Lanser Castle did not welcome.
The ten-day journey—nauseating, nearly maddening in its monotony—had left him desperately craving a cigarette, the sole personal indulgence he permitted himself on the front lines, given his abstinence from alcohol.
The horse-drawn carriage continued its relentless progress, conveying Albert and Alena toward gates that appeared hewn directly from the mountain itself.
Black granite absorbed the ambient light, rendering the structure a colossal void carved into the mountainside. The piercing mountain wind howled through fissures in the stone, carrying sounds reminiscent of lamentations ascending from the earth's bowels.
In contrast to Castle Götthain—which radiated the tranquil permanence of an ancient oak—Lanser Castle was a cold, aggressive declaration of dominion. Every tower, every battlement, seemed to scream: Behold. Subjugate me, if you dare.
They were received in the inner courtyard by Earl Richard himself. He stood, supported by a staff of dark wood that appeared as weighty as a broadsword. His frame remained robust, shoulders broad, yet the manner in which he transferred his weight onto that cane betrayed constant, unyielding suffering.
"Albert vin Götterbaum," Earl Richard greeted, his voice deeper and more rasping than Albert had envisioned, reverberating across the stone-paved courtyard. "At long last, we meet. And my cherished daughter." His eyes—dark brown, keen as an eagle's—shifted to Alena. Within them resided something complex: pride, possession, and perhaps, a faint glimmer of tenderness buried beneath innumerable layers. "You have matured admirably."
"Father," Alena responded, executing a flawless curtsey. Yet Albert detected the rigidity in her spine. This was her home, yet simultaneously not. This was her father's fortress, not hers.
"My Lord Earl—forgive me, My Lord," Albert intoned, bowing with meticulous precision—neither excessively deep nor insufficiently so. "I extend my gratitude for the invitation and your gracious reception. Lanser Castle is truly awe-inspiring."
"It has stood here for three centuries," Richard replied, rotating his torso with visible exertion to contemplate his stronghold. "Endured three sieges, two conflagrations, and one earthquake. These stones have imbibed considerable blood." He turned back, a faint smile gracing his lips. "But such lessons are for another time. Let us proceed within. This mountain air will pulverize youthful bones such as yours."
The interior proved no more welcoming. The great hall stretched expansively, its ceiling soaring, adorned with faded tapestries and tarnished hunting trophies. The carpets were thick yet their colors had leached into somber neutrality. Wealth resided here, certainly—but it was ancient wealth, slightly neglected, like ceremonial garments long undisturbed in wardrobes.
And there were observers. Multitudes.
They materialized sequentially throughout the procession toward the Earl's private chambers. A crimson-haired man with pale blue eyes and a saccharine smile—introduced as "Your future cousin, Lord Cedric." A middle-aged woman with a jaw carved from granite and a gaze calibrated to measure worth—"Your future aunt, Lady Margot."
Two young individuals, perhaps future cousins upon his marriage to Alena, stationed themselves near the fireplace, whispering and emitting soft laughter as Albert passed. Their scrutiny followed his every movement, like wolves observing a stag venturing into their territory.
Albert recognized that particular appraisal. He had witnessed it previously—not upon the countenances of nobility, but in the eyes of starving mercenaries, in recruits who perceived him as competition for rations or dry bedding.
Eyes of assessment, hostility meticulously veiled beneath feudal courtesy. This was a new front line. Its battlefield was the drawing room, its weapons were words and insinuations, and his adversaries were her own family—or more precisely, his prospective family. Those who felt their positions threatened by his arrival.
"You must be utterly exhausted after such an arduous journey," Lady Margot observed, her tone honed to razor keenness. "The passage from Götthain… must have been so very… rural. I trust your horses encountered no insurmountable difficulties."
"Lancaster horses are renowned for their resilience, My Lady," Albert responded with studied politeness, a subtle smile curving his lips. "Much like their masters. The journey proved invigorating. It afforded abundant opportunity to contemplate the beauty of the hill country."
Cedric's grin widened. "Contemplation? Rather an unusual pastime for a youth of your years. I far prefer hunting or swordsmanship drills. Though I understand you possess no small measure of skill in that arena?"
