The chapter house yard was already alive when Kai arrived, a sprawl of boots, breath, and the hard crack of practice swords. Training here began at sunrise every day except festival, and even on those mornings, the real hopefuls showed up regardless. The walls of the yard were stacked two men high, capped with iron spikes, the better to keep recruits' failures from spilling out onto the street. The yard itself was a patchwork of churned dirt and trampled grass, split by lines of dummies and racks loaded with dulled weapons.
Kai scanned the crowd before stepping in. Most of the other orphans wouldn't be here—chapter house training was for towners, the sons and daughters of merchants, farmers, and guards. He spotted Tomas right away, the boy's broad back turned to him, already in animated conversation with a knot of friends. Kai's best bet was to keep to the edges, stay out of range.
It didn't work. Tomas's voice carried over the yard, as always. "Hey! Fischer! You running drills, or are you just here to clean the toilets again?"
A ripple of laughter followed. Even a few of the older recruits—ones Kai had never spoken to—cracked smiles. He felt his ears heat, but he kept his head down and moved toward the muster line.
Instructor Rael Vantis stood at the far end of the yard, his silhouette unmistakable. He was tall, even by knightly standards, with arms like steel cables and a face carved from old wood. His limp was the only concession to age, and even that looked like it would rather be somewhere else. The blue of his instructor's tabard had faded to a stormy gray, but the silver insignia at his throat caught the light when he turned.
"Form up!" Vantis bellowed. His voice needed no help from the wind; it cut straight through the chatter. "If you're not in line in five seconds, you're running the perimeter until you puke!"
Everyone hustled. Kai slipped into the second row, behind a tall girl from the river district and beside a scrawny boy who reeked of fish. There was a moment of silence as Vantis paced the front, gaze flaying the crowd.
"You're here because you think you're tough. You think you're clever, or fast, or special. Maybe you are. But out there—" He stabbed a finger toward the horizon, where the sky still blushed with sunrise. "—out there, the Gloom doesn't care about your feelings. It doesn't care about your family name. It cares about what's left of you when it's done eating."
A few nervous chuckles. Tomas, to his credit, didn't laugh. He just stared straight ahead, jaw clenched.
Vantis strode down the rows, inspecting. When he passed Kai, he lingered a half-second longer than necessary. His eyes flicked down to the steel pendant, then up to Kai's face. Nothing in his expression changed, but the message was clear: You're on notice.
"All right, heroes," Vantis said, stopping at the head of the line. "Pair up, grab a practice sword, and start with the first sequence. If you're caught loafing, you'll be scrubbing the privies with your tongue."
As the group broke, Tomas intercepted Kai at the rack. "I'll take the left-handed stick, Fischer. Wouldn't want to break your little toy, would I?" He snatched up the heavier practice sword, brandishing it like a real weapon.
Kai kept his voice neutral. "You're stronger anyway. You always win."
Tomas grinned, white teeth flashing. "Damn right I do. But at least you know your place."
They took their marks in the sandy ring. The other pairs set to work, the clack of wood and grunts of effort filling the air. Tomas advanced immediately, swinging hard for Kai's ribs. Kai parried, barely, and staggered back a pace. His forearms screamed in protest.
"Come on," Tomas said, circling. "Aren't you supposed to be the hero's son? Make it interesting."
Kai sidestepped, feinted low, but Tomas was ready. Another heavy blow, another jolt through his arms. "You going to cry again, Fischer?" Tomas taunted, voice low enough for just them.
Kai gritted his teeth. "Not today."
Tomas pressed the attack, battering away at Kai's guard. It was textbook, and Kai had seen it a hundred times, but knowing what was coming didn't help if you didn't have the muscle to stop it. After a few more exchanges, Kai's left wrist went numb.
"Instructor said to use proper form," Kai managed, deflecting a slash.
Tomas snorted. "Vantis isn't here, is he?"
But he was. Vantis's shadow loomed over the ring, arms folded. "That's enough, Tomas," he barked. "If I wanted to see meat pounding meat, I'd go to the slaughterhouse."
Tomas stepped back, face pink. "Yes, Instructor."
Vantis eyed the pair, then jerked his chin. "Switch partners."
Tomas slunk off, and Kai exhaled, lowering his sword. His hands trembled, and he hoped no one noticed. He went to the edge of the ring, wiping sweat from his brow.
It wasn't about winning. He just had to last the day.
