A year had flowed through the Rodwell estate like a slow-moving river, yet the rhythm of the mansion remained unchanged. The halls hummed with the quiet, relentless industry of servants maintaining the massive stone titan of a house.
However, the stagnant air of the mansion was shattered the moment one stepped into the grand training hall. Usually reserved for the elite Rodwell Knights, the arena was currently a cacophony of shouting voices and the sharp, rhythmic crack of wood against wood.
In the center of the ring stood a figure that bore little resemblance to the scrawny farm boy from Oakands. At seventeen, Athel had undergone a metamorphosis. His frame was now broad and lithe, his muscles hardened by a year of Leyhwin's "Internal Circulation" torture. His shirt was tattered, damp with sweat and stained with the dust of the arena floor, yet he stood with a newfound, predator-like grace.
"Come on, Athel! Lay him out!" a knight roared from the sidelines.
"You're remarkable, Athel. Who know that small boy can go toe to toe with me right now." The person said.
Athel's opponent was in a far more precarious state. He was on one knee, gasping for air, using a wooden practice sword as a makeshift crutch. He was a man in his late twenties with shoulder-length golden hair that clung to his neck and piercing blue eyes that flickered with a mix of exhaustion and respect. This was Captain Orlo, the man responsible for turning Athel's raw strength into a refined edge.
"You're… remarkable, Athel," Orlo panted, his chest heaving. "Who would have thought that scrawny brat would be going toe-to-toe with me after only twelve months?"
Athel offered a sharp, confident smirk, raising his practice blade until it was level with the Captain's eyes. "I wouldn't be standing at all if not for your 'guidance,' Captain Orlo."
Orlo grunted, forcing himself to his feet. He cracked his neck, the sound echoing in the sudden silence of the hall, and loosened his shoulders. "Alright," he murmured, his playful tone vanishing. "That was the warm-up. Let's see if you can handle the real thing."
In a blur of explosive speed, the Captain charged. He didn't just move; he seemed to vanish, his wooden sword whistling through the air in a deadly thrust aimed directly at Athel's throat.
Athel's emerald eyes flared. He didn't retreat, he pivoted, his blade catching Orlo's in a shower of splinters, redirecting the momentum to the side. But the Captain was a master of the blade. He didn't fight the redirection; he leaned into it, spinning his body along the trajectory of his sword in a fluid, centrifugal motion that threatened to sweep Athel's feet from under him.
In a flash of desperate brilliance, Athel didn't try to plant his feet. He launched himself into a backward tumble, his body moving with the grace of a circus performer. As he inverted, his heel snapped upward, catching Orlo square on the chin. The impact was visceral. The Captain stumbled back, startled and visibly annoyed by the unorthodox move.
"You brat!" Orlo growled, charging again.
He lunged with a series of rapid-fire thrusts, trying to catch Athel mid-motion. But halfway through the execution, the Captain's veteran instincts screamed at him. He sensed a trap, a subtle shift in Athel's weight that suggested a counter-strike was waiting. Orlo pulled back just as Athel's blade swept through the space where his ribs had been a millisecond before.
"Almost got me there," Orlo smirked, his blue eyes flashing.
The spar intensified. Athel was a prodigy, but he was still facing a man who had survived a hundred real battles. Orlo's swordsmanship was a force of nature, a relentless tide that eventually began to drown Athel's defenses. They exchanged a dozen more blows, the air thick with the scent of pine and sweat, until Orlo executed a lightning-fast feint-into-spin.
With a sickening crack, Athel's wooden sword shattered under the pressure of the Captain's superior technique.
The crowd groaned in collective disappointment as Athel was forced to forfeit. Orlo, breathing heavily, let out a thunderous laugh that echoed off the high rafters. "What are you lot whining about?!" he barked at the knights. "Get back to your own drills, you insolent shits, or you're all doing double laps in full plate!"
The knights scattered instantly, none of them brave enough to face a "red-faced" Captain Orlo.
Athel sat on the floor, his lungs burning, looking up at the hand Orlo was offering him. He took it with a tired smile, allowing the older man to haul him up.
"You did well to last that long," Orlo said, clapping Athel on the shoulder. "Most of these buffoons would have snapped their wrists or fainted ten minutes ago."
"Are you always this violent toward your own men?" Athel asked, wiping the grime from his forehead.
Orlo's expression shifted, the boisterousness fading into something somber and sharp. "The enemy won't have the luxury of being 'not' violent, Athel. I push these fools because if I don't, they'll freeze the moment they see their comrades' blood on the grass. I'd rather they hate me now than die later."
He suddenly grinned, the serious moment passing as quickly as it had arrived, and delivered a back-slap so powerful Athel nearly bit his tongue. "Bah! Don't worry about them. They're built of sturdy stuff."
Before Athel could complain about the pain in his back, a familiar, stiff figure entered the hall. It was the head servant, his posture as statue-like as ever. He bowed deeply toward Athel.
"Young Master Athel," he intoned. "The Lord has summoned you to his study."
Athel nodded, his playful banter with Orlo forgotten. A summons from Leyhwin was never a simple matter. With one last look at the golden-haired Captain, he followed the servant into the quiet, looming shadows of the mansion's interior.