The circle of soldiers around the training field had grown without anyone needing to order it.
Men who had been pretending to adjust equipment or sharpen blades were now clearly watching. Some with open curiosity. Others with that hard look soldiers have when they still haven't decided whether they hate or respect someone.
Rowan felt them all.
But what he really felt was his leg.
Every time he put weight on it, the pain came first as a warning… and then as a deep pressure climbing up his thigh. It wasn't just the pain of a fresh cut — it was the pain of a muscle that had been torn and then forced to keep working.
He kept his expression neutral.
Lyra stood in front of him.
Her sword was already out of the scabbard, resting lightly in her hand as if it were simply a natural extension of her arm. There was no tension in her body. No hurry.
Her posture was relaxed.
Confident.
She watched the way Rowan held his sword.
The position of his feet.
The weight of his body.
The inelegant way he kept the blade in front of him.
She let out a small breath through her nose.
— Hm.
Rowan raised an eyebrow.
— Is that a technical comment?
A few soldiers chuckled quietly.
Lyra tilted her head slightly, studying him the way someone studies a strange tool they haven't yet decided is useful.
— No.
She moved the tip of her sword toward him.
— It's curiosity.
Rowan adjusted his grip on his own blade.
— Curiosity about what?
She made a small gesture with her chin.
— About how you're still standing.
One soldier commented from behind:
— He doesn't even have a proper stance.
Another replied:
— Looks like he picked up that sword yesterday.
Rowan heard them.
He shrugged.
— I did pick it up yesterday.
That drew louder laughter now.
Lyra didn't laugh.
But the corner of her mouth moved.
— Then let's see how much you learned in a day.
She advanced.
The first attack was fast.
Not brutal.
It wasn't a strike meant to bring him down.
It was a test.
A clean thrust aimed at Rowan's chest.
Rowan reacted by instinct.
His blade rose and knocked the strike aside with a simple movement.
The sound of steel colliding echoed through the circle.
Lyra immediately turned the sword, shifting the angle of the attack fluidly, trying for his shoulder.
Rowan blocked again.
But this time the impact ran through his entire arm.
He stepped back half a step.
His injured leg protested immediately.
An unpleasant heat climbed through the muscle.
Lyra noticed.
Of course she noticed.
— Your leg will give up before you do.
Rowan breathed through his nose.
— It's already tried.
Lyra attacked again.
This time in a sequence.
High cut.
Quick shift to the side.
Then a short thrust.
Her movements were clean.
Trained.
Precise.
Each strike flowed into the next with control.
Rowan didn't respond with elegance.
He responded with brutal simplicity.
Block.
Push.
Step back.
No refined spins.
No feints.
Just the basics.
But the basics… very well executed.
Lyra noticed that first.
She stepped back.
Studied him again.
— You don't fight like a soldier.
Rowan adjusted his grip.
— Because I'm not one.
— Nor like a knight.
— I had already guessed that.
A soldier behind them commented quietly:
— He fights like someone who's brawled in a harvest field.
Another replied:
— Or in a tavern.
Rowan tilted his head slightly toward the voices.
— Both teach quite a lot.
A few laughs followed.
Lyra advanced again.
This time faster.
Steel sang through the air.
She struck from above.
Rowan blocked.
The impact vibrated through his arm.
She turned the blade to open his guard.
Rowan didn't try to follow the technique.
He simply pushed.
Direct force against her sword.
No elegance.
But effective.
Lyra had to take a step back to keep her balance.
Some soldiers murmured.
— Hm.
She watched Rowan again.
Now with a little more interest.
— You don't try to match me.
Rowan was breathing a bit heavier now.
— Because I'd lose.
She raised an eyebrow.
— Then what's the plan?
Rowan shifted more weight onto his good leg.
— Stay standing.
Some soldiers laughed.
Lyra advanced again.
This time faster.
Her blade passed close to his shoulder.
Rowan barely dodged.
But the movement forced him to twist his body.
His injured leg answered with a sharp stab of pain.
He made a small grimace.
Almost imperceptible.
Lyra saw it.
— It's getting worse.
— It is.
She attacked low this time.
Rowan managed to block, but the impact made his body tremble slightly.
They both stood still for a second.
Breathing.
The circle of soldiers was now completely attentive.
Because something was becoming clear.
Rowan wasn't refined.
He wasn't elegant.
But every movement had purpose.
No wasted motion.
No attempt to look impressive.
Just survival.
Lyra tilted her head slightly.
— You know the basics.