A trap. An ostensibly innocuous inquiry, yet calibrated to diminish.
"Training cultivates discipline, My Lord," Albert answered, sampling the proffered wine. "It is beneficial to exercise both body and mind. Though you speak truly—there exists a particular satisfaction in feeling a properly balanced blade respond to one's grip." He deliberately employed technical terminology, steering the discourse toward neutral territory.
The conversation continued, saturated with subtle jabs and probing interrogations. They tested his knowledge of history, politics, even poetry. It was an exceptionally discomfiting initial encounter.
They inquired about Götthain with inflections that rendered it indistinguishable from a dilapidated hovel. Albert addressed each question with composure, precision, and complete emotional detachment. He was stone. They were waves, relentlessly attempting to erode him.
Alena sat beside him, silent. Yet Albert perceived her support within that stillness. She occasionally interjected supplementary information, invariably in a manner that buttressed Albert or deflected incoming attacks. She understood this terrain. She had been forged within it.
Repulsive. Yet this was the aristocracy's political theater.
***
That evening, following a tense and exhausting dinner, as Albert traversed the frigid corridors toward his lavishly appointed yet alien guest chamber, someone intercepted him.
The youth appeared to be his contemporary, perhaps a year his senior. Dark auburn hair, obsidian eyes, an athletic posture radiating arrogance. His tunic bore the Lancaster house colors, yet lacked meticulous finishing touches—garments intended for action rather than ostentation.
"You're Albert," he stated. Not an inquiry.
"And you are…?" Albert inquired, halting.
"Roland. Roland vin Lancaster. Alena's second cousin." He advanced. "I've absorbed considerable discourse regarding you. 'The prodigious youth of Götthain.' 'The creator of black steel.'" Derision saturated his intonation.
"Rumors are frequently hyperbolic," Albert replied, attempting to circumvent him.
Roland blocked his path once more. "I've also learned you possess considerable aptitude with the blade. Even that irascible Sir Gregor, it's said, has praised you."
Albert met his gaze. Roland was not seeking conversation. He sought confrontation. Within his eyes, Albert discerned youthful hubris, envy, and an urgent need for self-validation. This was precarious. This was the species of adversary governed not by rationality but by ego.
"Sir Gregor is an exemplary mentor. I am profoundly indebted to him," Albert stated, maintaining his composure.
"An exemplary mentor deserves an exemplary pupil," Roland challenged, his smile now possessing a venomous quality. "Shall we test that proposition? Tomorrow morning. The training yard. Only the two of us. We shall ascertain whether your acclaim is merited, or merely… empty flattery."
Silence. Albert examined Roland's challenging countenance. In the distance, he detected laughter emanating from the lower chambers—Cedric and his coterie. Was this conducted at their behest? Or Roland's independent initiative? Irrelevant.
Within his consciousness, a voice—Dilan's voice, the voice that had endured countless battlefields—whispered: This is a snare. Nothing is to be gained. Prevail, and you manufacture a resentful adversary. Succumb, and you suffer humiliation and forfeit credibility.
Yet another voice—Albert's voice, the voice compelled to navigate this world—countered: Refusal signifies weakness. In this domain, weakness is annihilation.
Albert did not respond immediately. He regarded Roland for ten complete seconds. Ten seconds during which he meticulously catalogued every detail: Roland's stance (weight forward, primed for aggression), the tension in his shoulders (brimming with pent-up energy), the illumination in his eyes (ravenous for acknowledgment). Ten seconds that stretched into an eternity.
Then, an almost imperceptible smile materialized upon Albert's lips. Not a mocking smile. Not an arrogant smile. It was the expression of someone who has perceived a simple equation and already comprehends the solution.
"Very well, Roland vin Lancaster," Albert said, his voice calm and crystalline in the desolate corridor. "Tomorrow morning. Only the two of us."
Roland appeared momentarily startled—perhaps by such effortless acquiescence. Yet satisfaction swiftly supplanted surprise. He nodded, his gaze exuding triumph. "Do not be tardy. I find waiting distasteful."
