The Palace Training Yard. Morning.
Aldric stood at the edge of the yard, his cane in his hand, his leg throbbing.
The volunteers were already there—twelve of them, farmers and hunters and retired soldiers, their weapons mismatched, their armor patched, their faces uncertain. They had been training for days now. They were better than they had been. They were not good enough.
Mei was the best of them. Her old scout instincts had come back quickly—the way she moved, the way she watched, the way she never let her guard down. She was quiet, focused, steady. She reminded Aldric of Lira.
The worst of them was Tomas.
He was young, barely twenty, with the build of a farmer and the hands of someone who had never held a sword. He couldn't stand still. He couldn't hold his blade steady. He couldn't stop apologizing.
"Sorry," he said, after dropping his practice sword for the fifth time.
Aldric picked it up. Held it out. "Don't apologize. Just pick it up."
Tomas took it. His hands were shaking.
"Sorry," he said again.
Aldric almost smiled. Almost. "Again."
---
The morning passed slowly.
Aldric put them through the drills—footwork, blocks, strikes. He was hard on them. Harder than he needed to be. He remembered how Grog had trained him—no mercy, no shortcuts, no excuses. He remembered the bruises, the blood, the days when he couldn't lift his arms. He remembered the moment when it had started to make sense.
Mei adapted quickly. The others struggled.
Tomas struggled the most.
He couldn't get his feet right. He couldn't keep his weight forward. He couldn't stop thinking about what he was doing, which meant he couldn't just do it. Aldric corrected him. He tried. He failed. He tried again.
"You're thinking too much," Aldric said.
Tomas lowered his sword. "How do I stop?"
Aldric was quiet for a moment. "You don't. You just learn to think faster."
---
At midday, a rider arrived at the palace gates.
He was young, his face pale, his horse lathered. He had ridden hard, pushed his animal to the edge of collapse. The guards helped him dismount, led him to the Duke.
Aldric saw him from the training yard—a flash of movement, a cluster of servants, the Duke emerging from his study. He couldn't hear what was said. But he saw the Duke's face change.
Something was wrong.
He walked to the gates, his cane in his hand, his leg aching.
"What happened?"
The Duke turned. "William's patrol. They've been attacked."
---
Aldric's blood went cold.
"How bad?"
The Duke shook his head. "The rider didn't have details. Just that they needed help. Now."
Aldric looked at the volunteers. They were standing at the edge of the yard, watching, waiting. Mei had her bow in her hand. Tomas had his sword. The others were pale, scared, but ready.
"I'll take them," Aldric said.
The Duke stared at him. "They're not ready."
"They're ready enough."
The Duke was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded. "Go."
---
They rode out within the hour.
Aldric led them, his leg propped, his cane tied to his saddle. The volunteers followed—twelve of them, farmers and hunters and retired soldiers, their weapons mismatched, their armor patched, their faces set.
Mei rode beside him. "How far?"
"An hour. Maybe less."
She looked at the road ahead. "We'll make it."
Aldric nodded. "We have to."