The practice yard of Lockhart Keep woke before the sun did.
Frost still crusted the sand when William hit it, palms down, arms straight, breath white in the cold.
"Ninety-nine... one hundred."
He pushed off the ground, rolled his shoulders, and went straight into sit-ups. The stone wall of the yard loomed above him, banners hanging limp in the dawn stillness—white field, gold half-sun, crossed blades. House Lockhart. House of Light.
William counted under his breath, abs burning.
"...ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred."
He sat up and stayed there, hands braced behind him, lungs drawing in sharp, clean air. The keep was quiet at this hour. Kitchen smoke just starting. Armourers yawning awake. No nobles yet. No tutors.
Just the thud of his heart and the little, ridiculous hope that maybe this would be the morning.
He held out his right hand.
Come on. Just a flicker. One spark. Anything.
He focused, the way the priest-instructors had taught him. Breathe steady. Spine straight. Will gathered, shaped, pushed toward his palm.
Nothing happened.
No warm surge. No shimmer. No halo of Light Muti bleeding from his skin the way it did in the cathedral paintings.
His hand stayed what it was—a calloused sixteen-year-old hand, a little red from the cold.
He sighed, scrubbed it over his face, and got to his feet.
"Fine. Then we do it the hard way."
He crossed to the rack and pulled down a practice sword. Real steel, dulled edge, heavy enough to matter. When he'd first started at ten, it had dragged his arm down. Now it moved with him like an extension of his will.
He set his feet. Exhaled.
Cut.
The blade whispered through the air in a clean diagonal. He reversed, came up from the hip, pivoted, thrust, step, draw, guard—movement flowing into movement. No aura, no elemental flare, just muscle memory and Martial Muti drilled until his body felt like a coiled spring.
He imagined opponents on all sides—Germanian legionaries, armored and grim. He saw their spears, their guns, their heavy boots on mud. He saw cavalry charges breaking against shield walls, falling back.
He saw himself in that line. Not as a banner of light. Not as some holy figure with a glowing sword.
Just as a knight who did not break.
His sword hammered the last cut home with a satisfying thunk as he halted, tip hovering a breath from the wooden dummy's throat.
A slow clap drifted across the yard.
"Well, well. The Unlit Heir is at it early."
William turned, chest still rising and falling, to see Aldric Roses leaning in the gateway, cloak wrapped tight against the cold. The Roses heir always managed to look like he'd rolled out of bed into perfect dishevelment—red hair tousled just enough, scarf artfully loose.
"Morning to you too," William said, lowering his blade. "The yard's open, you know. You could train instead of standing there freezing and making comments."
Aldric sauntered in, wooden practice sword bouncing against his hip. "I am training. I'm studying this rare beast—what do they call it?—Ah yes. A noble who wakes up before noon voluntarily."
He squinted. "Tell me, cousin, is it true? Do your kind subsist only on discipline and self-loathing?"
William snorted despite himself. "Says the one whose father is already telling the court you've awakened Fire Muti."
Aldric's smile faltered for a heartbeat, just a flicker. "A few sparks. Party tricks. Nothing worth singing about yet."
"Still more than I've got," William muttered.
Aldric heard, of course. He had a talent for hearing the things you hoped he'd ignore. His gaze softened for half a breath, then sharpened again as he straightened and swung his wooden sword free.
"Come on, then. Before the tutors drag us into etiquette drills. First to three touches?"
William's arm still hummed from his solo drills, but he nodded. "You'll complain I'm cheating. You always do when you lose."
"Oh? The empty crest speaks boldly today." Aldric took his place on the opposite side of the yard. "Let's see if that mouth moves as fast as your feet."
They bowed—deep enough for form, shallow enough to keep it from feeling like a ceremony.
"Begin," William said.
Aldric moved first, as always. He fought like a bonfire—bright, forward, burning. He closed the distance in three long strides, sword coming in at a high overhead chop that would break a shield if it landed.
William didn't meet it head-on. He stepped off the line, blade angling to catch and divert, using Aldric's own momentum to pull him past.
Steel rang dully on steel. Aldric's strike glanced off, leaving his side open. William snapped his pommel into the opening. Tap.
