[Nine days.]
[Nine days of Earl Bruts breaking his body and rebuilding it from fragments.]
[Nine days of wooden swords splitting his palms open, then healing them with crude bandages and bitter medicine.]
[Nine days of muscles screaming as they remembered what it meant to be strong.]
[Now the tenth day had arrived.]
[And with it, Prince Vaelric.]
Prince Vaelric— "Are you ready to lose everything, brother?"
[The prince stood at the edge of the dueling grounds, silver hair catching the morning light. His sword—real steel, not practice wood—rested casually against his shoulder. The blade bore the royal crest, its edge honed to razor sharpness.]
[Behind him, nobles clustered in their silk and velvet, their whispers carrying across the stone courtyard like poison on the wind.]
Noble 1— "Look how thin he still is."
Noble 2— "Ten days of training cannot mend a lifetime of weakness."
Noble 3— "Even Earl Bruts abandoned hope after the third day."
[Lies. All of them.]
[Earl Bruts stood beside Abaksa, arms crossed, weathered face carved from stone. His silence spoke louder than any encouragement.]
Earl Bruts— "Remember what I taught you."
Abaksa Einsro— "Don't die stupidly."
Earl Bruts— "Precisely."
[The dueling circle stretched between them—twenty paces of bare stone worn smooth by generations of spilled blood. Ancient runes carved into the perimeter had grown dark with age, their meaning lost to all but the castle's oldest stones.]
[Abaksa stepped forward, his legs steady despite the tremor in his hands. The weight of his sword felt honest in his grip—heavier than the practice blades, but true.]
[Ten days ago, he could barely run the length of a hallway.]
[Now—]
[The mystical awareness at the edge of his consciousness stirred, presenting knowledge in whispers rather than glowing text.]
[*Physical threshold nears completion... plot armor remains sealed... survival hangs by thread's width...*]
Abaksa Einsro— "Twelve percent."
[He almost laughed.]
[In his previous life, those odds would have been generous.]
Prince Vaelric— "Have you any final words before I return you to the gutter where bastards belong?"
[Abaksa drew his sword—steel singing against steel as it cleared the scabbard. The morning sun caught the blade, casting silver light across the ancient stones.]
Abaksa Einsro— "Just one."
[He raised the blade in the formal salute Earl Bruts had drilled into his bones.]
Abaksa Einsro— "Try not to disappoint me."
[Prince Vaelric's face twisted with rage, his perfect composure cracking like thin ice.]
Prince Vaelric— "Arrogant filth—"
[He lunged with the fury of royal pride wounded.]
[Swift. Swifter than Abaksa remembered from his previous life's shadowed memories. The prince fought like a serpent—all fluid grace and venomous intent.]
[The prince's blade cut through the morning air, aimed with surgical precision at Abaksa's throat.]
[Time stretched like drawn wire.]
[Muscle memory awakened.]
[The parry came unbidden—steel meeting steel with a sound like breaking thunder that sent tremors through both their arms.]
[But Abaksa's still-healing body couldn't absorb the impact.]
[The force drove him to one knee, his sword arm screaming protest.]
[Blood from reopened training wounds dotted the stone.]
Prince Vaelric— "Is this the extent of your newfound strength?"
[He pressed forward with calculated brutality, each strike designed to humiliate rather than kill quickly. His blade wove patterns in the air—high cuts, low thrusts, binding attacks that sought to strip away Abaksa's guard piece by piece.]
[Each parry cost Abaksa more strength than he possessed.]
[Each step backward brought him closer to the circle's edge.]
[His breathing turned sharp and desperate.]
[Sweat stung his eyes.]
[The nobles' laughter grew louder with each stumble.]
[Then Prince Vaelric's blade slipped past his weakening guard like a striking adder.]
[Cold fire exploded across his ribs as steel bit deep.]
[Blood soaked through his shirt, spreading like spilled wine.]
Prince Vaelric— "Finished already? And here I hoped you might provide proper sport."
[Abaksa staggered, his vision swimming.]
[The nobles cheered their prince's inevitable victory.]
[Earl Bruts remained silent, but his knuckles had gone white.]
[And something deep within the castle's ancient foundations stirred.]
[Something that had been waiting since these stones were first laid.]
[Something that recognized the taste of royal blood spilled upon the sacred circle.]
[The ground beneath Abaksa's feet shuddered.]
[Hair-thin cracks appeared in the worn stone, spreading outward from where his blood had fallen.]
[The carved runes around the circle's edge began to glow with cold blue light.]
Prince Vaelric— "What—"
[Stone crumbled.]
[The earth opened like a wound.]
[Darkness yawned beneath them both—not mere shadow, but the hungry void that dwelt in the castle's deepest roots.]
[Abaksa fell.]
[Down through layers of worked stone and natural rock.]
[Down past the memory of sunlight.]
[Down into the Pit of Embrace, where trials older than kingdoms waited to test the worth of princes and bastards alike.]
[The last thing he heard was Earl Bruts shouting his name.]
[The last thing he saw was daylight shrinking to a distant star.]
[Then darkness claimed him, gentle as a lover's arms.]