Chapter 4 — Steel Draws Blood
The weight of a real sword was different.
Adrian felt it the moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt.
Unlike the wooden practice blade, steel carried intent. It resisted the hand, demanded respect, punished hesitation. The balance was unfamiliar—slightly forward-heavy—but honest. Cold metal pressed against his palm, grounding him in a way nothing else had since he awakened in this body.
The lower training yard was quieter than the day before.
No noble spectators.
No mocking laughter.
Only Gregor Hale stood opposite him, holding his own blade loosely at his side.
The old swordsman's appearance was unchanged—weathered leathers, hunched posture, white hair pulled back into a short tail—but his eyes were sharper today. More alert. As if he were no longer humoring a dying noble, but assessing a potential threat.
"Steel changes everything," Gregor said. "Wood forgives. Metal doesn't."
Adrian nodded. "I understand."
Gregor's pale blue gaze flicked briefly to the edge of the yard, where two guards stood watch. Not House Falkenrath guards.
Church guards.
They wore white tabards with gold trim over chainmail, faces hidden behind open helms. Silent. Observing.
"They're not here to protect you," Gregor muttered. "They're here to measure you."
Adrian's grip tightened slightly.
"Then let's give them something accurate," he said.
Gregor snorted once. "Don't get arrogant."
He raised his sword.
Adrian mirrored him.
The air felt heavier than before—not magically, but psychologically. Somewhere deep in his chest, his heartbeat slowed, steady and deliberate.
Gregor stepped forward.
The first exchange was brutal.
Steel clashed against steel with a sharp, ringing crack that echoed across the yard. The impact jolted Adrian's arms, sending vibrations up into his shoulders. He barely managed to hold his guard as Gregor pressed, blade moving with practiced efficiency.
Too strong.
Too fast.
Adrian retreated a step, boots scraping against stone. Gregor didn't give him space. A low cut followed immediately by a rising slash aimed at Adrian's ribs.
Adrian twisted, barely avoiding the edge. Pain flared anyway—the flat of the blade smacked into his side, knocking the breath from his lungs.
"Your body remembers weakness," Gregor growled. "Unlearn it."
Again.
Adrian raised his sword just in time, redirecting the blow instead of meeting it head-on. The movement was clumsy but effective. Gregor's blade slid off, sparks flashing briefly.
Adrian stepped inside Gregor's guard instinctively—too instinctively.
Gregor's pommel slammed into Adrian's shoulder.
Pain exploded.
Adrian staggered back, nearly dropping his sword.
From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the Church guards lean slightly forward.
Watching for failure.
Adrian forced himself upright.
Blood trickled from a shallow cut along his forearm, where steel had grazed flesh. The sight of it grounded him. The sting sharpened his focus.
Steel drew blood.
Good.
Gregor advanced again.
This time, Adrian did not retreat.
He adjusted his stance—feet wider, knees bent slightly, center lowered. The posture felt unnatural to the body but correct to the mind.
Gregor struck.
Adrian did not block.
He stepped.
A half-step to the side, blade angled, letting Gregor's strike pass just enough to avoid contact. He rotated his wrist and tapped Gregor's blade aside, not with force, but with timing.
For a heartbeat, Gregor was open.
Adrian's sword touched the old man's chest—lightly, controlled.
Gregor froze.
Silence fell again.
One of the Church guards stiffened.
Gregor stepped back slowly, eyes narrowing. "Again."
They clashed once more.
And again.
Adrian's body screamed in protest, muscles burning, lungs aching. But his mind remained calm, ruthless, stripping each exchange down to its essence.
Angle.
Timing.
Distance.
He was not winning.
But he was no longer losing.
Gregor disengaged abruptly, raising a hand.
"That's enough," he said.
Adrian lowered his blade, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his face.
Gregor stared at him for a long moment.
"You're still weak," he said. "But you're no longer helpless."
Adrian inclined his head. "That's all I need."
One of the Church guards stepped forward.
He removed his helm.
He was young—early twenties—with pale blond hair, sharp blue eyes, and an expression carved from disdain. His features were handsome in a rigid, idealized way, unmarred by hardship.