The next drill was new—Vantis had warned them to expect surprises, but no one guessed he'd have the armorer rig up moving dummies overnight. They were ugly contraptions: wood and straw lashed onto pivoting axles, with padded shields for torsos and spring-loaded arms weighted at the end. You could see the blacksmith's handiwork in the metal joints and the battered faces. They lined the center of the yard, ten paces apart, each ready to spin or lurch with the flick of a lever.
"Pair off," Vantis ordered, "and approach the dummy as you would a live opponent. Your objective is to disable, not destroy. If I see one limb come off, you're paying for repairs out of your own hide."
The recruits shuffled into pairs again, each sizing up the nearest dummy with varying degrees of confidence. Tomas and his new partner went first, both charging at the same time. The dummy's shield-arm whipped out, catching the smaller boy in the stomach and sending him sprawling. Tomas landed a solid blow to the dummy's "leg," but the mechanism absorbed most of the impact.
"Sloppy!" Vantis barked. "You have eyes, don't you? Use them!"
One by one, the pairs took their turns. Some made decent attempts, going for the obvious target points, but none got past the dummy's defense without taking a solid hit in return. Kai watched carefully, noting the timing of the arm swings, the telltale creak just before the shield snapped out, the slight wobble at the base after a hard strike.
When his turn came, he drew a lighter practice sword from the rack—a risk, but his arms were already flagging. His partner, the river district girl, gave him a quick nod. "Just don't let it break my nose, okay?"
He smiled, more out of nerves than amusement. "I'll try."
They approached as a unit. The dummy's arm swung, but Kai had already shifted right, barely outside its range. He counted the rhythm—one, two, three—and as the shield rebounded, he ducked low, slipping under the next swing. His partner hesitated, momentarily surprised, and the dummy clipped her shoulder before she could react.
Kai saw the opening. Instead of striking the shield, he reversed the blade and drove the point into the join where the dummy's "neck" met the torso. The impact wasn't hard, but the mechanism jammed with a sharp click, and the arms froze mid-swing.
Vantis's whistle split the yard. "That's it! That's how you use your head, not just your shoulders! See, Tomas? I want tactics, not tantrums!"
A few of the recruits groaned, but others looked at Kai with a mixture of annoyance and reluctant admiration. He stepped back, letting the river district girl recover her balance. "Nice move," she said, rubbing her shoulder. "You always this sneaky?"
He shrugged, feeling the pleasant buzz of not having embarrassed himself for once. "Just lucky."
Vantis reset the dummy and pointed at Kai. "You, again. Solo this time."
Kai's arms ached, but he nodded and stepped forward. The dummy's mechanisms whirred louder now, and it pivoted as soon as he came in range. He feinted left, then dodged right, and when the arm swung wide, he waited—just a beat longer than instinct told him. The second swing came faster, but he anticipated it, ducked under, and brought his sword up in a controlled arc, tapping the dummy's "chest" where a real opponent's sternum might be.
The dummy stopped. Vantis grinned, an expression so rare it could have been myth. "Not bad. Everyone else, take note: brains beat brawn, every time."
The rest of the session passed in a blur. The recruits rotated through drills, some trying to imitate Kai's moves, most reverting to old habits. Tomas glared at him from across the yard, but said nothing. Kai did his best to ignore the looks, focusing instead on every tip Vantis shouted from the sidelines.
By the time the bell rang for mid-morning break, Kai's shirt clung to his back, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. He stood at the edge of the yard, catching his breath, as Vantis dismissed the group.
"Fischer," the instructor called. "A word."
Kai wiped his hands on his tunic and jogged over, feeling a prick of anxiety. Had he done something wrong?
Vantis regarded him for a long moment. "Who taught you to fight like that?"
Kai hesitated. "Myself, mostly. And manuals. I read a lot."
"Reading won't save you in a real fight," Vantis said. But there was something like respect in his tone. "Still. You pay attention. That matters."
He didn't offer praise, exactly, but the words hung in the air like a benediction. Kai nodded, unsure what to say.
"Don't get cocky," Vantis added. "You're still the skinniest sack of bones in this yard. But today, you made it count."
Kai left the chapter house with his head higher than usual. He'd won something, even if it was just a second look from a man who never gave them.
