Ezra finished the tour of Bren in the late afternoon. By then the light had gone soft and long, turning dust into gold and the rooftops into burnished bronze.
Reitz and Aerwyna did not want to compromise his safety. Even after the kidnapping attempt, Bren was considered secure—patrols doubled, watch rotations tightened—but neither of them was willing to test how secure after dark.
No roaming the streets. No detours through the markets. Straight back to the castle… in theory.
"Can we go to the training grounds?"," Ezra said, lifting a small finger toward the distant clatter of steel coming from the southern ward.
Reitz followed his gaze and grinned. "The boy wants to see the steel, Aerwyna. We can't deny him that on his second name day."
Aerwyna opened her mouth to refuse. The words were there: No, absolutely not, we're going home. Then Ezra's eyes met hers, wide and expectant. Patient.
He had been patient for so long.
He had endured being shut in the castle for over a year without tantrums or screaming fits. No throwing things, no kicking servants. He accepted the rules with a calm that, if she was honest, unsettled her. Aside from the occasional "escape" which she considered a form of play. Ezra was behaved.
That same calm had robbed her of something. Sometimes, when she watched him carefully enunciate words he should not yet know, it struck her that she'd never really had a baby phase with him. No nonsense syllables, no babbling, no chance to coo and baby-talk and be answered with giggles and drool. The loneliness of that realization would grab her at odd moments, a tiny hollow place in her chest.
But then she remembered how capable he was, how bright. How he folded himself into her arms with a quiet trust that felt older than it should be. And she smiled despite herself.
She sighed, defeated. "One hour," she said. "We watch from above. You do not go down."
They arrived at the training grounds south of the castle with the sun still up. It was the midsummer equinox; the sun would linger on the horizon long past when it should have fallen.
Below the raised gallery, the yard spread out in a wide oval. Racks bristled with spears, swords, pikes, polearms, maces and war hammers. The sand was scored with footprints and scuff marks, broken by patches of rock, low shrubs, and a shallow lake glinting in the middle.
Ezra's eyes ran along the weapon racks. The longswords in particular caught his attention; their steel had a faint bluish sheen.
He had assumed this world sat somewhere around the Middle Ages of his old one. The more he looked, the less the comparison held. Comparatively advanced metallurgy here compared to the Middle Ages. Patchwork logistics there. Nothing lined up as neatly as it should.
A batch of squires was in the middle of their training regimen. They moved in lines, working on their footing, drilling the proper way to execute slashes and thrusts. Blades rose and fell together; boots stomped in unison.
Repetitive. Predictable. Useful, but not what he wanted.
Ezra leaned on the stone rail, small hands gripping the carved edge. He wanted to see how they fought when it wasn't a choreographed dance—how they used magic under pressure, how they made decisions when things stopped going according to pattern.
The wanting itself felt strange. In his old life, curiosity had been a cool, steady thing. Here it came with a restless heat under his ribs, too large for his small body.
A horn blew. The squires broke formation, then scrambled to form a line facing the gallery. They clanged fists against breastplates and bowed to the lord they would one day serve.
"Maester Grimfire," Reitz called. "My son wishes to see a bout."
Maester Aed Grimfire turned, his lined face creasing into a bow. "As you command, my lord. We have several squires ready for assessment."
He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Waine! Hedley! Front and center!"
Two youths jogged into the central yard—a space of roughly five hundred square meters, cut with sand pits and rock outcrops, the small lake gleaming at its heart. One side sprouted a few scrubby trees and bushes, the other lay more open, all churned earth and scattered stones.
Both boys wore plate armor and visors. Each carried a sword at his hip, a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a secondary weapon of choice. The squire entering from the right was Waine. The one on the left was called Hedley.
They took their corners.
"Begin!" Grimfire roared.
They opened with arrows. Three shots each, loosed in quick succession. Shafts whistled through the air and clattered against armor, glancing off steel and leather. Nothing fatal, but neither of them was playing.
Then they dropped their bows and ran.
Ezra let AMP unfurl behind his eyes. The world sharpened into lines and angles, trajectories and probabilities. It used to feel clinical to him, like reading numbers on a screen now it felt more natural.
Waine closed the distance first, weight pitched forward, mana gathering in his left palm like heat shimmer.
[Stone Bullet].
The spell snapped into existence mid-stride, a rough stone projectile tearing toward Hedley. It wasn't elegant, but it was fast.
Hedley brought his buckler up. The bullet hit with a crack, spraying grit and forcing him back half a step. Waine slid into the opening, drawing his sword in the same breath. Steel rang as Hedley parried. Sparks flew where edges scraped.
They traded blows, circling, feet finding purchase on uneven ground. Neither gained more than a fleeting advantage.
