The first bell woke him. For a moment Toby didn’t know where he was. Warmth pressed around him—a weightless kind, soft, like sunlight without the heat. He opened his eyes to find the ceiling above him crossed with beams of pale oak. His cheek rested on a pillow that might as well have been spun from clouds.

  He lay still, confused. He had never felt so rested, so whole. No ache in his back. No damp chill on his skin. Just the bliss of being comfortable. It frightened him.

  He sat up too fast, the blanket sliding to his lap. The hearth had burned low, a few red coals still glowing. From outside came the hollow toll of the first bell, echoing through the castle’s stone halls like a summons from the gods themselves.

  Then came the shouting.

  “Up! Up, you snoring lumps!” a voice barked through the corridor, followed by the heavy thud of boots. “First bell means feet on the floor, not dreams in your skulls!”

  Toby scrambled to his feet, snatched his tunic from the peg, and nearly tripped pulling it over his head. When he opened the door, the shout’s owner stood waiting—a man built like a blacksmith’s anvil, shoulders as broad as a doorway and arms folded in disgust. His hair was cropped short, his beard iron-gray, his scowl eternal.

  “Name?” the man barked.

  “Toby, Ser,” he managed.

  “Ser? Ha! You call me Ser when you’ve earned the title. Until then, it’s Master Maxwell.” He jabbed a thick finger toward the stair. “Yard. Now.”

  Outside, the dawn air bit cold enough to wake the dead. The courtyard shimmered with frost. Three other boys stood waiting near the barracks steps.

  The first was tall and broad-shouldered for his age, hair black as wet earth and curling just enough to defy order. His grin came easily, but it carried the confidence of someone who knew exactly how tall he stood among others. Zak—built like a woodcutter’s son, though his eyes glimmered with mischief that promised more talk than trouble.

  Beside him lingered the smaller boy, Reece, wiry, narrow-faced, fingers always in motion as though he couldn’t stop thinking about what to do with them. His sandy hair hung into his eyes, and when he caught someone’s gaze, he looked away too quickly. Nerves and kindness in equal measure.

  The third stood straighter than either—posture drilled into him since birth. His dark hair was tied neatly behind his neck, his cloak pressed and clean even in the morning chill. The angles of his face still had boyishness, but his eyes already carried the weight of name and duty. Kay, the heir, dressed finer than the rest, pride like steel under silk.

  Maxwell pointed his stick at them, a wolf among pups. “New chick’s joined the coop,” he growled. “Names?”

  The tall one grinned. “Zak, Master.”

  The nervous one gave a jerky nod. “Reece.”

  The neat one raised his chin. “Kay of House Ray.”

  Toby blinked. “You’re—”

  “The lord’s son,” Kay said flatly, eyes narrowing. “Don’t make it a sermon.”

  Maxwell snorted. “Heir or not, you’ll sweat like the rest, my little falcon. Two laps around the outer ward—between the walls, full circuit. Move!”

  They moved. The outer ward stretched like a ring around the castle proper—gravel underfoot, stone to one side, a sheer drop to the moat on the other. Cold air sliced through their lungs. Toby took the lead without meaning to, legs remembering long days in the fields. His breath came steady, his stride easy.

  Reece fell behind first, wheezing. Zak jogged in the middle, smirking as if effort were beneath him. Kay ran silent, jaw tight, determined not to show weakness.

  By the second lap, Toby’s chest burned but his legs kept moving. The rhythm of running felt right—simple, honest, something he understood. He finished first, doubling over to catch his breath.

  Maxwell raised an eyebrow. “Not bad, farmer. Shame you can’t run from bad swordsmanship.”

  Toby straightened. “I can learn, Master.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  They lined up in the yard, each given a wooden sword dulled and scarred from years of practice. The morning sun crept over the wall, glinting on frost and sweat alike.

  “Today we begin with footwork,” Maxwell said, pacing before them. “Balance before blade. A good fighter stands like a tree with roots—bend, don’t break. Feet apart, knees soft.”

  They obeyed. Toby mimicked Kay’s stance but earned a swift crack to the shin from Maxwell’s stick.

  “Too wide,” the knight growled. “You’d trip over yourself before an enemy needs to.”

  He adjusted Toby’s feet with his boot, grunting. “Better. Now move. Advance, retreat, advance. The sword follows the feet.”

  They drilled until their legs quivered. Kay’s form was near perfect, deliberate, precise. Zak, with years already behind him, swung lazily but effectively. Reece fought the rhythm, his steps too quick, his grip too loose.

  Toby’s arms burned. Every correction made his temper twitch, but he bit it back.

  Maxwell circled them like a hawk. “Good. Now pairs. Kay with Zak, Reece with the farmer.”

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  Toby and Reece faced each other, blades raised. The first clash nearly numbed Toby’s wrist. They traded clumsy strikes—tap, parry, stumble, reset. Reece smiled apologetically each time his blade went wide.

  “Stop apologizing,” Toby grunted, blocking another swing.

  “I can’t help it,” Reece said between breaths. “It feels wrong to hit someone on purpose.”

  “That’s the point,” Toby said, lunging—too hard, missing. The sword flew from his grip and hit the dirt.

  Maxwell groaned. “Pick it up, farmer, before it takes root.”

  By the time the second bell rang, Toby’s shoulders felt carved from stone. Sweat soaked through his tunic, and his hands stung where blisters had begun to bloom. Yet he smiled, hard work he could endure.

  “Enough!” Maxwell barked. “Breakfast, then lessons. Dismissed.”

