A year passed in a haze of pain, sweat, and my stubborn refusal to quit. I was now nearly seventeen. The days blurred into one endless cycle: dawn with Selene, Garrick's drills in the afternoon that left my arms numb and my ribs bruised, endless circuits of the yard until my legs gave out, then starting the next morning again, before the sun even thought about rising.
Meals became sparse, broth, fruits, greens, nothing that once made feasts memorable. No more midnight raids on the kitchens, as the memories showed. No more excuses. I hated every second of it at first. Why was I trying to mend my new reputation when I didn't cause it?
The humiliation never fully left; it just changed shape. Where once it was the jiggle of flesh, now it was the ache of muscles rebuilding. The raw skin where calluses formed, the nights when I could barely lift my arms to undress. But hate turned to something fiercer: necessity. If I wanted to become better, softness had to die. And die it did.
This morning, I stood alone in my chamber before the tall standing mirror that had once been my enemy. I barely recognised the man staring back. I saw the gut that once hung over my belt like an anchor was gone, replaced by a flat abdomen that rose and fell with each steady breath.
My shoulders had broadened, not from fat, but from layers of new muscle earned through thousands of swings and holds. Arms that used to tremble under a practice sword now corded with definition, veins standing out against skin pulled tight. My chest had shed its softness; what remained was solid, powerful.
Even my face had changed, cheekbones sharper, jaw more pronounced, eyes clearer and harder. I was half the man I'd been. Not smaller in presence, but in mass. Leaner. Stronger. The weight I'd carried for years had been stripped away, replaced by something that felt dangerous, like a blade finally sharpened after years of rust.
I flexed my hand, watching the forearm muscles shift under the skin. No tremble. No weakness. Just control, which amazed me. The training was brutal, but it was worth it, though. A knock at the door brought me back to reality. It swung open, and the gorgeous Lion Guard Leader stepped in, Selene Rothvayne.
She looked at me, her blue eyes full of something I didn't understand as she spoke. ''Training yard. Now.''
Following that, I pulled on the fitted training tunic, black linen that no longer strained across my middle, and stepped out into the corridor. The maids who once averted their eyes now stole glances. The guards no longer stared in stunned silence; they nodded as I passed, a quiet acknowledgement that something had changed.
When I reached the yard, Garrick was already there, arms crossed, a rare glint of approval in his weathered face. Selene waited with two practice blades, one in each hand. She tossed mine to me. I caught it cleanly, the weight familiar and welcome now. ''Let's see what you've got left, Prince,'' she said, the corner of her mouth twitching, not quite a smile, but close.
I twirled the blade once, feeling the balance, feeling myself. ''Bring it.''
We began. The sun climbed, but this time I didn't falter. Strikes met parries with clean cracks instead of desperate blocks. My footwork was much better than when I first arrived here, my breath steady. When she feinted low and came high, I read it, countered, and forced her back a step.
For the first time, she had to adjust. Garrick watched from the side, silent, but his nod said enough. By midday, I was drenched in sweat, not the desperate pour of exhaustion, but the clean burn of effort. My body ached, yes, it was the good kind. I stood in the centre of the yard, chest heaving, blade lowered, and looked up at the ramparts.
The Legionnaires and Lion Guards met my gaze, not with shock anymore, but with respect. I was no longer the ghost they'd stared at that first morning. I was becoming the man who might actually survive Lumira and all its chaos. And for the first time in a year, I believed I could become better.
Selene stayed at the edge, arms folded, watching with that unreadable look she wore like armour. Garrick was already in the centre, rolling his shoulders, the same heavy practice sword in his hand that he'd used to batter me senseless for months. He looked at me, really looked, and something shifted in his weathered face.
Not pity. Not mockery. Just assessment. Like a smith eyeing a blade he'd hammered for weeks and wondering if it would finally hold an edge. ''Alright, boy,'' he rumbled. ''No drills today. No laps. Just you and me. Full contact. Show me what a year has bought you.''
I nodded once. My heart gave a single, hard thud, but my hands stayed steady as I raised the blade in the guard Selene had drilled into me until it became muscle memory. Garrick didn't rush. He circled first, slow, testing the distance. I matched him, keeping my weight centred, knees soft, eyes on his shoulders instead of the blade.
I'd learned that much at least. Then he moved. The first swing came high and heavy, the kind of blow that used to send me sprawling. I met it cleanly, steel clacked against steel, the vibration running up my arms but not rattling my teeth this time. I pushed off, stepped left, and answered with a quick diagonal cut toward his ribs.
Garrick parried without effort, but I saw it: he had to shift his back foot to do it. He grunted, almost amused. ''Better,'' he commented, and came again.
This time it was a combination: high feint, low sweep, then a rising thrust. During the first few months, I would have eaten dirt on the first attack. Now I read the shoulder drop, dropped my blade to block the sweep, and twisted my hips to let the thrust slide past my side. I countered immediately, a short snap toward his collarbone that forced him to lean back.
The older man didn't smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkled. We circled again. Faster now. The sun was climbing, sweat already prickling along my spine, but it felt good, clean, controlled. My breath stayed even. My feet found purchase where they'd slipped before. Garrick pressed harder.
A brutal overhead that I caught on crossed blades, the impact jarring my shoulders. He leaned in, testing my strength. I held. Then I shoved, stepped inside his guard, and drove my elbow toward his solar plexus, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make the point. He twisted away at the last instant, caught my wrist, and threw me into a lock.