Then Waine feinted high and drove his boot into Hedley's chest. Hedley staggered, landing in an awkward half-twist.
He chose to retreat, hopping backward, shield up. Waine didn't let him breathe, snatching up his bow again and sending arrows hissing after him, forcing Hedley to keep moving, to keep his guard high.
To Reitz and Aerwyna's eyes, Hedley was barely keeping his head above water.
To Ezra, the pattern looked different.
"Shift casting?" Reitz murmured, watching Hedley's lips move even as he dodged.
"Yes, my lord," Maester Grimfire replied. "Those two boys are the finest in this cohort."
"Oh? Two?" Reitz asked, eyes glinting. "What of the other one?"
"Patience, my lord," Grimfire said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "The bout will answer you."
Ezra tracked Hedley's movement. Even as he danced away from arrows, the boy's mouth worked through a chant. Body on one track, spell on another. Fight while you speak. In his head, Ezra still framed it in the language of his old world—two tasks in parallel—but the thing happening in front of him felt more alive than any diagram he'd ever drawn.
The neatness of it sent a little pulse of approval through him.
The seventh arrow left Waine's bow. The moment it did, he dropped the weapon, lunging in with his sword and his off-hand gathering mana again.
A liquid-like flame suddenly flared along his fist and surged outward.
[Flame Blaze].
The fire was much less powerful than Reitz's spells, but the structure was intricate. It had weight and shape. Reitz's brows rose, impressed.
"Excellent control," he murmured. "That one has promise."
But as Waine committed to the attack, the ground beneath his boots shook.
Hedley's delayed chant snapped into place.
[Earth Tremor].
The packed earth under Waine's stance quivered and slumped. His balance vanished. The [Flame Blaze] veered off target and guttered out, missing Hedley by more than a meter. Waine dropped to one knee, not from impact, but from the sudden, brutal drain of mana.
"Oh?" Reitz said, smile widening. "The other knows delay-casting as well? Truly, Maester, these squires are exceptional."
Hedley tried to press the advantage, circling to flank, but his own legs trembled. The tremor spell had taken more out of him than he'd had to spare.
In the end it wasn't a dramatic finishing blow that decided the bout. It was Hedley's sword arm drooping, Waine's attempt to rise failing as his vision swam. Both youths sagged, armor heavy on suddenly rubbery limbs.
"Enough," Grimfire called. "Draw. Both combatants are spent."
Reitz, Aerwyna, Ezra and their escort applauded. The two boys struggled to their feet, bowed stiffly to the gallery, and staggered out of the ring, supported by their fellows.
The next three duels were…less inspiring.
Most of the squires relied on nothing but steel, their magic dormant or too clumsy to risk. When they did swing, they did it with too much shoulder and not enough control. Blades came in at the wrong angles, wasting force, wasting motion. AMP traced their vectors in faint gold and kept offering Ezra neat little counters that no one took.
Evan, Ezra thought, watching one boy overextend so badly he nearly tripped himself. Evan's control is better than this by miles; they're still years behind him.
The thought filled him with a quiet pride in his knight—and an irritation with what he was seeing. His emotions felt closer to the surface than they should be. He wasn't used to feeling this much about other people's mistakes.
His gaze slid from the ring to the boy standing among their escort.
Hearth Bedross.
Hearth stood with his arms crossed, chin tilted just a little too high. His expression said plainly that almost everyone here was beneath him. The other squires, the men-at-arms, even some of the knights—he watched them all with the same faint curl to his lip, as if he were being forced to endure their presence.
Only when his eyes drifted toward Reitz and Aerwyna did that look fade. For them, there was respect. For everyone else, including the heir sitting in the carved chair, there was a thin, chilly contempt.
Ezra noticed the pattern.
This kid thinks he's better than everyone, he thought, studying Hearth's face. Not just proud. He looks at people like furniture. Like they're in his way.
Earlier, as they'd walked through Bren, he'd seen Hearth brush past a servant carrying a heavy crate without so much as a glance, forcing the man to twist awkwardly to avoid being knocked aside. He'd heard the way Hearth spoke to Caspian and the other boys—flatly dismissive, as if their words hardly deserved to reach his ears.
Ezra had noticed those moments. He wasn't truly angry about any single slight. Taken together, though, they painted a picture he didn't like.
He could understand a boy being proud of his talent. This was different. A squire who already believed commoners were dirt under his boots would grow into a knight who ignored warnings, who dismissed advice, who trampled people because he couldn't be bothered to look down.
That, more than anything else, sat wrong with Ezra. It made something hot and stubborn rise in his chest.
He could have slapped the boy and blamed it on a toddler's tantrum. No one would have dared say anything. It would have felt good for a moment.
