The morning came cold and gray. Rylan was in the training yard before dawn, alone, executing basic forms with mechanical movements. Each strike was precise but empty. His mind wasn't on technique—it was on the duel. On the murmurs. On the stares.
'Tactical error,' he repeated. 'Nothing more.'
But the lie tasted bitter.
"Drop the sword."
Rylan stopped. Master Torin was at the yard's edge, arms crossed, expression unreadable in the early light.
"We need to talk."
They walked to the armory in silence. The space smelled of sword oil and old leather. Armor hung from the walls like metal skeletons. Torin closed the door behind them.
"In one week, you leave with me for the Blade Mountains," said Torin without preamble. "Cleanup expedition. Bandits. Twenty to thirty men by reports. Fifteen veterans under my command. You'll lead the charge when we reach them."
Rylan blinked. "Me? Why me? After… after the duel, I thought—"
"You thought losing a duel disqualifies you from everything?" Torin let out a sound that might have been laughter.
"Don't be stupid. You lost to your brother in controlled combat with artificial rules. Learned something, I hope. Now you'll learn something more important: what it feels like when the enemy really wants to stick a knife in your gut."
"Real combat," murmured Rylan.
"Real blood. Real fear. Real death. Not wooden sticks in a safe yard where the worst outcome is wounded pride." Torin stepped closer.
"Twenty days. Five to reach, one week to hunt and eliminate the threat, five back. You return a man or you don't return. Understood?"
Rylan felt something hot expand in his chest. Opportunity. Redemption. Purpose.
"Understood."
"Good. The veterans are outside. Time to meet them."
The armory had a side door leading to a secondary yard. Fifteen men waited there, all veterans with years—sometimes decades—of service on their weathered faces. Some cleaned weapons. Others checked armor. All stopped when Torin and Rylan entered.
"Attention," ordered Torin.
The fifteen formed a line. Not perfect—veterans weren't parade soldiers—but respectable.
"This is Rylan Drayvar. Heir. Fifth-layer Apprentice. Never killed anyone. Never seen a comrade die. Never felt real fear in combat." Torin paused.
"It's your job to keep him alive while he learns those things. And it's your job, Rylan, not to make their deaths pointless by being a reckless idiot. Clear?"
"Clear," they answered—Rylan and the veterans—at the same time.
Torin began introductions.
"Captain Aldwen. Real second-in-command. Forty-five years of service. If I order something stupid that'll kill us, he overrules me. If you order something stupid that'll kill us, he ignores you. Get used to it."
Aldwen stepped forward. Man in his forties, scars crossing his face like a map of past battles. His eyes were hard but fair.
"Lord Rylan," he greeted with a nod.
"Captain," replied Rylan.
"Garron. Two meters of muscle and contained violence. Prefers axe. Hates archers. Has a sense of humor darker than an unlit grave."
A giant stepped forward—literally two meters tall, shoulders that seemed capable of carrying oxen. He smiled, showing a broken front tooth.
"Heard you lost to your little brother," he said in a voice deep as distant thunder.
"Don't worry. I lost to my little brother once too."
"Yeah?" asked Rylan cautiously.
"Yeah. Of course, he was four and bit my ankle while I slept. Different context." Garron laughed—sound like rocks clashing. "But loss is loss, right?"
Some veterans laughed. Rylan wasn't sure whether to be offended or join in.
"Zella. Best archer in Stormvale. Silent. Never wastes word or arrow. If she speaks, listen."
A woman in her thirties, black hair in a practical braid, bow slung across her back. She nodded at Rylan without smiling. Her eyes were gray—cold, calculating, hunter's eyes.
"And these two idiots are Vek and Tor. Twins. Spearmen. Finish each other's sentences because apparently they can't function as individual humans."
Two identical men stepped forward—blond hair, synchronized smiles, even standing in the same posture.
"So you're the one—" began Vek.
"—who lost to his little brother," finished Tor.
"Don't worry—" Vek.
"—we lose too—" Tor.
"—to our little brother—" Vek.
"—all the time," Tor.
"Though he's—" Vek.
"—six years old," they finished together.
More laughter. This time, Rylan smiled slightly. Impossible not to.
Torin continued introducing the other ten—names, specialties, experiences. Each one a proven veteran, with scars and years enough to make it real.
When finished, Aldwen approached Rylan, pulling him slightly aside from the group.
"Ignore them," he said in a low voice. "Veterans always test the new ones. Especially nobles. They need to know if you're the type who abandons them when blood starts flowing, or the type who stays and bleeds with them."
"How do I prove that?" asked Rylan.
Aldwen looked at him directly. "By not running when a bandit tries to stick a knife in your gut. Simple. Direct. Stay alive. Keep your men alive. Everything else is ornament."
"Understood."
"Good. Because if you die, I have to carry your corpse back. And you're heavy." Aldwen clapped his shoulder. "Prepare your things. We leave in exactly one week. Dawn."
