Chapter 3 — The Weight of Watching Eyes
The soreness did not fade when Adrian woke.
If anything, it had worsened.
Every muscle in his body screamed in protest as he rolled onto his side, the dull ache along his ribs sharpening into something deeper and more insistent. His arms felt heavy, his hands stiff, fingers slow to respond. He flexed them anyway, forcing sensation back into flesh that had long been neglected.
Pain meant growth.
That was the truth of it.
He lay still for a few moments longer, breathing steadily, listening to the muted sounds of the Falkenrath estate stirring awake. Somewhere beyond the stone walls, servants moved through corridors with practiced quiet. Guards changed shifts. Somewhere farther still, bells rang from the inner district of Blackridge Dominion, marking the morning prayer to the Church of Radiant Fate.
Adrian closed his eyes briefly.
Three days.
That was all the time he had before the tribunal.
Three days to reshape a body that had been sabotaged for years.
Three days to lay the foundation of survival.
Not victory. Not justice.
Survival.
He pushed himself upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The movement sent a sharp pulse of pain through his chest, but he ignored it. The noble clothes prepared for him lay neatly folded as always—black, crimson-trimmed, bearing the falcon sigil.
He dressed without ceremony.
When he finished, he stood before the mirror again.
The man staring back at him still looked like a villain.
Sharp lines. Pale skin. Steel-silver eyes that reflected light too coldly to ever seem kind. His hair was still unkempt, falling slightly into his eyes, giving him a perpetually tired, dangerous look.
He did not try to soften it.
If the world wanted a villain, he would not insult it by pretending otherwise.
A knock came at the door.
This time, it was lighter.
"Brother?" a soft voice called.
Adrian turned. "Come in."
Clara slipped inside, closing the door quickly behind her. She wore a simple gray cloak over her pale-blue dress, her chestnut hair braided more tightly than the day before. Her hazel eyes flicked toward the door once more before settling on him.
"You're already awake," she said quietly.
"I didn't sleep much."
She nodded, unsurprised. "Neither did I."
She approached him, her hands clasped nervously together. Up close, Adrian noticed faint redness around her eyes—she had cried. Probably after leaving him last night. Probably in silence.
"I heard you were in the lower yard yesterday," she said.
"Yes."
"With… Gregor Hale?"
"Yes."
Clara hesitated. "They said he broke your ribs once. Years ago."
Adrian paused. The memory surfaced easily—Gregor's sword hilt slamming into his side when he had failed to raise his guard fast enough. The pain. The laughter of onlooking guards. His father's indifference.
"He was doing his job," Adrian said calmly.
Clara bit her lip. "You shouldn't push yourself. They want you weak."
"I know."
She stared at him, as if searching for something—fear, bitterness, cruelty.
She found none.
"…You're really different," she whispered.
Adrian met her gaze. "Does that frighten you?"
She shook her head immediately. "No. It just… makes me hopeful."
Hope was dangerous.
But he did not take it from her.
"Clara," he said, lowering his voice. "If anyone asks—about me, about what I say or do—you know nothing."
Her eyes widened. "Are you in danger?"
"Yes."
She nodded slowly. "Then I'll be careful."
A second knock interrupted them.
Sharper.
"Lord Adrian," came a guard's voice. "You are expected in the training yard."
Clara stepped back instinctively.
Adrian placed a hand briefly on her shoulder. "Go."
She hesitated—then nodded and slipped out.
The door closed.
Adrian exhaled once and turned toward it.
The lower training yard felt different today.
Occupied.
The weeds had been trampled down. The rusted weapon racks rearranged. And most notably—there were people watching.
Three men stood near the edge of the yard.
The first was Sir Albrecht Dorn, a knight of the Church.
He was tall and broad, clad in polished silver armor etched with holy inscriptions. His blond hair was cropped short, his jaw square, his blue eyes sharp and assessing. A white cloak bearing the sunburst sigil of Radiant Fate draped from his shoulders, immaculate and heavy.
The second was Lukas Merrow, a young nobleman from a lesser house.
He was slim, almost delicate in build, with light brown hair styled carefully back and green eyes that gleamed with thinly veiled curiosity. He wore an expensive training uniform—far too clean for real combat—and carried himself with the confidence of someone who had never truly lost.
The third stood slightly apart.
Gregor Hale.
The old swordsman leaned on his practice blade, his pale blue eyes narrowed as he watched Adrian approach. He looked displeased.
"Didn't expect an audience," Gregor muttered.
