absolute devotion.
Eledy's breath caught beside me. Her eyes went wide.
I nodded acknowledgment, and Lloyd barked the next order. "Everyone! Lap run around the mansion—five rounds! Take the morning off. We'll resume training this afternoon. MOVE!"
The formation broke with disciplined efficiency. Boots hit dirt in rhythmic patterns as the trainees began their run, their steps fading as they rounded toward the front grounds.
Lloyd strode toward us, his movements crisp. One of the elite women followed half a step behind—tall, lean, dark hair pulled back in a severe braid. Her uniform bore the marks of someone who had earned her position through blood and sweat, not politics. Scars traced along her exposed forearms. Her stance was balanced, ready, even at rest.
They stopped three paces away. Fists to chests.
But before I could return the salute, Eledy's voice rang out beside me.
"Ledia!"
Enthusiastic. Bright. Completely unguarded.
My head snapped toward my daughter. Her face had lit up with genuine recognition, her eyes fixed on the female knight with something I hadn't seen in months. Relief, maybe. Joy.
Ledia blinked in surprise, her salute faltering for just a moment. Her stern expression softened fractionally, and warmth crept into her posture.
I looked between them. "You know her?"
Eledy hesitated. Just for a heartbeat. Her enthusiasm dimmed as she realized she'd revealed something unexpected. Then the words tumbled out—careful but rushed.
"I heard we had a female knight. A kind and well-named one." She spoke quickly, earnestly. "So I was curious and... saw her from time to time. From the windows."
She gestured toward the manor—toward her window. The one that overlooked this ground.
From the windows.
My daughter had been watching the training ground. Watching my soldiers train. How long had she been standing at that window while I buried myself in ledgers and politics, thinking she was alone and adrift?
I couldn't do anything before, when she was alone—only the maids and the view outside her window for company. Not anymore. She mattered more than anything in this world.
Eledy's hand tightened at her side, just slightly—as if she'd felt the thought. My eyes followed her gaze, and I became aware of Ledia's patient stare, waiting.
Ledia's lips curved into something that could've been a smile on a less disciplined face. "Then that makes sense, my lady."
Her voice was warm. Warmer than I'd expected from one of Lloyd's elite—women known for being harder than the men, twice as disciplined, and uncompromising in combat. There was understanding there, something unspoken passing between them.
She's been looking for someone. A path she could follow.
The realization settled quietly into place, like a puzzle piece I should have seen months ago.
Lloyd shifted his weight, clearly waiting for orders. Waiting for me to explain why the Count had brought his daughter to the training ground this morning.
I leaned closer to whisper into his ear. "Did you ever train a child? I'll be training her myself, but I may need support."
My voice carried. Perfectly. Across the quiet morning air.
All three pairs of eyes landed on me.
Damn it.
I straightened, clearing my throat. "My daughter has asked to learn swordsmanship. I've agreed to teach her personally, but..." I glanced at Eledy, then back to Lloyd and Ledia. "I've trained soldiers. Veterans. Men who'd already seen battle. But I've never trained a child. Especially not my own."
Lloyd's face went carefully blank—that expression soldiers use when they're desperately trying not to show panic. He scratched the back of his neck, buying time. "I... haven't either, sir. I've trained the elite squad and regular soldiers, but never someone so young."
His gaze flickered to Eledy, then away.
Silence stretched.
Then Lloyd's eyes brightened—the look of a man who'd just found salvation. "But my wife—" He caught himself, clearing his throat. "Ahem—Knight Ledia trains our son. Every day. Good fundamentals for when he's old enough to serve our county properly." He gestured toward Ledia with barely concealed relief. "She can help you with this, sir."
Then he actually stepped back, as if physical distance could remove responsibility.
Ledia's expression promised he'd hear about this later. But when she turned to me, her face smoothed into calm professionalism.
"I would be honored to assist, my lord." Her voice carried steady confidence. She looked at Eledy—not down at her, but eye to eye. Assessing. Recognition flickered across her features. Approval.
She turned back to me. "The young lady is still growing, my lord. We must be delicate with her training at first." Her tone was instructional, practical. "Today should focus on basics—light stretches to warm the muscles, familiarizing her with a wooden practice sword. Proper grip. Basic swings. Footwork fundamentals."
She paused. "A balanced diet and conditioning exercises will be essential as well. Nothing too strenuous—just building her foundation."
I nodded, absorbing the information. This made sense. This was manageable.
"I'll join you both tomorrow morning, my lord. We can establish a proper training regimen then."
She saluted—fist to chest, crisp and precise. Lloyd did the same, relief visible in every line of his body.
"Thank you, Knight Ledia." I returned the salute.
They turned to leave, Lloyd's steps perhaps faster than necessary, Ledia following with a look that promised retribution later.
