The clang of steel woke Kaelen before the horns.
Somewhere beyond the barracks walls, iron struck iron, sharp and steady. He rolled off his pallet, every muscle groaning in protest from the Trial of Stone two days before. His shoulders still ached, but he forced himself upright. Around him, recruits stirred. Some groaned, some muttered curses. A few stayed in their beds as if refusing to believe the sound meant anything.
It wasn't long before the call came.
"To the ring!"
Ser Varian's voice cut through the air, colder than the mountain wind.
The training yard was smaller than the open courtyard, enclosed by high timber walls that kept the wind at bay. A circle of sand had been drawn into the center, ringed by wooden stands where instructors loomed like hawks watching prey. A rack of dulled practice blades stood nearby, their edges nicked and worn from years of use.
The recruits gathered in a loose line, some shifting nervously from foot to foot. Kaelen could feel the tension ripple through them. Endurance was one thing; fighting each other was another.
Ser Varian strode into the circle, cloak brushing the sand. "A sword is not earned by carrying stone. It is earned by proving you can keep it in your hand when another tries to take it from you. Today, you will fight."
A murmur spread through the recruits.
"Quiet," Varian snapped. "You will fight until you fall, or until you are called back. No killing blows. No eyes, no throats. If I must repeat myself, I'll end the fight by breaking bones."
The recruits fell silent.
Varian's gaze swept over them like a drawn blade. "Step forward when I call you."
The first pair was called. Two boys not much older than Kaelen, both trembling as they snatched up practice blades. They circled awkwardly before lunging, their strikes wild, untrained. The clash of steel rang hollow against the wooden walls. The fight ended quickly — one boy knocked flat, the other clutching a wrist he had nearly broken with his own clumsy grip.
Varian sneered. "If this were war, both of you would be dead. Next."
One by one, pairs entered the ring. Some fights ended in seconds, others stretched into clumsy wrestling matches until Varian barked them apart.
Then his eyes fell on Kaelen.
"You. Ash-boy. Step forward."
Kaelen's stomach tightened. He glanced at the rack of blades, choosing one at random. Its weight was unfamiliar, awkward. His palms still burned from the stone trial, but he curled his fingers around the hilt and walked into the ring.
Opposite him, a tall boy stepped forward. Broad-shouldered, with cropped hair and a sneer already plastered across his face. Kaelen remembered his name: Roderic. He had carried his stone with surprising ease, and afterward had boasted in the barracks that anyone weaker should go home.
Their eyes met, and Kaelen felt the air sharpen.
Varian's voice rang out. "Begin."
Roderic came at him fast. Too fast. The practice blade whistled through the air, heavy and reckless. Kaelen barely raised his sword in time. The impact jarred his arm to the bone. He stumbled back, teeth gritted.
"On your feet, ash-boy," Roderic snarled, pressing forward. "Or I'll cut you down before you can blink."
Kaelen ducked under the next swing, sand kicking up as the blade skimmed past his head. He had no chance in strength. Every strike from Roderic felt like it would drive him into the dirt.
So he didn't try to match it.
He moved.
He let Roderic's blade glance off his own, turning at the last moment, shifting aside. His arms burned with each block, but he forced his legs to steady, his eyes to stay clear.
Roderic laughed, low and cruel. "You're running. Coward."
Kaelen ignored him. He waited. Waited until Roderic's swings grew sloppier, until his sneer twisted with frustration. Then, when the larger boy raised his blade high for another overhand strike, Kaelen stepped in, closer than expected, and drove his shoulder into Roderic's chest.
The bigger boy staggered, eyes wide.
Kaelen struck. His blade slammed into Roderic's side with a hollow thud, not sharp enough to cut but hard enough to bruise. Roderic snarled and lashed out wildly, but Kaelen dodged back, keeping just out of reach.
"Enough!" Varian barked.
The fight ended.
Kaelen lowered his blade, chest heaving, sweat slicking his brow. Roderic glared at him, fists white-knuckled around his hilt.
Varian stepped between them, gaze flicking from one to the other. For a moment, Kaelen thought he might actually nod. Instead, the instructor's voice cut like frost.
"You survived. Barely. Both of you need discipline. You—" he jabbed a finger at Kaelen, "—think speed alone will save you? Foolish. And you—" his glare shifted to Roderic, "—swing like a butcher with a dull cleaver. Next time, I'll break your arms myself."
Both boys bowed their heads, biting back words.
"Back in line."
The matches dragged on. Kaelen returned to the recruits, arms trembling from the effort. Deren leaned close, whispering with a grin.
"You didn't die. That's something."
Kaelen managed a smirk. "Yet."
Deren chuckled quietly. "You looked like a startled rabbit at first. But then—" he mimed Kaelen's shoulder charge, nearly tipping over himself. "That was good."
Kaelen shook his head, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward. For all the bruises, for all the burning in his limbs, he had not fallen. That was enough.
Later, after the matches ended, the recruits slumped back to the barracks. The room smelled of sweat and iron, bodies sprawled across bunks, some nursing bruises, others staring at the ceiling with hollow eyes.
Kaelen dropped onto his pallet, chest still tight from the fight. His mind wandered — back to the underground library, back to Lyra's laughter echoing against the stone, back to the way she had teased him when he had tried to swing a wooden stick like a sword years ago.
"You hold it like a broom," she had said, smirking. "What are you going to do, sweep the monsters away?"
He had laughed then, embarrassed but defiant. I'll show her, he thought now, staring at the ceiling beams. One day, I'll show her I can fight.
The thought ached in his chest.
Across the room, Deren was telling anyone who would listen that Roderic had nearly been toppled by "a boy half his size." His exaggerations earned a few laughs, even from the most exhausted.
For a moment, the barracks didn't feel so heavy.
That night, Kaelen dreamed of the mural again. The faceless angel looming, wings spread wide. Only this time, the echo of Lyra's voice rang clear:
"Sir Swat, patron saint of pigeons."
And in the dream, Kaelen laughed.