The morning air in the Sinclair Barony carried a sharp winter bite. Howard stepped out onto the cobblestone courtyard and took a deep breath. He adjusted the leather straps of his heavy chest plate.
A deep sense of satisfaction settled into his bones. The Rank-Up trial was behind him. He was officially a D-minus Rank knight. It was a monumental achievement for a young heir of a Barony, yet Howard kept his expression perfectly neutral.
He walked toward the center of the training grounds. A dozen young apprentices were already lined up in neat rows. They shivered slightly in the cold morning air while holding their wooden practice swords.
Two of the Barony's veterans stood before them. Sir Gareth was a seasoned D Rank knight with a thick beard. Beside him stood Sir Vance, a towering man who held a D+ Rank.
"Good morning, Sir Gareth. Good morning, Sir Vance," Howard called out respectfully.
The two mid 30's knights turned and offered genuine smiles. Howard had always made a point to treat the veterans with the utmost respect. He never used his status as the future Baron to demand unearned authority.
"Morning, Sir Howard," Sir Vance replied loudly. "Are you ready to help us drill these greenhorns? They need to see what proper footwork looks like."
"It would be my honor," Howard said.
He spent the next two hours moving patiently through the ranks of apprentices. He gently corrected their grips and adjusted their stances. He spoke with a soft, encouraging tone. When a young boy continuously dropped his guard, Howard did not yell. He simply demonstrated the proper technique until the boy understood the mechanics.
To the outside observer, Howard appeared completely egoless. He was the picture of a humble, dedicated servant of the Barony.
As the sun climbed higher, Sir Vance dismissed the exhausted apprentices. The boys bowed respectfully and scattered toward the mess hall. The courtyard fell quiet.
"You have the patience of a saint, Howard," Sir Gareth chuckled. He leaned heavily against the wooden weapon rack. "When I was your age, I would have just smacked them with the flat of my blade."
"They learn better when they understand the purpose behind the movement," Howard replied with a polite smile. He picked up a heavy iron practice sword from the rack. He tested the weight in his hands. "Speaking of learning, Sir Gareth. I was hoping you might grant me a favor."
Gareth raised an eyebrow. "Name it."
"I would like a friendly spar," Howard requested calmly. "I need to gauge where my new D- stats truly sit. I can think of no better opponent than a solid D Rank veteran."
Gareth grinned broadly. He drew his own heavy iron broadsword. "I would be happy to oblige. Let us see what that new rank has given you."
They stepped into the center of the training ring. Sir Vance stepped back to act as the judge.
Howard sank into the opening stance of the Sinclair sword style. He planted his boots firmly into the dirt. He kept his center of gravity incredibly low. The Sinclair style was not designed for elegant dodging or acrobatic evasion.
It was a brutal, heavy-handed discipline. It relied on overwhelming force, rigid parries, and devastating counter-strikes.
"Begin," Sir Vance commanded.
Gareth exploded forward. He swung his broadsword in a massive horizontal cleave. Howard did not step back. He stepped directly into the attack. He raised his iron blade vertically to catch the strike.
The courtyard echoed with a deafening clash of metal.
The shockwave rattled up Howard's forearms. He gritted his teeth and held his ground. Using the momentum of the deflected strike, Howard violently twisted his wrists. He launched a crushing overhead counter-strike aimed squarely at Gareth's shoulder.
Gareth caught the blow on the flat of his blade. The older knight's superior Strength became immediately apparent. Gareth did not buckle under the weight of Howard's attack. Instead, he forcefully shoved Howard's blade upward to break his guard.
Howard quickly recovered. He tightened his grip and unleashed a flurry of diagonal slashes. Gareth met every single strike with equal force. The two of them traded bone-jarring blows. They refused to yield a single inch of ground. Iron sparked against iron.
Howard pushed his new physical limits to the absolute maximum. He poured every ounce of his strength into a final, sweeping strike.
