Arthur woke before the first hint of dawn crept through the cracks in the shutters. The cot creaked softly as he sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand, and swung his legs over the floor. He dressed quickly in the same patched tunic and trousers he had worn for days, laced his boots, and stepped out into the corridor while the house still lay wrapped in silence. The air outside carried the sharp chill that came just before sunrise, he pulled the door shut behind him with care so that the latch made no noise that would wake the children.
He walked the familiar path to the public well two streets over, the wooden yoke balanced across his shoulders and two buckets swinging from the hooks. The streets of Flea Bottom were almost empty at this hour; only a boy hurried past with a bag of flour on his head, and a stray dog watched Arthur from a doorway. He lowered the rope, filled both buckets until water slopped over the rims, and hauled them back up. The weight felt good against his newly healed muscles, he made three trips in total so that the barrels in the yard stood full when the household stirred. It hadn't rained much so the collection he'd set up sat mostly empty, making trips like this a necessity.
When he got back he gathered kindling from the pile he had stacked against the wall in the garden the day before, split a few logs with the axe that now hung on a peg by the chopping block, and carried an armful of firewood inside to feed the kitchen hearth. Cassie was already there when he returned from the third water run. She stood at the table in her faded green dress, sleeves rolled to the elbow, kneading dough for the morning loaves while a pot of barley porridge bubbled over the fire. Her braid had come partly undone during the night, and loose strands framed her face as she looked up and smiled at him.
"You are up with the birds again," she said, wiping flour from her cheek with the back of her wrist. "I thought I would have to drag you out of bed, with how late you slept last night."
Arthur set the last bucket beside the wash basin and rolled his shoulders to loosen them. "I can't sleep much these days," he replied. "Need anything carried or chopped before the little ones start up?"
Cassie pointed with her chin toward the sack of onions in the corner. "If you would slice those, I can start the eggs. Meggie swears she will only eat them if there are onions in them now."
He laughed under his breath, took the knife she offered, and settled beside her at the table. They worked side by side without needing to speak much; he sliced the onions into thin rings while she cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them with a pinch of the dried herbs he had hung from the rafters the week before. Every so often their elbows brushed, though Cassie did not move away. When the first batch of flatbread went onto the griddle, she leaned over to flip it and her shoulder rested against his for a moment longer than necessary. Arthur pretended not to notice, but he felt the warmth linger after she stepped back.
Once the porridge was stirred, the eggs scrambled, and the bread stacked on a platter, Arthur wiped his hands on a rag. "I am going to train outside for a bit," he told her. "Call me when it's ready."
Cassie nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear while she smiled again. "I will ring the bell when it is ready."
Arthur stepped into his small room, lifted Sunset from where it leaned against the wall inside its plain leather scabbard, and buckled the belt around his waist. He had kept it out of his inventory since the children had seen the sword the night the men came, and had asked where it came from the next morning. He had told them simply that he had hidden it away before he arrived at the orphanage, and they accepted the answer with the easy trust of children who had learned not to pry too deeply into adult secrets. Now he wore it openly when he trained, and no one questioned it.
He walked through the garden gate and into the open patch of packed earth that served as their yard. The sky had turned pale gold along the horizon, thought the air still carried the coolness of night. Arthur drew Sunset with a smooth rasp of steel, settled his feet shoulder-width apart, and began.
The difference struck him the instant he moved into the first stance. Where before the forms of Falling Star Style had felt like separate steps he had to remember, now they flowed together as one continuous motion. His weight shifted without conscious thought, hips turning to shoulders to wrists in perfect alignment. He executed the opening guard, blade held high in two hands, then let the sword drop into a single-handed grip as he stepped forward with a lunge that carried his full reach. The transition happened without pause; the pommel rolled across his palm, fingers sliding naturally into the reverse grip for a low sweep that would take an opponent's legs. He spun the blade back to two hands for an overhead descent that ended with the tip resting a finger's breadth from the ground.
It seemed at Journeyman level, the style revealed its true nature: fluid interchange between one-handed and two-handed forms that let the swordsman adapt in the space of a heartbeat. In a real fight, that meant he could parry a heavy blow with both hands for leverage, then release one grip to slash at an exposed arm or throat before the enemy recovered balance. The possibilities unfolded in his mind as he moved, each form chaining into the next until sweat beaded on his brow and he started breathing heavily.
He lost track of time the way he always did when the sword was in his hands. Thrust became slash became spinning cut, the blade whistling through the air with a sound like tearing silk. He practiced the new techniques that had burned themselves into his mind. Starfall Cascade, a rapid descending series of cuts that switched grip on every third strike; Dawn's Reversal, a one-handed riposte that flowed into a two-handed bind and immediate counter-thrust; Twilight Guard, a low stance that invited attack and punished over-extension with a sudden shift to single-handed reach. His body remembered what his mind had only just learned, and the sword felt lighter than it ever had.