"Point," he said.
Aldric hissed through his teeth and pivoted, eyes lighting—not with real fire, not yet, but with that Rose's heat. "Lucky."
They reset. This time, Aldric feinted low, then whipped his blade up. William saw the trick half a heartbeat before it landed and slid in, catching the original feint instead of the follow-up, binding their swords.
For a breath, they were close—too close for full swings, shoulders brushing. Aldric grinned, all teeth. "Got you."
He drove his forehead toward William's nose.
William jerked his head aside, laughed, and swept his leg across Aldric's ankle instead. The roses heir yelped as he lost balance, stumbling just enough for William to tap his chest with the flat of his blade.
"Two," William said.
Aldric lay there for a moment, staring at the sky. Then he started laughing. "You absolute bastard."
"I train in the mornings," William said, offering a hand. "You pose in them."
Aldric took the hand, let himself be pulled up, and didn't let go. He leaned in, eyes flicking over William's shoulder toward the main gate.
"Speaking of posing," he murmured. "You should probably look noble. You have an audience."
William turned.
The main door from the keep's interior had opened. A line of servants poured out, followed by a flicker of silk and gold.
Ladies of the court, wrapped in winter finery. A cluster of minor nobles. Then, at their center, two figures William couldn't pretend not to recognize.
His father, Lord Lockhart—armor only half fastened, cloak thrown over one shoulder, expression caught between tired and sharpened.
And beside him, walking with the unhurried grace of someone who knew the world would simply arrange itself around her, was Princess Elizabeth Maximilian.
His fiancée.
William's stomach did something unhelpful.
She was not in some blinding ball gown. Just a travel cloak over a simple but well-cut dress, hair braided back in a crown. Her features were softer than the paintings in Albion's cathedral made them—less saint, more girl—but the Maximilian eyes were the same: sharp, clear, measuring.
The yard went still as they approached. Cadets scrambled to stand straighter. A few dropped whatever they were doing entirely.
William and Aldric snapped into formal bows.
"Rise," Lord Lockhart said, voice carrying easily across the yard.
William straightened, doing his best not to look like he'd just been doing sweeps with his leg and laughing like a stablehand. His heart beat a little faster—not because of the princess, he told himself, but because she brought the weight of everything with her. The Crown. The war. The future everyone spoke of when they looked at him.
"Your Highness," he said, remembering his etiquette drills. "Welcome to Lockhart Keep."
Her gaze slid over him—sword calluses, sweat-damp shirt, hair tied back messily. Something flickered in her eyes; amusement? Disapproval? He couldn't tell.
"Thank you, Lord William," she said, voice even. "I hope I am not interrupting your... morning ritual."
"Just drills," he said. "I try to stay ahead of Master Harrow's expectations."
"An impossible task," Lord Lockhart muttered under his breath. A few of the nearby cadets smothered smiles.
Princess Elizabeth tilted her head, looking past him at the practice dummies, the racks of weapons, the scarred walls.
"They say you're quite advanced in Martial Muti for your age," she said. Not accusing. Not praising. Just stating what she'd heard.
"I work hard, Your Highness," William said, suddenly very aware of the silence around them. "It's... the one thing I know I can offer."
The unspoken part hung between them: because he had nothing else.
No Light. No fire. No crest of holy aura to wave over battlefields.
Her gaze sharpened for just a moment, as if she heard what he didn't say. Then she looked away, back to Lord Lockhart.
"Shall we?" she asked.
He bowed. "Of course. William, when you're finished here, report to my study."
"Yes, Father."
The princess and her small entourage moved on toward the inner grounds. Voices rose again in their wake, low and buzzing.
Aldric elbowed William lightly. "Well, that wasn't awkward at all."
"Shut up," William muttered, eyes following the faint sway of the princess's cloak until the gate swallowed her.
"Honestly, she looked more annoyed to be here than you did," Aldric said. "You'd think being betrothed to the Unlit Heir would light a spark under anyone."
William winced. "Can you not call me that to my face?"
"What, Unlit? Better than 'Empty Crest.' Or my personal favorite, 'House Lockhart's Decorative Sword Stand.'"
"I hate you."