***
The reward for outsmarting the training dummy was a grueling perimeter run—a circuit of the chapter house walls, four laps, no breaks. The yard had gone from brisk to baking in the late morning, and the air shimmered with dust kicked up by dozens of pounding feet. Vantis set the pace himself, hobbling ahead with his odd gait, daring anyone to keep up.
Kai knew he'd be near the back. His legs were shot, and the ache in his arms had migrated up to his shoulders and neck. Still, he started with the pack, drawing even with the river district girl for half a lap before she pulled away. Tomas and his friends set an early lead, barking taunts at each other and at anyone who fell behind.
"Come on, Fischer!" Tomas called, loud enough for everyone. "Is that all you've got?"
Kai gritted his teeth, breathing sharp and shallow. He focused on the rhythm—left, right, left, right—counting steps, using the numbers to drown out the noise. The first lap wasn't terrible. By the second, his chest burned. On the third, every joint below his waist felt fused with hot lead.
He thought about stopping. More than once, the temptation gnawed at him—just slow down, let the pack swallow you up, and fade out of sight. No one would care. No one expected the "ghost" to finish.
But then he felt the pendant against his collarbone, cool and steady. He glanced down, fingers brushing the disk through the fabric.
What would you have done, he wondered. You wouldn't have quit. Not even when it hurt.
He pictured his father not as the folk hero from the stories, but as the tired man who'd come home with bruises and splinters and a grin that said he'd seen worse. The memory made something raw unfurl inside him.
Kai fixed his eyes on the wall ahead. He slowed his pace, yes, but didn't stop. On the fourth lap, the pack had already finished, most of them splayed on the grass or clustered around the water trough. But Kai ran alone, the world shrinking to the thud of his heart and the scrape of his breath in his throat.
He didn't cross the finish in triumph. He stumbled over it, knees buckling, and dropped to the grass. The sky spun overhead, dazzling and indifferent. But he'd finished. For him, that was enough.
A shadow fell across his face. Kai squinted up to see Vantis standing over him, hands on hips. The instructor's mouth quirked in a way that wasn't quite a smile.
"Good work, Fischer," he said. "Most would have quit."
Kai rolled onto his back, chest heaving. "Didn't seem like an option."
Vantis nodded, then moved off to bark at the next group.
Kai closed his eyes and let the world fade for a moment, the steel disk a small, perfect anchor at the center of it all.
The sun had climbed high and bright by the time drills ended, turning the yard's dirt to dust and painting hard shadows across every uneven surface. Most of the recruits peeled away in twos and threes, talking about the day's drills, the lunch waiting at home, or the new rumors about conscription in the northern districts. A few—Tomas among them—slunk off with glances backward, their pride bruised by the morning's results.
Kai lingered, not out of hope but because his legs didn't want to work just yet. He knelt beside the rack, replacing his practice sword, wiping sweat from his forehead, and letting the echoes of laughter and shouting fade into a kind of peaceful emptiness. In the quiet, he could almost hear the old heartbeat again, steady and insistent, reminding him that today hadn't been a waste.
A shadow stretched across the ground. "On your feet, Fischer."
Kai rose. Instructor Vantis stood just inside the gate, arms folded, face impassive as ever. He didn't speak right away.
"Your form's still a mess," Vantis said finally, "and you let your left side open up on the turn. If that dummy had been a demon, you'd be dead."
Kai nodded, unsure if this was a lecture or a dismissal.
"But," Vantis continued, "you think. You adapt. There's not a lot of that in this generation. Not enough, anyway."
He paused, as if weighing something. The scar across his face seemed to twitch. "Your father would have liked that move with the neck joint. He was a bastard for precision. Clean. Efficient."
Kai felt the heat crawl up his cheeks. "Thank you, Instructor." He glanced down at his hands—thin-fingered, almost delicate, nothing like the calloused mitts his father had possessed.
Vantis looked away, toward the now-empty yard. "Don't let it go to your head. You're not him, and you never will be. But maybe that's not so bad."
For a moment, it seemed Vantis might say something more. Instead, he grunted and limped off, his shadow shrinking behind him.
Kai stood alone in the sun, the words echoing in his ears. He unclasped the pendant, its weight substantial in his palm. The steel disk—his father's legacy—seemed almost comically oversized against his slender wrist. For once, though, it didn't feel cold. The metal was warm from his skin, and the sun, and maybe from something else entirely.
He gripped it tight, the edges biting into flesh too soft for a knight's hands, and let himself imagine a world where hope wasn't just a story told to orphans.