And then it was just us.
Father and daughter.
Standing at the edge of a training ground that suddenly felt much larger than it had moments ago.
I looked down at Eledy. Her eyes were wide, fixed on me with an expression caught between hope and fear.
"Well then." I tried to sound more confident than I felt. "Shall we begin?"
She nodded once. Small. Determined.
Together, we stepped onto the training ground.
I started her with the basics Ledia had outlined. Simple stretches—nothing strenuous. Arm circles. Shoulder rolls. Leg stretches to loosen the muscles.
"Just like this," I demonstrated, rolling my shoulders back. "We need to warm your body before we touch a sword."
Eledy mimicked the movements carefully. Too carefully. Each motion deliberate, measured, as if she was testing something. Her eyes flickered down to her own arms as she raised them, watching them move like they belonged to someone else.
It reminded me of soldiers trying new armor for the first time—that cautious awareness of unfamiliar weight and restriction. Except Eledy wore no armor. Just her dress.
She was testing her own body.
I frowned, watching her stretch her arms overhead. The movement was slow, experimental. She held the position for a moment, then lowered her arms with the same careful attention, as if cataloging every sensation.
When had she last moved like this? When had she last used her body for anything more than walking between rooms?
The thought settled uncomfortably in my chest. My daughter didn't know her own limits because she'd never tested them. She'd been so still, so quiet in her grief, that even simple movement had become foreign to her.
"Good," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Now let's try some basic footwork. Just stepping forward and back. Find your balance."
She stepped forward. The movement should have been easy for someone her age, but she wobbled slightly. She caught herself, brow furrowed in concentration—not frustration, but focus. Pure focus. Like she was solving a puzzle with her own limbs.
I realized it wasn't weakness. Maybe it was unfamiliarity. Sheltered. Untouched by training or discipline.
After the warm-up, I retrieved two wooden practice swords from the equipment rack. I handed her the lighter one, watching her fingers wrap around the grip.
"Hold it like this." I adjusted her hand position. "Firm, but not tight. The sword should feel like an extension of your arm, not a weight you're carrying."
She nodded, her eyes fixed on the wooden blade. Then she lifted it. Slowly. Testing the weight. She moved it through the air in a small arc—not a swing, just... exploring. Feeling how it moved. How her arm moved with it.
That same strange carefulness. That same experimental quality.
"Now, we'll start with a basic downward swing." I demonstrated—a simple vertical cut through the air. "Don't use force yet. Just let the weight of the sword do the work. Feel the motion."
Eledy raised the practice sword overhead. Paused. Then brought it down in a careful, controlled arc.
The movement was awkward. Unpracticed. But it wasn't hesitant.
She was testing. Learning. Cataloging every sensation like a soldier familiarizing themselves with new equipment.
Except the equipment was her own body.
And somehow, that felt wrong. Deeply wrong.
The day progressed. We ran through the basic swings again and again—downward cuts, horizontal slashes, diagonal strikes. Eledy's movements grew steadier with each repetition, her body slowly remembering the rhythm. Or learning it. I couldn't tell which.
The sun climbed higher. Sweat beaded on her forehead. But she didn't complain. Didn't ask to stop.
"Again," I said, and she raised the practice sword.
This time, she added something new—a small pivot of her hips as she swung. More momentum. More natural. Where had that come from?
"Good. That's—"
She spun.
Not a full rotation, just a quick turn on her heel—testing the movement, seeing how her body responded to the shift in weight and direction.
But something went wrong.
Eledy's hand flew to her head. She stumbled, dropping to one knee. The wooden sword landed on the ground like a crutch in her right hand, bracing her, while her left clutched at her temple.
"Eledy!" I was beside her in an instant, one hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"
She didn't answer immediately. Just knelt there, breathing hard, one hand pressed against her head, the other still gripping the practice sword like she was afraid to let it go.
"I—" Her voice came out strained. "I'm fine. Just... dizzy."
Dizzy. From a simple turn.
I looked at her—really looked. The paleness of her face. The slight tremor in her hand. The way her chest rose and fell with effort.
Too much. Too fast. Of course she was dizzy. She'd been pushing herself this entire time, testing limits she didn't know she had.
"That's enough for today." My voice came out firmer than I intended. Not harsh. Protective.
"But we—"
"We'll continue tomorrow." I kept my hand on her shoulder, steady. Grounding. "Ledia said to take it slowly. And she was right. You did well today, Eledy. Very well. But your body needs rest."
She looked up at me, that same expression from earlier—caught between hope and something else I couldn't name. Then, slowly, she nodded.
"Tomorrow, then," she said quietly.
"Tomorrow," I agreed.
I helped her to her feet, and together we walked back toward the manor. The wooden practice sword still in her hand. She didn't let it go.
Not even when we reached the door.
***