  They filed into the hall, where long tables ran like rivers beneath banners of blue and silver. Trenchers of porridge, bread, and boiled eggs filled the air with steam.

  Toby ate like a man starved—spoon, swallow, repeat. Reece sat beside him, slumping forward, while Kay took the head of the table out of habit rather than order. Zak lounged two seats down, smirking as he flicked crumbs toward the hearth.

  “You eat like you’ve never seen food,” Zak said.

  “I’ve never seen this much of it,” Toby replied, voice calm.

  Kay’s mouth quirked. “At least you’ve manners. Most peasants forget those when they get near walls.”

  Toby met his gaze. “And most nobles forget sweat makes them human.”

  For a heartbeat, the two stared. Then Kay barked a laugh. “Maybe you’ll do, farmer.”

  After breakfast came what Maxwell called “the second trial.” They followed a page up to a small solar above the chapel, where ink pots and slates waited.

  “This,” said the old man at the desk—Tutor Braith, he introduced himself—“is where boys become men of wit instead of weapon. Sit.”

  While he began with the alphabet. Kay and Zak wrote easily, Reece haltingly. Toby stared at the slate as if it were written in runes from the moon. Saying he was years behind would have been an understatement. The last time he’d seen letters was on a grain ledger too faded to read.

  “Toby,” Braith said, peering over his spectacles, “I assume you can write your name?”

  Toby hesitated, then scratched something on the slate that looked more like a squashed beetle than a word.

  The tutor sighed. “You’ll join the little ones this instead, then. We start with your letters.”

  A few of the squires chuckled. Toby’s ears burned. “Yes, Master,” he muttered.

  The next hour was agony—numbers he could handle, but letters were things that made his head ache in ways the sword never had. He joined in with the two six-year-olds sat reciting their ABCs. The tiny girl next to him giggled when he wrote the letter B backward. He smiled in spite of himself. Humility, he thought, was another kind of endurance.

  By midday, the scent of stew filled the air again. Toby and Reece sat under the awning outside, bowls in hand, sun warming their backs. The others had gone down to town.

  Reece poked his stew. “You did well this morning,” he said quietly. “Maxwell doesn’t hand out praise easy.”

  “I got hit twice.”

  “Still better than me.”

  Toby shrugged. “You’ll get there.”

  Reece hesitated, then said, “My father was a guardsman here. Three years ago, when the neighboring fief raided from the western pass, he fought with Sire Ray’s men. Didn’t come back.”

  Toby lowered his spoon. “I’m sorry.”

  Reece nodded, eyes on the ground. “They said he died standing his ground. I wanted to do the same. But…” He looked at his hands, red and soft. “I can’t even hold a sword right. I trip when I run. Zak calls me Hopfoot. I’m useless.”

  Toby leaned forward. “You’re not useless. You’re just learning.”

  Reece gave a hollow laugh. “You really think effort’s enough? You’ve killed already, and an elf at that. You’ve already done more than I ever could.”

  Toby’s jaw tightened. “I got lucky.”

  “That’s what everyone says when they’ve done something impossible.”

  Toby sighed, staring at the steam rising from his stew. “I’m not good at advice,” he said slowly. “But I know this much: effort counts for more than nothing. If you quit, that’s when you lose for real.”

  Reece frowned. “And if trying isn’t enough?”

  “Then you try again,” Toby said simply. “You think your father would want you to stop?”

  Reece’s lips pressed thin. “No.”

  “Then don’t. Losing… is that something you want to consider?”

  The other boy’s head snapped up, eyes flaring. “Of course not!”

  “Good,” Toby said. “Then use that. Whatever it is—anger, grief, shame—use it to keep moving. Never give up.”

  Reece looked at him for a long moment, then nodded once. “All right. I’ll try.”

  Toby smiled faintly. “That’s all any of us can do.”

  After lunch came more swordwork. Maxwell pushed them hard. Kay fought like a man possessed, swinging until sweat drenched his hair. Zak, effortless as always, teased Reece between bouts but shut up when Toby caught him off guard with a clever feint.

  By the time the sun dipped west, all four could barely lift their arms.

  “Enough!” Maxwell barked. “You’ll break before you learn. Bathe, eat, sleep. Tomorrow we start again.”

  Toby thought the words sounded like a prayer.

  Steam curled from the copper tubs lined along the wall of the bathhouse. Toby stared at the water, clean and hot, and felt guilt twist in his stomach. Bathing was for rivers and rainfall, not luxury.

  But when he stepped in, the warmth seeped into his bones like forgiveness. His skin turned pink. His muscles loosened. He leaned back, eyes closed, letting the ache drain away. He hadn’t known such comfort existed outside dreams.

  When he returned to his room, the hearth had been restocked, the bed made, the chamber pot emptied. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. Someone—a maid, he guessed—had tidied everything.

  Everything except the sword. Toby sat on the bed, staring at it. It now stood in the corner, leaning against the wall, its blackened blade wrapped in cloth. The dim elven steel shimmered faintly beneath the fabric, like moonlight trapped underwater.

  No matter how the castle shone, how fine the food, how warm the bath, that sword was the truth of his life now—the reminder that his peace was borrowed, not earned.

  He touched the hilt once, lightly, and whispered, “I haven’t forgotten.”

  Then he blew out the candle and lay back, eyes on the ceiling’s shadows. Tomorrow would come. The bell would ring. The routine would begin again—running, training, reading, failing, learning.

  And someday, when he was ready, he’d swing that sword again.

  Not for pride.

  Not for praise.

  For remembrance.