It wouldn't teach him anything.
He wanted Hearth to be forced to see what he refused to see: that the people he looked down on could still bring him to his knees.
So he'd made a plan. He'd asked to see the training grounds, asked to see how the soldiers trained, all the while watching Hearth's expressions, counting every little moment of casual disdain.
Now, standing above the dueling ring, the chance was right there in front of him.
"Mama, Papa," Ezra said, raising his voice just enough. "I want to duel too."
Reitz and Aerwyna both turned. The knights and servants around them went quiet for half a heartbeat, then some of the younger men chuckled. To them, it sounded like harmless mimicry, a child wanting to play at what he'd just seen.
"What!?" Aerwyna blurted. "Why, Ezra? Of course we won't let you."
Reitz was more thoughtful. "And who do you wish to face?" he asked, though his tone carried more curiosity than agreement.
"Him," Ezra said, and pointed straight at Hearth.
Hearth stared back, still proud, still haughty. He didn't show fear—why would he? Ezra was two. Hearth understood that Ezra did not like him, and that being singled out like this could mean trouble, but fear of a toddler was a bridge too far for his pride.
Reitz's expression tightened. "What? Why, Ezra?"
"Nothing," Ezra said lightly. "I just want to test my skills, Papa."
The escort broke into laughter. To them, this was a petty, harmless request, a child wanting to copy the older boys.
"NO," Aerwyna said, the word coming out sharp and absolute.
"That is a somewhat unreasonable request, Ezra," Reitz added with a pained look. He did not want his best friend's child and his own heir crossing blades, not like this. Even though some instinct in him whispered that Ezra could hold his own, he couldn't ignore that in a bout, anything could happen.
This was his plan in the first place. He never meant to.
"Very well," he said. "How about someone duels in my stead? I think… he could."
He pointed at Caspian.
Caspian jerked as if slapped. The boy had been standing dutifully to one side, watching the duels with wide eyes. On the journey, he and Ezra had talked; Caspian had shared the short, rough story of being an orphan. In Ezra's old life, he'd had a soft spot for people like that. Apparently, that part of him had come along for the ride.
Ezra had already tested Caspian's reflexes and speed in small, quiet ways—asking him to catch things suddenly tossed his way, watching how quickly he reacted to shouted warnings. He'd made Caspian swear, on his budding knightly vows, to follow Ezra's commands to the letter if ever they found themselves in a fight together.
Caspian looked miserable now. He didn't want to face Hearth. Ezra could see it plainly in the way his shoulders hunched.
"But I'll have to go down into the ring," Ezra added, "because I want to guide Caspian."
Evan said nothing. His expression darkened for a moment; he knew Hearth's haughty streak and had planned to correct it himself later. He hadn't expected Ezra to move first. Still, he could see the shape of the lesson forming and did not entirely disapprove.
"Hmph. A lowborn commoner dares take me on?" Hearth said, looking Caspian up and down. He did not dare speak that way about Ezra, so he vented at the easier target.
Reitz sighed. Hearth had clearly gotten under Ezra's skin. There was no walking this back completely without undermining his son in front of the retinue.
"Very well," he said at last. "Wooden swords only. Sir Evan, you will oversee. No serious injuries."
Caspian stood off to the side, trying to look steady and failing. Ezra tugged at Evan's glove until Evan set him down, then walked straight up to the older boy and looked him dead in the face. "You want to be a Knight," Ezra said.
Caspian nodded. "Then swear," Ezra said, calm as if asking for a sweet, "that when I speak, you obey. No pride. No thinking." With Reitz and Aerwyna watching—and no one stopping it—Caspian straightened and said hoarsely, "On my knightly vow, I will obey you, my lord." Ezra nodded once. "Good. Practice."
He pulled Caspian to a patch of open ground out of Hearth's sight and took a few small stones from the edge of the yard. "Close your eyes," Ezra said. Caspian did. Ezra tossed a stone; it thudded into Caspian's chest. Another clipped his shoulder. Caspian flinched, jaw tightening.
"Not like that," Ezra said, impatient. "Feel with your aura." Caspian opened his eyes, confused. Ezra shook his head. "No. Keep them closed. I'll say when." They tried again.
At first Caspian swung too early, then too late—wooden blade cutting empty air while the stones struck home. Ezra adjusted, steadying his timing, changing the rhythm of his throws, calibrating the gap between command and motion.
A few more passes, and Caspian started to move on Ezra's word instead of his own panic. By the end, blindfolded with a strip of cloth torn from a spare wrap, he knocked each thrown stone aside on cue. Ezra lowered his hand, satisfied, and patted Caspian's sleeve. "Good," he said softly. "Now do that in the ring. Just listen."