I felt the old panic flare for half a heartbeat, then killed it. I dropped my weight, turned my hips, and broke the hold the way Selene had shown me a hundred times. My blade came up between us in the same motion, stopping an inch from his throat. For a moment, we were frozen like that, sweat dripping, chests heaving, blades crossed.
Garrick looked down the length of my sword at me. Then he lowered his weapon. ''Not bad, Arthur,'' he said quietly.
No boy, no prince. Just my name. ''Not bad at all.''
He stepped back and gave a single, sharp nod, more respect than I'd ever seen on his face. Selene hadn't moved from the edge of the yard, but her arms were no longer folded. One hand rested on the hilt of her own sword, and the look in her eyes had changed again, something warmer flickering beneath.
I lowered my blade slowly, feeling the ache in my muscles, the burn in my lungs, the weight of my own body. After that, the training continued until we stopped for a break. I looked at Garrick. ''Again?''
He snorted, the sound almost fond. ''Greedy little bastard. Give it five minutes. Then we'll see if that new spine of yours can take a real beating.''
Another six months slipped by, relentless, grinding, and utterly transformative. I no longer counted the days. I measured progress in the mirror, in the weight of steel, in the way men stepped aside when I walked the corridors. The boy who once collapsed in the mud was dead.
What replaced him was taller, broader, harder. I'd gained nearly four inches in height, six feet three now. It was thanks to stretching, proper nutrition, and the brutal alchemy of bone and muscle responding to constant stress, and of course, the healers my father sent were the reason I could train the way I do.
My shoulders filled doorways. My arms, once trembling twigs, were thick cords of muscle wrapped around bone. My chest and back had thickened into slabs that made the fitted black tunics Selene kept supplying feel like a second skin rather than a restraint. My snow-white hair had changed, too.
The mess I used to have is gone. In its place, the sides were cut very short, and it was left just long enough on top to push back with a rough hand. It suited the new face that stared back at me every morning: sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw shadowed with stubble I could no longer be bothered to shave daily, eyes that had lost their softness.
I looked... dangerous. Handsome in the way a storm is handsome. I was shocked as I was built like a certain Witcher from games I played back on Earth. Lean, tall, scarred, white-haired, built like a weapon forged for war. The comparison amused me. I wasn't a witcher. I was just a prince who'd finally decided to stop dying slowly.
This morning, the mirror showed a man I respected. I rolled my shoulders, feeling the familiar pull of muscle across my back, and strapped on the new training harness, weighted plates that would have crippled me a year ago. Now they felt like a reasonable challenge. When I stepped into the yard, the change in atmosphere was palpable.
The guards on the ramparts no longer whispered. They saluted. Clean, crisp, without hesitation. Maids who once hurried past with downcast eyes now met my gaze, some with open curiosity, others with something warmer. Despite my clear change, Lily still hated me, but I ignored it and continued training.
Selene waited in the centre of the yard, arms crossed, her expression unreadable as always. Beside her stood Garrick. They both watched me approach like wolves watching a cub that had finally grown teeth. I stopped a few paces away, rolled my neck once, and drew the real longsword from the scabbard at my hip, not the wooden practice blade anymore.
The steel sang as it cleared leather. Selene's eyebrow lifted. ''Feeling cocky today, My prince?'' she asked, voice low and dangerous.
''No,'' I said. ''Just ready.''
Garrick snorted. ''Big words. Let's see if the body matches the mouth.''
He stepped forward, drawing his own blade, broader, heavier, the weapon of a man who'd spent forty years killing with it. He didn't bother with ceremony. He came at me fast, a sweeping arc aimed to take my head from the shoulders. I met it. Steel rang like a bell. The impact travelled through my arms, my shoulders, my spine, but I held ground.
No stagger. No slide. I pivoted, riposted with a clean thrust toward his chest that forced him to parry high and step back. For the first time in memory, Garrick had to retreat. He grinned, small, vicious, proud. Then he got serious. We danced across the yard, blades flashing in the morning light.
Every strike he threw, I answered. Every feint he attempted, I read. I was faster than I'd ever been, stronger than I'd ever been, and I was no longer afraid of pain. Pain had become an old friend, a teacher, a forge. I pressed him. A low cut to his thigh that he barely parried. A rising slash that grazed the edge of his vambrace.
He countered with a brutal overhead that I caught on crossed blades, our faces inches apart. I smiled, small, tired, real. ''Still going easy on me, old man?''
Garrick barked a laugh, the sound rough and genuine. ''You wish.''
He shoved hard. I let the momentum carry me back a step, then exploded forward again, driving him across half the yard with a series of cuts and thrusts that forced him to give ground properly for the first time. When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, blades lowered, the yard was silent.
The guards were leaning over the ramparts. Selene hadn't moved, but her eyes were bright with something fierce and pleased. Garrick sheathed his sword slowly. ''Congratulations, Prince Arthur,'' he said, voice carrying across the quiet yard. ''You're no longer a prince who a stiff breeze can kill.''
He met my eyes. ''You're a prince who might actually kill the idiots who came after you.''
I felt the words settle somewhere deep in my chest, heavy and right. Selene walked forward then, stopping close enough that I could smell the leather and steel on her. She looked up at me, six-five now, taller than her, and for once didn't hide the approval as I noticed the older woman's smile slowly grew wide.
''Tomorrow,'' she said quietly. ''We stop playing in the yard.''
She tapped the flat of her blade against my chest once, light, almost affectionate. ''Tomorrow we start hunting.''
''Monsters?''
The brunette nodded. ''Yes, you'll be heading into a dungeon.''
''Because you're seventeen now, and I think you're ready despite the king's reservations about the matter,'' Garrick commented.