***
Dawn in Lanser Castle's training yard brought air so frigid that each inhalation felt like swallowing shards of crystallized glass. Mist hung low, shrouding the sand and training apparatus in ethereal gauze.
An audience had already assembled. Of course it had.
Cedric and two other cousins positioned themselves at the periphery, their expressions undisguised in their anticipation. Several guards and servants lingered at a respectful distance, feigning disinterest with conspicuous failure.
Upon the balcony overlooking the yard, Earl Richard materialized, supported by his staff, his countenance inscrutable. Alena stood at his side, her complexion drained of color, both hands gripping the stone balustrade with white-knuckled intensity.
Albert arrived punctually, clad in simple Götthain training attire—coarse linen, devoid of heraldry. In his grasp, a practice blade of dense, well-balanced oak. He had examined it meticulously that morning; no fractures, no latent weaknesses.
Roland awaited him already, positioned at the arena's center in a prepared stance. He wore a fine layered leather jerkin, the Lancaster rose subtly embroidered upon his breast. His practice sword appeared newer, perhaps lighter.
"I began to fear you would sequester yourself in the library," Roland greeted, his voice unnaturally loud in the morning stillness.
Albert offered no reply. He merely advanced to his designated position, approximately ten paces from Roland, and assumed a fundamental guard stance. Unspectacular. Non-aggressive. Simply solid, balanced, and efficient.
"The parameters?" Cedric inquired, assuming the role of unofficial arbiter. "Until submission, or until incapacitation?"
"Until one of us can no longer—or will no longer—continue," Roland answered, his gaze locked upon Albert.
"Agreed," Albert murmured.
"Commence!"
Roland launched himself forward like a loosed arrow. His initial assault was a formidable vertical strike, swift and powerful, aimed at Albert's shoulder—an attack designed to conclude the engagement swiftly and dramatically.
Albert did not elevate his blade to parry. He shifted laterally, a mere few inches, permitting the wooden blade to cleave empty air so proximate that its passage stirred his hair. His motion was minimal.
Roland, startled by his strike's failure, rapidly recalibrated, sweeping low toward Albert's ribs. This time Albert raised his sword, not in violent collision but angled to deflect the attack's trajectory, redirecting it harmlessly into the earth.
Clunk!
"Cease your evasions and fight!" Roland snarled, frustration seeping into his voice.
Albert remained silent. He simply stood there, blade half-raised, his eyes—green and frigid as glacial ice—fixed immovably upon Roland.
The engagement, if it could be termed such, continued in this pattern for the ensuing five minutes. Roland attacked. Explosive releases of strength, cuts, thrusts, combinations meticulously drilled under Lancaster's finest sword masters. He was powerful, swift, and skilled for his years.
And Albert… Albert evaded. He deflected. He retreated, sidestepped, advanced momentarily only to disrupt Roland's equilibrium. His blade almost never struck. It served merely as an extension of his body, an instrument to divert, redirect, and neutralize.
Thwack. Clunk. Swoosh.
No percussive collisions. No contests of strength. Only the whisper of wood nearly meeting wood, and the cadence of footfalls upon sand.
"What are you doing?!" Roland's breath came in ragged gasps now, his face flushed crimson from exertion and mounting fury. "Too craven for direct engagement? You coward!"
Albert remained impervious to the invective. Within his consciousness, he was not present in this training yard. He inhabited the shattered remnants of a factory in Donetsk. Each of Roland's assaults was an artillery barrage originating from unknown coordinates.
His objective was not to combat the artillery. His objective was survival. Evasion. To render each movement as minimal as possible, because energy was a finite resource. Because ostentation attracted attention, and attention signified death from drones circling overhead.
He discerned patterns within Roland's aggression. He was quick to anger. Following three consecutive strikes, he invariably retreated marginally to recover his breath. He depended excessively upon his right arm's strength; left-flank assaults were consistently slower. He abhorred stalemates; frustration would ultimately precipitate recklessness.