The main training yard was busy that afternoon. Lyssara was in the center, facing a fourteen-year-old initiate named Bren. The boy was new—had arrived two weeks ago, son of a minor eastern noble.
And clearly not used to training with women.
"Why is she here?" whispered Bren to another initiate, loud enough for Lyssara to hear. "She should be learning to sew or something useful."
Lyssara lowered her practice sword. Slowly. Her eyes—storm-gray—locked on Bren.
"Sew?" she repeated, her voice dangerously calm. "Interesting word choice. Know what else requires needle precision? Acupuncture. Specific body points. Exact pressure. Let me show you."
She approached Bren, sword at guard. "Duel. Now. Unless you're afraid of being 'stitched' by a woman."
Bren, caught between pride and fear, took defensive stance. "I'm not afraid of—"
Lyssara attacked.
Three strikes. Thirty seconds. Bren was on the ground, sword flying three meters, the flat of Lyssara's sword pressing his throat.
"Sewing teaches patience and precision," said Lyssara, not even breathing hard. "Two things you clearly lack. Now, any other comments about my place?"
Absolute silence in the yard.
"Good." Lyssara removed her sword, extended a hand to help Bren up. The boy took it, face red with shame but—to his credit—nodded with respect.
"Sorry, Lady Lyssara."
"Just Lyssara. And next time you question someone's ability based on what's between their legs, make sure you can back it with steel."
Favius approached when Bren walked away, dusting off humiliation.
"That was... impressive," he said with a nervous smile. "And a little terrifying. Mostly impressive."
Lyssara side-eyed him. "You got something to say about women warriors too, Favius?"
"No! I mean, I always knew you were... that you could... um..." Favius stumbled over his words. "You're really good. With the sword. I mean, obviously. Everyone knows. I know. Always knew."
Lyssara smiled—small, almost gentle. "Relax, Favius. I'm not going to stab you. Probably."
"That... that's not as reassuring as you think."
Sunset found Rylan walking the gardens. He needed space, some air. Something that wasn't preparations and stares.
And he found Lyssara sitting on the same bench where, weeks ago, Sareth had been humiliated. The coincidence was uncomfortable.
"Mind?" asked Rylan.
Lyssara looked up. "Depends. Here to talk feelings or tell me I should be inside learning manners?"
"Neither. Just... looking for a quiet spot."
"This one's taken. Find another." But her tone wasn't hostile. Just... tired.
Rylan sat anyway, leaving respectful space between them.
Silence. The sea roared distant. Shadows lengthened.
"Heard you're off to hunt bandits," said Lyssara finally.
"Convenient. Right after Kael humiliated you in front of everyone."
Rylan clenched his jaw.
"It wasn't humiliation. It was a tactical error."
"Ah, 'tactical error'." Lyssara smiled without humor.
"That's what we call losing to a nine-year-old who weighs less than your sword now."
"Here to mock or got something useful?"
"Neither. Came here because the gardens are the only places people don't stare at me like a circus freak." Lyssara sighed.
"Though now you're here, so advantage lost."
Silence again. But less tense.
"I'm jealous," said Lyssara abruptly.
Rylan looked at her. "What?"
"Of you. Your expedition, real combat, the chance to prove your worth with blood and steel. I train as hard as you—harder, probably—but no one will offer me a mission like that. Because I was born a woman. Because my worth is supposed to come from who I marry, not how many enemies I can kill."
"Lyssara—"
"No." She raised a hand.
"Let me finish. You lose a duel and they give you a chance to redeem yourself killing bandits. I beat initiates daily and they say 'very impressive, now learn to smile properly for when we marry you off to some old noble who needs heirs'."
Rylan didn't respond immediately. He processed her words, the real pain behind them.
"You're right," he said finally. "It's unfair."
Lyssara blinked. "Excuse me?"
"It's unfair. You're better than half the initiates. Probably better than me in speed and technique. But Father will never send you to real combat because you're a woman. And that's stupid."
Lyssara stared at him. "You just admitted I'm better than you at something?"
"In speed and technique. Not brute strength. Or endurance. Or—"
"I'll take that as absolute victory."
Small shared smile. Brief. But real.
"When I return from the expedition," said Rylan after a pause, "if I return, I'll talk to Father. About you. About giving you real opportunities beyond political marriages."
"I don't need your charity, Rylan."
"It's not charity. It's recognition. You're Drayvar. You have the right to fight like a Drayvar. With a sword, not just smiles at banquets."
Lyssara studied him. Searching for sarcasm, mockery. Found none.
"...Thanks."
"Though," Rylan smiled slightly, "if I die to bandits after losing to Kael, my reputation will be pretty... pathetic."
"Absolutely pathetic," agreed Lyssara.
"Legendarily pathetic. Songs will be written about your patheticness."
"Thanks for the unconditional support, sister."
"That's what family's for. To remind you of your failures at inopportune moments." Lyssara leaned back.
"You know? Sometimes I miss when you were the serious brother who only trained and never talked."