Rowan nodded.
— The basics keep you alive.
She spun the sword lightly in her fingers.
— Against bad soldiers, maybe.
Rowan glanced briefly around the circle.
— That explains why I'm still here.
Several soldiers burst into laughter.
One even slapped another on the shoulder.
Lyra couldn't quite hide a small smile now.
But it disappeared quickly.
She raised her sword again.
— Rowan.
He lifted his blade as well.
— Lyra.
She inclined her head slightly.
— Let's see how long those basics hold.
Then she advanced again.
Lyra advanced once more.
Her blade came down fast and clean, aiming for Rowan's shoulder.
He blocked.
The impact ran through his arm and shook his entire shoulder. Steel scraped against steel with a dry sound that echoed through the circle of soldiers.
Rowan stepped back half a step.
His injured leg protested immediately.
A hot stab of pain shot through the torn muscle, climbing up his thigh like fire. His body reacted instinctively, trying to shift weight away from that side.
Lyra saw.
She always saw.
— You're getting slower — she commented, almost casually.
Rowan took a deep breath through his nose.
Air filled his lungs heavily.
— You too.
Some soldiers laughed.
Lyra raised an eyebrow.
— Me?
Rowan shrugged.
— You're talking more.
She didn't answer.
She simply advanced again.
Faster this time.
High cut.
Immediate shift to the side.
Rowan blocked the first strike.
The second he barely dodged.
The third almost landed.
Lyra's blade passed close to his ribs, slicing only the fabric of his clothes.
She stepped back half a step, observing.
— You're waiting.
Rowan kept his sword in front of him.
— Always.
Lyra spun the blade lightly in her fingers.
— Waiting for me to tire?
— Waiting for you to make a mistake.
Some soldiers exchanged looks.
Lyra tilted her head slightly.
— I don't make mistakes often.
— It still happens.
She advanced again.
But this time something changed.
Rowan didn't retreat.
He moved first.
The motion was simple.
Direct.
Nothing elegant.
Nothing refined.
His sword came down in a heavy strike from above.
Lyra blocked.
The impact was strong.
Stronger than she expected.
Rowan stepped forward.
His leg protested immediately.
Pain.
Sharp.
Violent.
But he ignored it.
Another strike.
Simple.
Direct.
Lyra dodged.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
Rowan kept pressing.
Not with refined technique.
But with persistence.
Every strike was basic.
Cut.
Push.
Short thrust.
Nothing pretty.
But solid.
The soldiers around them began to notice.
One murmured:
— He's advancing.
Another replied:
— With that leg?
Lyra stepped back.
Then another step.
Now she was the one reacting.
Rowan's blows weren't sophisticated, but they came without hesitation. Like someone who wasn't trying to impress anyone.
Just move forward.
She blocked another strike.
— Interesting.
Rowan was breathing heavier now.
— I've heard that today.
She dodged another blow.
— You said you're a peasant.
He stepped forward again.
His sword came down in another heavy strike.
— I am.
She blocked.
The impact ran through her arm.
— Then tell me something.
Rowan took another step.
His leg screamed in pain.
He ignored it.
Another strike.
— What?
Lyra pushed his blade aside.
— How does a peasant end up in a war like this?
Rowan took a deep breath.
Sweat now ran down his forehead.
He attacked again.
Lyra blocked.
The clash echoed.
— I impressed someone.
She stepped back half a step.
— Who?
Rowan pressed forward again.
Another strike.
Lyra dodged.
Now there was real surprise in the eyes of some soldiers.
He kept pressing.
Even with the leg clearly getting worse.
— Lord Edric.
Lyra blocked another attack.
— On a battlefield?
Rowan shook his head.
Another strike.
Heavier now.
— At a tournament.
Some soldiers glanced at each other.
Lyra frowned slightly.
— A tournament?
Rowan breathed deeply.
Advanced again.
His sword came down in another strong strike.
Lyra blocked, but this time she had to plant her feet more firmly.
— A peasant… at a tournament.
Rowan tried to take another step.
His leg finally answered.
The pain came like a hot explosion shooting up his thigh.
His body failed for a moment.
The sword fell from his hand.
Steel hit the ground with a dry sound.
Rowan slowly let out the air in his lungs.
His hand dropped to support his thigh.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
— Right.
The circle of soldiers went completely silent.
Rowan took another deep breath.
Then he opened his eyes and looked at Lyra.
— I think my leg disagrees with continuing.
He gave a small, tired smile.
— That's as far as it wanted to go today.