Hours slipped past unnoticed until a small figure appeared at the garden gate. Jory stood there in his patched tunic, hair sticking up from sleep. "Breakfast is ready," he announced. "Cassie rang the bell twice already."
Arthur finished the form he was in, letting the blade come to rest at his side before he slid it home into the scabbards. "Thank you, Jory," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "I will be right in."
Jory lingered, shifting from foot to foot while he looked at Arthur expectantly. Arthur almost smiled; he knew exactly what the boy waited for. Ever since the night Arthur had arrived, Jory had asked nearly every day if Arthur would teach him to fight. Arthur had put him off while he healed and while he fortified the orphanage, but with the men coming in and hurting Alys and trying to take Cassie it would help to have an extra pair of hands around. The boy was fourteen now, nearly a man, and the world outside the orphanage grew no kinder.
Arthur paused at the gate, hand resting on the pommel. "After breakfast," he said, "fetch one of the swords from the shed and meet me back here. We will start today." He had bought a few old swords a few days back, in the case where he was killed at least they'd have some weapons to defend themselves. It seemed now they'd get some use earlier than he thought.
Jory's mouth dropped open, then split into a grin so wide it threatened to reach his ears. "Really? You mean it?"
"I mean it. Now get inside before Cassie tans both our hides," Arthur replied.
Jory whooped and bolted past him, nearly tripping over the threshold in his excitement.
Inside, the main hall had transformed into the familiar chaos of breakfast. Children crowded the long tables, some already seated, others scrambling for places while Cassie moved between them with the platter of bread and a jug of watered ale. Meggie waved both arms when she saw Arthur. "Arthur! I saved you the seat next to me!"
Lena tugged at his sleeve as he passed. "I helped stir the porridge!"
Ben leaned across the table to shove a bowl toward him. "Cassie put honey in yours special!"
Cassie, standing at the head of the table ladling second helpings, glanced up at that and rolled her eyes, but the flush that rose in her cheeks betrayed her. Arthur took the offered seat between Meggie and Thom, accepting the bowl with a murmured thanks that made Cassie's smile linger on him a moment longer than strictly necessary.
The meal was chaotic and funny as usuall. Jory could barely sit still, kicking his legs under the table while he stole glances at Arthur as if to make sure the promise still stood. Meggie insisted on telling Arthur every detail of the dream she had about riding a dragon, complete with sound effects that sent porridge flying from her spoon. Cassie moved around the table refilling cups, and whenever she passed behind Arthur's chair her hand brushed his shoulder, almost accidentally, yet it happened three separate times. Each time she paused just long enough for him to catch the faint scent of her hair, and each time she offered him the smallest private smile before moving on.
When the bowls were scraped clean and the children began stacking them for washing, Arthur pushed back his bench. Jory was already on his feet, practically vibrating.
"Outside," Arthur said simply, and the boy darted ahead while the others called good-natured taunts after him.
Arthur followed at a slower pace, pausing to ruffle Meggie's hair and promise Lena he would look at the wooden horse she had later. Cassie caught his sleeve at the door. "Be gentle with him," she said quietly so only he could hear. "He thinks you are the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms."
Arthur glanced toward the garden where Jory waited, the sword clutched in both hands like it was made of gold. "I will teach him what I can," he replied. "Someone has to be ready if I am not here."
Her fingers tightened on his sleeve for a heartbeat, then let go. "Just come back in one piece for supper," she said, and turned quickly back to the dishes so he would not see whatever expression crossed her face.
Arthur stepped into the sunlight where Jory had already taken a clumsy guard in the middle of the grass. The boy's stance was all wrong, elbows too high, weight too far back, but his eyes burned with eagerness.
He picked up the other blunted sword from where Jory had propped it against the garden wall, he tested its balance with a quick twist of his wrist and then walked over to where Jory stood, the boy's feet planted wide apart in what he must've thought looked like a fighter's stance, Arthur extended his free hand without warning. He pressed his palm flat against Jory's chest and shoved lightly, the force just enough to send the lad stumbling backward until he landed on his backside in the dirt, the sword clattering from his grip and rolling a few feet away.
"First lesson," Arthur said, standing over him with the blunted sword pointed toward the ground, "is learning how to stand so you don't fall the moment someone bigger gives you a push."
Jory blinked up at him from the dirt, his hands splayed behind him as he pushed himself into a sitting position, he reached for the fallen sword with a nod. "I weren't ready," he said as he scrambled up again, brushing soil from his trousers while he gripped the hilt. "Do it once more, I'll show you proper this time."
Arthur nodded with a chuckle and waited until Jory settled into the same wide-legged pose, his knees locked straight and his shoulders hunched forward as if he expected a gust of wind to bowl him over. "Bend your knees a little," Arthur said, showing him by loosening his own stance. "Keep most of your weight on the balls of your feet, not your heels. You've got to be able to move."