"You love me." Aldric slung an arm over his shoulder, ignoring the sweat. "Come on. If your father's calling, it's either a scolding or a commission. Either way, you'll need food."
⸻
Lord Lockhart's study smelled of old paper, oiled steel, and smoke from the ever-burning brazier in the corner. Maps lined the walls—Holy River, Britannia Valley, the jagged line where Germania pressed like a bruise.
William stood before his father's desk, hands clasped behind his back, trying not to stare at the seal lying in the center: the Maximilian sun, pressed in red wax on thick parchment.
His father tapped the parchment once with a finger. "Do you know what this is?"
"The... engagement contract, my lord," William said carefully.
"'My lord,'" his father echoed, faintly amused. "You only call me that when you're worried."
"I'm sixteen," William said. "You're always telling me I don't worry enough."
"Fair." Lord Lockhart leaned back, study chair creaking. "Yes. It's the contract. The Crown has decided it is time to make things... formal."
William's shoulders tensed.
"It was already decided when I was twelve," he said. "They just didn't bother to ask me then, either."
Something flickered in his father's eyes—not quite guilt, but close kin.
"You are a Lockhart," he said quietly. "We do not get to marry for love, Will. We marry for the realm."
"I know," William replied. He did know. He'd had it drilled into him alongside sword forms and map-reading. Lockharts married to strengthen fronts, seal alliances, stabilize faith in the Crown's Light.
Still.
He pictured the princess again—cool, distant, a stranger wrapped in duty. He pictured himself at her side in ten years, wearing the white cloak of the Holy Army, not because he'd earned it in battle, but because ink on parchment said it would look good.
His stomach twisted.
"I don't even know her," he said. "We've spoken twice outside of ceremonies. I spilled wine on her shoes when I was nine."
"She remembers," his father said dryly. "She mentioned it this morning."
William groaned. "Perfect."
Lord Lockhart's expression softened, the stern Lord replaced for a moment by the man who'd picked William up when he fell off his first pony.
"I won't pretend this is fair," he said. "But it is the world we live in. Your lack of... demonstrated affinity has made some of the court uneasy."
"Some?" William asked, bitterness edging his voice. "Yesterday, Aunt Cecilia told me the only reason the contract is holding is because the King still thinks I might 'ignite' in time. Like I'm a faulty candle."
His father's jaw tightened. "Cecilia forgets that words reach ears. I will speak with her."
"She's not wrong," William said. "I've failed every Light test the priests have put me through. No flare. No halo. Not even a decent glow. I'm Lockhart born, but I can't even light a prayer candle with my soul."
"You have strength," his father said. "Speed. Discipline. Your Martial Muti is at least two years ahead of your peers. You ride better than knights twice your age. Those things are not... nothing."
"Tell that to the nobles who call me 'Unlit' when they think I can't hear," William said. "Tell that to the men at the front who want the next King's Light on their side, not some brat with good form and a pretty surname."
Silence hung for a moment, heavy as armor.
"That is exactly what I intend," Lord Lockhart said at last. He pushed another parchment across the desk.
This seal bore a different mark: the Holy Army's sigil—sword and sun intertwined.
William's annoyance drained, replaced by a prickle of anticipation.
"What's that?" he asked.
"A summons," his father said. "The War Office is sending a small detachment to the Western Marches. A string of villages near Ashford-on-Lea have reported increased raider activity. Bandits, probably. Possibly Germanian scouts testing boundaries. They want a Lockhart representative to accompany the unit as an observer. Show the flag, reassure the locals, send back a nice letter about how well the army is doing."
Observer.
The word landed with a mix of thrill and insult.
"You're sending me," William said, heartbeat picking up.
"I'm sending you," his father confirmed. "As a junior officer candidate in training. You'll travel, march, drill with them, *observe* what war looks like at ground level. No heroics. No charging alone into enemy lines. You hear me?"
"Yes," William said, too fast.
Lord Lockhart's eyes narrowed. "Say it like you mean it."
William hesitated. The truth buzzed under his tongue like a trapped hornet: If someone is in danger, I'm not staying behind a banner.
