The training yard smells of wet straw, iron, and old sweat. The ground is packed hard and slick from yesterday’s rain, churned into a dull brown paste by boots and dragged blades. No one laughs here. Not anymore.

  “Pair up,” the instructor calls without looking up from his ledger.

  The sound of feet shuffling follows. No one moves quickly. No one wants to be noticed.

  Marrius Silvertree steps forward anyway.

  He is clean. His tunic is new. His boots are oiled and fitted; the soles barely scuffed despite weeks in the capital. A thin practice sword rests easy in his hand, balanced like it belongs there. Marvin drifts a half-step behind him, smiling faintly at nothing in particular.

  Emil ends up across from Marrius by accident, or what passes for accident now.

  The other boy is Joren, a miller’s son from two villages south. He swallows when he realizes where he’s standing. His grip tightens on the wooden sword, knuckles white.

  Marrius tilts his head, considering them.

  “Oh,” he says mildly. “This will do.”

  The instructor finally looks up. His gaze flicks over the grouping, lingers a fraction of a second on Marrius, then moves on.

  “Begin.”

  The first strike comes fast.

  Marrius doesn’t test them. He steps inside Joren’s guard and cracks the practice blade across his wrist. Wood meets bone with a flat, ugly sound. Joren cries out, the sword slipping from his hand.

  “Pick it up,” Marrius says.

  Joren bends.

  Marrius kicks his legs out from under him.

  Joren hits the ground hard, breath exploding out of him in a wet grunt. Laughter ripples along the edges of the yard, quiet, nervous, gone almost as soon as it starts.

  Emil moves without thinking.

  He steps forward, blade raised, putting himself between Marrius and the fallen boy.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Enough,” Emil says. His voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. “That was enough.”

  Marrius looks surprised.

  Then pleased.

  He turns his blade in his hand, loose, casual. “You’re right,” he says. “We should make it fair.”

  He gestures with the tip of the sword. “Both of you.”

  Emil hesitates. Just a heartbeat.

  Marrius takes it.

  The strike glances off Emil’s shoulder, not hard enough to break anything, hard enough to sting and throw him off balance. Marrius follows it with a shove that sends Emil stumbling back into the mud.

  “Slow,” Marrius says conversationally. “You always were.”

  Emil scrambles up, face flushed, jaw tight. He raises his blade properly this time. His stance is correct, someone taught him that much, but his hands shake.

  Marrius circles him.

  “You know,” Marrius says, “it’s quieter now.”

  Emil doesn’t answer.

  “No lectures,” Marrius continues. “No interruptions. No one staring like they’re measuring us.”

  He lunges. Emil blocks, barely. The impact rattles his arms. Marrius presses, forcing him back step by step.

  “You don’t have Eric here to protect you now.”

  The name lands heavier than the blows.

  Marrius twists his wrist and hooks Emil’s blade aside, then drives his shoulder forward. Emil goes down on one knee.

  Marvin laughs openly this time.

  “Up,” Marrius says. “Again.”

  Emil pushes himself upright. Mud streaks his trousers. Blood trickles from a split lip.

  Across the yard, Cathryn watches. Her hands are clenched so tightly her nails cut half-moons into her palms. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak.

  She has learned.

  Joren tries to rise behind Marrius.

  Marvin steps on his hand.

  Joren screams.

  “Careful,” Marvin says lightly. “You’ll distract him.”

  Marrius sighs, as if inconvenienced. Without looking, he brings his blade back and strikes Joren across the ribs. The sound is hollow. Joren curls in on himself, gasping.

  “That’s two corrections,” Marrius says. “You’re falling behind.”

  Emil charges.

  It’s a mistake born of anger, not skill. Marrius sidesteps and lets Emil overextend, then brings the pommel down into the back of his neck. Emil collapses face-first into the mud.

  Marrius plants a boot between Emil’s shoulders and presses, not enough to crush, enough to pin.

  He leans down.

  “People forget things,” Marrius says quietly. “They forget who stood where. Who listened. Who asked questions they weren’t supposed to ask.”

  He presses harder.

  “But some of us remember.”

  The instructor clears his throat.

  Marrius steps back at once.

  “Apologies,” he says, bowing his head just enough to be polite. “I let it get away from me.”

  The instructor looks at Emil, then at Joren, then back at Marrius.

  “Discipline,” he says. “Is learned through failure.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marrius says.

  Marvin removes his foot.

  Joren doesn’t get up.

  Two guards drag Emil to his feet and push him toward the edge of the yard. No healer is called. No mark is made in any ledger.

  As Emil passes Cathryn, their eyes meet.

  She wants to say his name.

  She doesn’t.

  Behind them, Marrius wipes his blade clean on the straw and turns to Marvin.

  “See?” he says pleasantly. “Much better without interference.”

  Far above the yard, unseen and unacknowledged, the city’s towers loom, stone upon stone, watching as they always have.

  And somewhere beyond the walls, on a road with no name, a boy the capital cannot quite forget walks on.