Jory shifted, his knees bending until they shook a bit from the unfamiliar strain, and looked up at Arthur with a determined stare. Arthur stepped in and shoved again, his palm thumping against Jory's shoulder. The boy rocked back but caught himself, staggering only a step before he steadied and swung the blunted sword in a wild arc that Arthur sidestepped with ease.
"Better," Arthur said, circling around him with his own blade kept down. "But you stiffened right up when you felt the push. You've got to roll with it, let it move you without letting it knock you over."
They ran the exercise again and again, Arthur shoving from different angles while Jory tried to hold his stance. Each time the boy improved a little more, until he could take the push without hitting the dirt. Sweat began to gather on Jory's brow as the sun climbed higher, Arthur showed him how to shift his hips to bleed off the force, using his own body to demonstrate before letting Jory practice on him. When Jory shoved back, Arthur absorbed it with a quick pivot that left him facing the boy's flank, he tapped Jory lightly on the ribs with the flat of the blade to show where a real strike would've landed.
"Now we add footwork," Arthur said after they rested a moment, handing Jory a waterskin he'd filled earlier from the buckets inside. "You can't just stand planted in a fight. Move your feet like this."
He showed a basic sidestep, his boots sliding across the grass in a tight pattern that kept his weight centered, and Jory copied him clumsily at first, tripping over his own ankles until Arthur nudged him into place. They drilled it for what felt like hours, Arthur calling out directions while Jory shuffled left and right, then back and forward. When Jory stopped glancing down at his feet, Arthur raised his sword.
"Time to spar," he said as he settled into guard with the blade angled across his body. "Come at me slowly, and I'll show you what to do."
Jory nodded eagerly and lunged forward with an overhead chop that Arthur parried with a lazy flick, the blades clanging together before he twisted his wrist and sent Jory's sword wide. He followed with a light thrust to the boy's chest that stopped an inch short, and Jory stumbled back with a grunt.
"Too much arm," Arthur said as Jory reset. "Use your hips to drive the swing, and keep your guard up after you strike."
They went again. Jory swung sideways this time, and Arthur caught it before he swept his leg out to hook Jory's ankle, sending the boy sprawling face-first into the grass. Jory pushed up sputtering, dirt sticking to his tunic, but he grabbed his sword and stood without a word.
"Again," Arthur said, and they clashed once more.
The sparring carried on like that for round after round, Arthur knocking Jory down again and again with parries that turned into counters or simple steps that left the boy off-balance. Each time Jory hit the ground, Arthur pointed out the mistake and they reset to try it another way. Jory's breaths grew harsher as the sun beat down, and frustration began creeping into his swings until Arthur disarmed him with a bind that wrenched the sword clean from his grip.
Jory landed on his back for what must've been the twentieth time, staring at the clouds as he gasped for air, and he slammed a fist into the dirt. "This is impossible," he muttered as he sat up, his face full of anger.
Arthur stood over him. "You giving up?" he asked, watching the boy fight with himself.
Jory stared at the fallen sword for a long moment, his hands clenching and relaxing at his sides. Then he shook his head. "No," he said, dragging himself back to his feet with a groan before grabbing the blade again. "Show me again."
Arthur nodded. "Good. This time keep your left foot back more, and when I parry, circle your blade under mine instead of pulling away."
They kept going, Arthur correcting every part of Jory's form as the exchanges grew longer and slowly the boy lasted longer before he hit the ground. Sweat soaked their tunics by the time Arthur called for water, and Jory leaned on his sword like a staff while he caught his breath.
"You're getting it," Arthur said as he passed him the waterskin. "Next lesson's endurance. Fights don't end after one swing."
Jory took a long drink and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "How'd you learn all this?" he asked.
Arthur capped the skin. "Practice, mostly. Lots of practice. Now, guard up. We're going on till you land a hit."
The training stretched into the afternoon, Jory's stubbornness driving him through fall after fall, Arthur guided him with instructions that built on each one before it. When Jory finally managed a glancing tap to Arthur's arm after a feint that drew the parry wide, he let out a triumphant yell that echoed off the orphanage walls.
Cassie burst through the back door then, her apron dusted with flour from the midday baking, she ran toward them with her braid bouncing against her back. "Arthur!" she called, waving with one hand while she held her side with the other. "There's a man at the front gate, a friend of Alys. Says he knows Willem and where his manse is in the city."
Arthur froze mid-stance, the blunted sword slipping from his fingers to thud in the grass, he turned toward the house without a word. He broke into a run, boots thudding along the path as he rounded the corner and sprinted through the hall, the door banging open behind him.
(AN: A bit of an interlude and development chapter, I would've liked to develop their relationships a bit more before Arthur went ham on Willem, but ah well. I'm sure most of you will be a little surprised by where things are heading. Also apologises for the lack of gamer stuff in this chapter, tbh it's a bit of a drag including it so I only do it when I need to. Anyways hope you enjoyed.)
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