"That version still exists. This is just... pre-battle nervous version."
"Well, tell nervous version to shut up and return a hero. Because if you don't, I'll have to carry the Drayvar name in combat. And honestly, that sounds exhausting."
Rylan laughed. Genuinely. For the first time in days.
"I'll do my best."
Elyn's private rooms smelled of lavender and cedar wood. Rylan entered finding his mother supervising three maids packing supplies into leather saddlebags.
"Extra weapon?" asked Elyn, checking a list. "Bandages? Wound salve? Flint and steel for fire? You can't just ride off to bandit-infested mountains without proper preparation."
"Mother, the veterans handle supplies. I don't need—"
"You're my son. My firstborn. Heir to this House. You need everything." Elyn turned, her eyes—blue and piercing—fixing on Rylan.
"Sit."
It wasn't a suggestion. Rylan sat on the side sofa. The maids finished their work and left discreetly, closing the door.
Elyn sat in front of him. For a moment, she just looked at him—studying his face as if memorizing every detail.
"That duel," she began. "With Kael."
"It was a mistake. It won't happen—"
"I'm not talking tactical error." Elyn leaned forward.
"I'm talking about what I saw in your eyes after. Doubt. Insecurity. Like you questioned your own worth. That's more dangerous than any bandit with a knife."
Rylan looked away.
"That's why I'm going. To prove to myself I'm still worthy to be heir. That I can—"
Elyn took his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her.
"You're already worthy. You don't need to prove anything to anyone except yourself. And you certainly don't need to die on some forgotten mountain to validate your worth in others' eyes."
"I'm not going to die."
"You'd better not." Elyn's eyes shone—not with tears, Elyn didn't cry—but with something fiercer.
"Because if you do, I'll revive your corpse just to kill you again for making me suffer. Understood?"
Rylan smiled despite the tension. "Understood."
Elyn released him, leaned back.
"Torin will watch over you. He's gruff and cruel but never lost a man under his command unless it was inevitable. I trust him."
"I do too."
"Good." Elyn stood, walked to a small box on her desk. Opened it, took something out.
"Your father gave you this when you were five. Said to carry it when you went to your first real battle."
She extended her hand. A silver ring with lightning engravings. Drayvar symbol.
"Father never mentioned this," said Rylan, taking it.
"Because he hoped you wouldn't need battle so young. But here we are." Elyn closed the box.
"Wear it. Remember who you are. And come home."
Rylan put on the ring. It fit perfectly.
"I promise."
The night before departure, Lyssara couldn't sleep.
She was in her room, looking out the window toward the stables where the veterans made final preparations. Lanterns lit the yard. Male voices—men checking gear, joking, readying.
And Rylan, among them. Part of the group. Going to something real.
'Jealous,' she thought. 'Still jealous.'
But also proud. Rylan was an idiot sometimes, arrogant others. But he was a good brother. And he deserved this chance.
She rose, walked to her desk. Opened a drawer, took out something small—a crudely carved wooden amulet. They'd made it together as children, her and Rylan, during a boring summer years ago.
She looked at it for a moment. Then decided.
She went down to the stables. The veterans didn't notice her presence—or politely ignored it. She approached Rylan's saddle, already prepared for morning.
She left the amulet in the side pouch. Beside it, a scrap of paper with three words in her angular handwriting:
"Don't die, idiot. -L"
She returned to her room unseen.
And for the first time in weeks, slept without restless dreams.
Dawn came cold and clear.
Stormvale's main yard was full of activity. Sixteen horses—fifteen for veterans, one for Rylan—waited with loaded saddlebags. Weapons secured. Light travel armor.
Torin checked each horse personally, muttering occasional corrections.
Rylan mounted. His father's ring weighed on his hand. He'd found Lyssara's amulet minutes earlier. It was in his pocket now, with the note.
'I won't die, sister. I promise.'
Varen watched from the upper balcony. He didn't come down. Didn't give a speech. Just watched—silent presence of authority.
Lyssara was in the yard's shadows, where Rylan couldn't see her clearly. But he knew she was there.
"Ready," declared Torin, mounting his own horse.
The veterans confirmed. Aldwen gave the signal. Garron smiled—anticipation of future violence. Mira the Arrow checked her bow one last time. The twins Vek and Tor exchanged identical looks.
"Forward," ordered Torin.
Sixteen riders departed. Hooves resounding on stone. They passed through Stormvale's gates, the city slowly waking around them.
Lyssara watched them disappear down the road leading east. Toward the mountains. Toward blood and trials.
'Twenty days,' she thought. 'Return different, brother. Return better.'
'Because when you return, I'll be different too.'
The gates closed behind them.
And Stormvale, with all its secrets and ambitions, continued its day as if nothing had changed.
But it had changed.
It always changed.
Slowly, inexorably.
Like waves against cliffs.
Like time against stone.
Like the future against the past.
And none of them—Rylan, Lyssara, Kael, nor Sareth—would be the same when it all ended.