Training began before the sun had fully risen, at an hour chosen not for efficiency, but for honesty. The air was cold enough to strip comfort from the body, and the ground beneath my feet felt unwelcoming in a way that left no room for hesitation. This was not a place designed to teach skill quickly, but to reveal what remained when strength began to fail.
The sword I was given carried no distinction.
Its blade was dulled by use, its balance uneven, and the grip smoothed by hands that had passed through this place and moved on, either sharpened or discarded. When I first lifted it, the weight settled into my arms with quiet intent, and I understood that this was not a weapon meant to inspire confidence. It was meant to exhaust it.
No instructions were given beyond correction.
When my posture faltered, hands adjusted my stance without comment. When my arms dropped, the sword was returned to position as though gravity itself had been denied permission to intervene. Time passed without measure, and I learned quickly that counting seconds or breaths was a mistake. Endurance here was not about duration, but about refusal.
The burn came slowly.
First in my wrists, then in my shoulders, and finally along my back, where each muscle seemed to announce itself with deliberate precision. My breathing grew uneven, my grip tightened beyond necessity, and still no one spoke. They did not encourage me to continue, nor did they threaten consequence for failure. They simply waited to see what would happen next.
That waiting was heavier than command.
Stamina training followed without transition.
Running across the grounds, lifting weighted loads, holding positions until trembling became unavoidable—each task flowed into the next without pause or explanation. Rest was not scheduled; it was taken only when the body forced it, and even then, the stillness felt observed rather than permitted.
I learned to move without wasting motion.
I learned to breathe in patterns that conserved strength rather than displayed it.
Most importantly, I learned that pain was not the enemy here. Reaction was.
Among the other trainees, comparison was inevitable.
Some faltered early, some pushed through with visible frustration, and others masked exhaustion with pride that made their movements sloppy. I did none of that. I did not stand out, and I did not disappear. I endured quietly, adjusting when corrected, remaining when others broke rhythm.
The instructors noticed.
They did not acknowledge it.
By the time training ended, my arms felt hollow, my legs unsteady beneath me, and my hands burned from gripping the sword longer than felt reasonable. Yet when I was dismissed, there was no sense of completion—only the understanding that this was not progress, but preparation.
As I walked back through the corridors of the Noble House, exhaustion settled deeper than muscle, and with it came clarity.
This training was not meant to make me strong.
It was meant to see how long I could continue without being told to stop.
And so far, I had not.