The spectators grew increasingly unsettled. Whispers proliferated. Cedric's brow furrowed deeply. This was not the duel they had anticipated. They had craved spectacle, confrontation, evidence that this provincial youth from Götthain could be broken. Yet Albert denied them that gratification. He was shadow, he was wind. What proved most disquieting were those cold, indifferent eyes.
Upon the balcony, Earl Richard remained motionless. Yet his keen eyes had narrowed to slits. He was not observing a contest between two adolescent boys. He was conducting an assessment.
Alena held her breath.
Roland, now thoroughly unhinged, launched a desperate assault. He charged forward, his blade tracing a wide arcing trajectory, intended to dislodge Albert's sword from his grip.
It was a perilous maneuver. It exposed his defenses.
And for the first time, Albert advanced.
Not a substantial movement. Simply a swift, simple glide forward and inward, penetrating the arc of Roland's attack. Albert's blade—hitherto almost passive—abruptly animated. It did not cut. It did not thrust.
It pressed.
The tip of his wooden practice sword, with devastating precision, contacted the precise locus just beneath Roland's right clavicle—the nexus where shoulder muscle attaches to joint. Not a powerful blow. A short, sharp, precisely placed impact.
Roland gasped. His triumphant expression transmuted into shock, then into acute, debilitating agony. His right arm—his sword arm—suddenly sagged, nerveless and unresponsive. The wooden blade slipped from his incapacitated fingers, thudding against the sand with a hollow report.
He stood swaying, clutching his injured shoulder with his left hand, his face contorted and pallid. His eyes, wide with incredulity, fixed upon Albert—a complex emulsion of pain and disbelief.
Albert had already retreated two paces. His sword was now lowered, its tip grazing the sand. He assumed no offensive posture. He simply stood there, composed, his respiration virtually undisturbed. He had not even perspired.
Absolute silence descended upon the training yard. The mountain wind resumed its mournful howl, dispersing the mist that the morning sun was beginning to burn away.
Cedric and his companions stood paralyzed, stunned into immobility.
Upon the balcony, Earl Richard emitted a low sound. Not laughter. Not a growl. Simply a profound, resonant. "Hmm."
Alena finally released the breath she had been hoarding.
Albert regarded Roland. No arrogance resided upon his features. No contempt. Only cold, flat reality—like a physician who has just delivered a clinical diagnosis.
"Your arm will recover within minutes," Albert stated, his voice calm, distinctly audible in the profound stillness. "That was merely pressure applied to a nerve cluster."
Roland could only stare, his humiliation now more agonizing than his shoulder.
Albert then redirected his attention to Cedric and the others. His gaze traversed them individually. Within those cold green eyes, they perceived not the triumph of a victorious youth. They perceived something else entirely—the inexhaustible patience of a hunter, or perhaps the detached indifference of an executioner in the moment before the blade descends.
"Is this sufficient?" Albert inquired, his voice maintaining its measured cadence. "Or does another individual wish to… 'test' me further?"
No response materialized. Cedric swallowed audibly, glanced toward the Earl upon his balcony, then averted his gaze.
Albert nodded, with perfect courtesy. Then, without another word, without a backward glance at Roland—still collapsed in bewildered humiliation—he turned and departed the training yard. His stride was composed, deliberate, identical to his arrival.
He abandoned behind him fractured silence, accumulated shame, and one crystalline message indelibly etched into the consciousness of every witness:
Albert vin Götterbaum does not engage in juvenile contests of vanity. He participates in an entirely different order of competition. And within his arena, you will not perceive the approach of the blow until everything has already concluded.
He re-entered the castle's frigid corridors, navigating toward his chamber. Within his grasp, the wooden practice sword suddenly felt extraordinarily light, profoundly insignificant.
Within his auditory memory, the resonance of wooden impact had been supplanted by the distant drone of surveillance aircraft and the thunder of detonations that never truly receded. No matter how determinedly he endeavored to suppress his battlefield recollections, they invariably resurfaced. This was not merely a matter of memory—it was instinct, trauma, indelibly encoded into his very sinews.
Mentally, he remained entrenched within the trenches of the Ukrainian front.