Aerwyna hesitated, then nodded, lips pressed together.
Caspian and Hearth descended into the yard. Squires handed them wooden practice swords. Hearth spun his in one hand, showing off. Caspian almost dropped his, catching it at the last second, his knuckles turning white around the grip.
Ezra's eyes narrowed. He had assumed spells wouldn't factor here—that at this age, squires would barely manage training drills, let alone combat casting.
As the two boys approached each other, AMP slid into place behind his eyes again.
"Begin!" Evan called.
Hearth moved first.
[Stone Bullet].
Mana surged and snapped into a tight little sphere roughly three fingers across. The spell launched from Hearth's off-hand with vicious speed. Caspian had just enough time to flinch.
He remembered Ezra's earlier instructions, shouted on the walk here: Block, don't freeze.
Caspian jerked his sword up.
The stone hit his left hand instead of his head.
Pain exploded through his fingers, bones crunching between wood and rock. Caspian howled, stumbling, his sword nearly flying from his grip as he dropped to one knee.
Ezra flinched with him. The sound of that cry dug under his skin.
Reitz's eyes widened. "A spell? In the opening?" he murmured. "At his age?"
Most squires Hearth's age could barely form a decent spell standing still, let alone weave one into an opening exchange.
Hearth smirked and closed in, swinging his wooden blade in broad, confident arcs. Every parry from Caspian made the boy wince; his injured hand throbbed, his grip weakening with each impact.
Ezra watched quietly from the edge of the yard, lower now, the packed earth close enough to smell. The knights' boots loomed around him.
Before the bout, he had briefed Caspian to follow his commands exactly. No improvising. No second-guessing. He'd sworn on his honor to do so.
Now Ezra let AMP dig deeper, not just feeding him vague impressions, but letting it chew on Hearth's patterns—how he favored his right side, how his weight shifted before every heavy swing. At the same time, his chest hurt watching Caspian clutch his broken fingers. He wanted to stop the fight and didn't, and that contradiction sat like a stone in his throat.
"Caspian," Ezra called, forcing his voice to stay steady. "Listen to me."
Caspian's eyes snapped to him for a heartbeat, wide and damp.
"Now," Ezra said. "One step right. Thrust."
Caspian obeyed on instinct. He stepped to the right and drove his sword forward.
Hearth was caught off guard. He jerked his body aside, barely avoiding a solid hit, but his dodge was clumsy. His stance opened.
During the past year, Ezra had realized AMP could be used this way—to read patterns, not just whisper numbers in the back of his mind. He had wanted to test that in a real fight.
"Sweep toward his left knee," Ezra ordered.
Hearth's awkward sidestep left his left leg exposed. Caspian's wooden blade swept low and smacked into it. Hearth's knee buckled. He lurched forward with a hiss.
"Quickly. Swing upward."
Caspian recovered faster. The wooden sword snapped up in a rising arc. Hearth, hearing the command, tried to twist away, but Caspian was faster than he looked. The blade caught Hearth squarely on the forehead with a sharp crack.
Hearth reeled back, stunned. Red anger flooded his face.
Ezra had already mapped out Caspian's speed and reflexes on the road. For a bodyguard, he'd wanted to know exactly what he had to work with. Seeing it play out now sent a thrill through him…and a sharp pang of guilt. Caspian's fingers were swelling purple. This hurt.
Hearth's humiliation burned hotter than his pain. He retreated a step, then let out an inarticulate shout and charged, sword raised. Whatever technique he'd been taught vanished under the rush of rage. He swung wildly, repeatedly, trying to batter Caspian into the dirt by sheer force.
"Keep dodging," Ezra called. His own heart was pounding now, hard enough that it hurt. "Just dodge—"
Caspian ducked one wild swing, then another, stumbling, breath coming fast.
"Now!" Ezra shouted. "Kick!"
Caspian slipped past another flailing cut and snapped his foot forward.
The timing was perfect. The kick landed squarely in Hearth's gut.
The proud squire folded around Caspian's boot, air blasting out of him in a choked grunt. He dropped to the ground, curling in on himself, gasping, eyes wide with shock and pain.
"Enough!" Reitz's voice rang out over the yard.
Evan stepped between the boys at once, a hand on Caspian's shoulder. Caspian stood panting, his crushed hand trembling, but he kept his back straight. He didn't look victorious. He just looked relieved that it was over.
The training grounds had gone silent. Squires, knights, servants—all of them stared at the small boy at the edge of the ring, the one who had just steered a commoner to victory over a noble squire.
Ezra stepped forward, small boots whispering on packed earth. He looked down at Hearth.
"Remember this, boy," he said. His voice was high, childish, but his words were not. "Even commoners can beat princes. So don't wear that smug look next time."