Adrian followed his gaze and felt it immediately.
Pressure.
Not magical.
Judgmental.
Sir Albrecht's eyes locked onto him as if Adrian were a specimen laid out for examination.
"So this is him," the knight said coolly. "The disgraced Falkenrath."
Adrian inclined his head politely. "You honor me with your attention."
Sir Albrecht snorted. "Confidence doesn't suit you."
Lukas chuckled. "He's thinner than I imagined."
Gregor shot them both a sharp look. "You're here to watch, not interfere."
Sir Albrecht smiled thinly. "Of course. We merely wished to observe how the House prepares its… problematic heirs."
Adrian stepped into the yard.
The stone beneath his boots felt cold, familiar. He flexed his shoulders, loosening stiff muscles, then reached for a wooden practice sword from the rack.
The weight settled into his hands.
Not comfortable.
But acceptable.
"Begin," Gregor said.
Adrian took his stance.
It was still imperfect.
But it was better than yesterday.
Gregor advanced without warning.
The first strike came low, angled toward Adrian's knee. Adrian reacted late—barely managing to step aside. The wooden blade clipped his thigh, sending a jolt of pain up his leg.
"Too slow," Gregor snapped.
Again.
High strike. Adrian raised his sword in time this time, but the impact rattled his arms, forcing him back a step.
"Your grip is weak."
Again.
Adrian ducked, rolled, came up breathing hard.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Lukas smirking.
Sir Albrecht's gaze never left him.
"Pathetic," Lukas muttered loudly. "He won't last a minute in real combat."
Something in Adrian shifted.
Not anger.
Focus.
He adjusted his footing.
Gregor attacked again.
This time, Adrian did not try to overpower the blow.
He redirected it.
The wooden swords slid past each other with a sharp crack, the force dissipated harmlessly. Gregor blinked.
Again.
Adrian stepped inside the old man's reach, blade tapping lightly against Gregor's wrist.
A clean touch.
Gregor froze.
Silence rippled through the yard.
Sir Albrecht's eyes narrowed.
"That was luck," Lukas scoffed.
Gregor stepped back slowly, studying Adrian as if seeing him for the first time. "Do it again."
Adrian did.
And again.
Each exchange lasted only seconds, but with every movement, something became clearer.
He wasn't stronger.
He wasn't faster.
But he was learning—instantly, ruthlessly.
Adrian's mind stripped away excess motion, unnecessary force, wasted effort. His body followed, clumsy at first, then more precise.
Gregor struck harder.
Adrian adapted.
Gregor changed angles.
Adrian adjusted.
Around them, the air felt… tight.
Sir Albrecht frowned. "Do you feel that?"
Lukas blinked. "Feel what?"
The knight did not answer.
For a brief moment—just a heartbeat—Sir Albrecht's footing slipped on dry stone.
Impossible.
He steadied himself quickly, but the disturbance lingered.
Gregor disengaged, breathing heavier now.
"That's enough," he said quietly.
Adrian lowered his sword, chest heaving.
Silence followed.
Sir Albrecht stepped forward.
"Curious," he said. "You were reported incompetent."
"I still am," Adrian replied evenly.
The knight studied him, gaze piercing. "You don't fight like someone who believes in fate."
Adrian met his eyes. "Should I?"
Sir Albrecht's lips tightened. "Be careful what you imply, boy."
"I am."
The knight held his gaze for another moment, then turned away. "We'll be watching."
Lukas scoffed, but followed.
As they left, Adrian felt it again—that strange sensation of resistance, as if something unseen had tried to assert itself and failed.
Gregor stared at Adrian for a long moment.
"…What are you?" the old man asked quietly.
Adrian wiped sweat from his brow. "Someone who doesn't want to die."
Gregor grunted. "Then listen well. You don't have talent. You don't have strength. You don't have time."
"I know."
"But you have something worse," Gregor continued. "You're paying attention."
Adrian nodded.
Gregor tossed him a cloth. "Tomorrow, we train with steel."
Adrian caught it.
For the first time since awakening in this body, a faint, genuine smile tugged at his lips.
High above the Falkenrath estate, unseen and unfelt by most, something stirred.
Threads tightened.
Probabilities recalculated.
An anomaly flagged.
And far away, within the sanctified halls of the Church of Radiant Fate, a man in white robes paused mid-prayer.
He was old, his hair silver, his eyes clouded—but when he opened them, there was calculation there.
"Interesting," he murmured.
For the first time in many years—
Fate was no longer certain.