Gareth saw it coming. The veteran knight dropped his center of gravity even lower. He intercepted Howard's blade with a flawless, angled parry. The redirection completely stripped Howard of his momentum.
Before Howard could pull his sword back to defend, Gareth stepped into the opening. Gareth slammed the heavy iron pommel of his sword directly into Howard's breastplate.
The concussive force knocked the wind out of Howard. His boots skidded backward across the dirt. He stumbled and nearly dropped his weapon. Gareth stopped his advance immediately and lowered his blade.
"Match," Sir Vance called out.
Howard stood up straight. He took a deep breath to steady his racing heart. He offered a bright, gracious smile.
"You got me, Sir Gareth," Howard laughed lightly. He sheathed his practice sword. "I guess I am not quite there yet. Your defensive timing is incredible."
"You fought well," Gareth praised. He clapped Howard on the back. "Your power has definitely increased. You just need to refine your recovery after a heavy swing. Give it a few months. You'll be giving me a real run for my money."
Howard thanked them both profusely. He excused himself from the training grounds to wash up.
As soon as Howard was alone in the washroom, the polite smile vanished from his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. A hot, burning anger twisted in his gut. He hated losing. He absolutely despised the feeling of being physically overpowered. Beneath his humble exterior lived a fiercely competitive spirit that demanded perfection. He splashed freezing water onto his face.
He forced his features back into a calm, approachable mask before stepping back out into the halls.
Howard decided to leave the castle grounds to clear his head. He walked down the winding stone path that led into the main town of the Barony.
The citizens greeted him warmly as he strolled through the bustling marketplace. Howard made sure to acknowledge every single person. He stopped to speak with a local baker about the expectations for the spring grain harvests. He listened patiently as a merchant complained about the rising cost of transporting goods through the winter snow.
He eventually stopped at the local forge. The massive blacksmith wiped soot from his forehead and bowed deeply.
"Lord Howard," the blacksmith greeted. "Congratulations on your successful trial. The whole town is talking about it."
"Thank you, Silas," Howard replied smoothly. "The Barony relies on the strength of its people. I am just doing my part to keep us secure. How is the new shipment of iron holding up?"
"It is good quality," Silas answered. "We'll have the garrison's armor fully repaired before the deep freeze sets in."
Howard spent an hour walking among the people. The citizens genuinely loved him. They saw a polite, caring future Baron who took a personal interest in their daily struggles.
Howard knew that maintaining their absolute loyalty was just as important as wielding a sword. He played the role perfectly.
The sun began to set by the time Howard returned to the castle. The courtyard was completely empty. The training racks were locked away for the night. The biting winter wind whipped across the open space.
Howard stopped walking. The memory of his loss to Sir Gareth flared up in his mind again. The feeling of the heavy pommel striking his chest frustrated him endlessly.
He walked over to a stray wooden practice sword resting against a stone bench. He picked it up. He stood in the center of the dark courtyard. Howard sank back into his opening stance. He visualized Gareth standing in front of him.
He swung the wooden sword with terrifying ferocity. He practiced the exact parry that had defeated him. He repeated the motion over and over again in the freezing air. His muscles burned with exhaustion. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold. He was determined to master the technique so it could never be used against him again.
After two hours of relentless drilling, Howard abruptly stopped. He lowered the wooden sword. His chest heaved heavily.
He looked down at his shaking hands. He let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. He was acting completely irrational. Pushing his body to the point of failure over a simple, friendly spar was ridiculous.
Howard tossed the wooden sword back onto the bench. He wiped the sweat from his brow.
"I must really miss Henry," Howard joked quietly to himself in the empty courtyard.
Whenever Henry suffered a minor loss or failed a technique, his younger brother would train relentlessly into the late hours of the night. Howard had always thought Henry was a madman for pushing himself so close to the edge. Now, standing alone in the dark, Howard finally understood that obsessive drive.
Howard turned away from the training grounds and walked toward the warmth of the manor. He looked up at the starry night sky.
'I wonder how my little bro is,' Howard thought.