"Father," he said carefully. "If villagers are being attacked—"
"The colonel in charge is a veteran," Lord Lockhart cut in. "He has been fighting at the Holy River for ten years. He will not need you to correct his tactics. Your job is to learn and to keep yourself alive. That is not cowardice; it is investment. The realm cannot afford to waste potential officers on their first patrol."
"I don't want to be an 'investment,'" William muttered. "I want to be a knight."
His father's gaze sharpened again. "Then watch how real knights behave when it's not a parade. See how often 'glory' looks like holding a line in the rain while farmers run for cover."
He stood, coming around the desk to put a hand on William's shoulder.
"Listen to me," he said, voice lower. "They will whisper about your lack of Light. They will judge you for what you cannot do rather than what you can. But out there—" he nodded toward the window, where Albion's white towers pierced the sky "—cold steel, a steady shield, and a rider who does not break when the enemy screams matter more than what color your aura is. Prove yourself there, and the whispers will soften."
"And if I fail?" William asked quietly.
His father squeezed his shoulder.
"Then you come home alive," he said. "We adjust. We try again. Falling short once doesn't make you useless. Hiding in the keep because you might fall short."
William looked down at the War Office seal. His pulse thudded in his ears.
Western Marches. Ashford-on-Lea. Real villages. Real people. Real danger.
Not a painting. Not a story told over wine.
"I'll go," he said. "I'll observe. I'll... try not to be stupid."
"That's all I can ask," Lord Lockhart said, releasing him. "You leave in three days. Harrow will adjust your training. And Will—"
"Yes?"
His father's expression softened just a fraction.
"Whatever the priests say," he murmured, "you're not broken. Affinity can come late. Or not at all. Light or no Light, you are still my son. You still carry Lockhart steel. Don't let them make you forget that."
Heat pricked at William's eyes before he could stop it. He bowed, deeper than form required.
"I won't," he said.
"Good. Now go tell Aldric he's not invited. If he sulks at court instead of getting himself killed in the Marches, I might sleep one night this week."
⸻
The next three days blurred.
Sword drills doubled. Harrow had him running the walls in full training armor until his legs felt like they'd been replaced with lead. Horseback practice extended from neat courtyard circles to rough sprints along the muddy outer fields.
"Keep your seat!" Harrow bellowed as William's gelding bounded over a low stone wall. "You fall off in the Marches and I'll have your hide on my door!"
By night, etiquette tutors drilled him in how to bow to village elders without looking condescending, how to speak on behalf of House Lockhart without promising more grain or troops than the War Office would ever send.
"Smile," the tutor said, jabbing William in the cheek with a fan. "You're there to reassure, not terrify. You are the calm in the storm, not the storm itself."
"I'm sixteen," William grumbled. "I am the storm."
"Then learn to wear a roof once in a while."
Between all of that, the engagement sat like a stone in his stomach.
Servants whispered about "Her Highness's visit." Aunt Cecilia fussed with his formal cloak every time he so much as crossed a hall. Noble relatives started offering him thin smiles that felt like they'd come out of storage for the occasion.
On the second night, he found himself wandering the corridors late, unable to sleep. His feet, unhelpfully, took him toward the guest wing where the Maximilians were housed.
He stopped at the corner instead of turning it.
Voices drifted from down the hall.
"...he's... different than I expected," a girl's voice said. Elizabeth's. "He trains too hard for someone who is supposed to be a symbol."
"And that is a problem?" another voice asked—older, amused. Probably her attendant.
"It is... inconvenient," Elizabeth said. "The court whispers already about his lack of Light. If he breaks his neck in the Marches trying to compensate, the alliance becomes... complicated."
William pressed his back to the wall, feeling equal parts offended and embarrassed.
"I don't want him to die," the princess added, softer. "I just wish... I wish this had been my choice. Or his."
The attendant hummed. "Very few of us get choices these days. War eats them first."
Their footsteps moved further away. A door clicked shut.
William stayed where he was for a long moment, staring at the opposite wall.
She doesn't want it either.
For some reason, that made it worse and better at the same time.
"Fine," he whispered to himself. "You don't want me to die? I can work with that."
He turned and headed for the yard again. Sleep could wait. Push-ups couldn't.