This was Sir Lucien Varro, a junior knight of the Church.
"So this is the Falkenrath disappointment," Lucien said coolly. "I expected worse."
Adrian turned to face him.
Up close, the difference between them was stark. Lucien stood tall and confident, his armor pristine, his posture relaxed in the way of someone accustomed to divine favor. Adrian stood thinner, bloodied, visibly exhausted.
Yet Lucien's gaze flickered—just slightly.
"You shouldn't be here," Adrian said calmly. "This is private training."
Lucien smiled thinly. "Everything concerning you is Church business now."
Gregor scowled. "He's done for the day."
Lucien ignored him. "I'd like to test something."
Adrian did not respond immediately.
Gregor stepped forward. "No."
Lucien's eyes hardened. "Stand aside, old man."
Adrian raised a hand.
Gregor glanced at him sharply. "You don't have to—"
"I know," Adrian said quietly. "But it's fine."
Gregor cursed under his breath and stepped back reluctantly.
Lucien's smile returned. "A duel, then. Nothing formal. Just… curiosity."
Adrian met his gaze. "Steel?"
Lucien chuckled. "Of course."
The Church knight drew his sword.
It was a beautiful weapon—long, straight, gleaming, etched with golden runes along the fuller. A blade blessed and reinforced by holy rites.
Adrian's sword was plain by comparison.
They faced each other.
Lucien moved first.
Fast.
Faster than Gregor.
His blade flashed toward Adrian's throat in a clean, confident arc.
Adrian reacted on instinct.
Not strength.
Not speed.
Timing.
He stepped forward instead of back, letting the blade pass just wide enough to avoid decapitation. The edge nicked his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.
Pain sharpened his awareness.
Lucien blinked—just a fraction too slow.
Adrian's sword came up in a short, controlled motion, striking Lucien's wrist.
Steel met steel.
Lucien grunted as his grip faltered.
They separated.
Lucien's smile was gone.
"You're lucky," he snapped.
"Possibly," Adrian replied evenly.
Lucien attacked again—harder this time, faster, chaining strikes together in a practiced sequence designed to overwhelm.
Adrian retreated, parrying desperately, each impact rattling his arms. His foot slipped slightly on stone slick with sweat and blood.
Lucien seized the opening.
His blade slashed downward.
Adrian twisted too late.
Steel bit into his shoulder.
Blood flowed freely.
The pain was blinding.
Lucien smiled again. "There it is."
Something inside Adrian went still.
Not rage.
Not fear.
Acceptance.
He stepped forward.
Lucien frowned. "What—"
Adrian's sword moved.
A single, precise cut.
Not fast.
Not powerful.
Perfectly timed.
The edge sliced across Lucien's thigh.
Blood sprayed.
Lucien screamed, collapsing backward, clutching his leg as crimson soaked his armor.
Silence fell like a guillotine.
The remaining Church guard rushed forward, drawing his blade—but stopped.
Gregor stood between him and Adrian, sword raised.
"Enough," Gregor growled. "He lost."
The guard hesitated, then knelt beside Lucien, face pale.
Adrian stood frozen, chest heaving, blood dripping from his blade.
He had drawn blood from a chosen knight.
He had violated expectation.
Somewhere unseen, something tightened.
Adrian felt it.
A pressure.
A resistance.
As if the world itself disapproved.
Sir Lucien Varro glared up at him through pain and disbelief.
"This isn't over," he hissed. "The Church doesn't forget."
Adrian met his gaze calmly.
"Neither do I."
That night, Adrian sat alone in his room, his shoulder bandaged, his body aching beyond exhaustion.
Clara had come earlier—silent, trembling—helped him clean the wound without speaking. Tears had fallen onto his skin. He had let them.
Now, as darkness settled over the estate, Adrian stared at his reflection once more.
Bloodied.
Bruised.
Alive.
He flexed his fingers.
For a brief moment, the air around him felt… wrong.
As if an unseen hand had tried to pull something into place—and failed.
Adrian smiled faintly.
Steel had drawn blood.
And fate had flinched.