The trail was cold, but Gareth's fear was burning hot.
The old man knelt in the mud of the Whispering Woods, his gnarled fingers tracing a faint boot print. It was small. Maya's. Beside it, the scuffed earth where a struggle had taken place.
"They were taken here," Gareth whispered, his voice trembling. He didn't look like the grumpy turnip farmer of Oakhaven anymore. In the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves, the stoop of his shoulders vanished. His eyes, usually clouded with age, were sharp and dangerous.
Behind him, a few villagers from the search party leaned on their pitchforks, looking exhausted.
"Gareth," the Miller said gently. "The tracks lead to the main road. The City Watch patrols this area. If the guards took them... they're safe. They'll just be held in the holding cells until we pay the fine."
"Safe?" Gareth stood up, gripping his walking stick like a spear. "You don't understand. If he is in the city... if They see him..."
He stopped himself. He couldn't say it. He couldn't tell them that the boy who plowed their fields was the son of the man who once stood at the right hand of the King. He couldn't tell them that Arthur's blood was a beacon to the dark things that hid in the shadows of the court.
"We go to the capital," Gareth commanded, striding toward the road. "Now."
"But the harvest..."
"Damn the harvest!" Gareth roared, a sound so fierce it silenced the birds. "I am going to get my boy. Anyone who wants to stay can rot here."
He didn't wait for an answer. He walked north, his heart beating a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Please, Arthur. Be invisible. Just be a farmboy for one more day.
Arthur was currently failing at being invisible. In fact, he was the center of attention in the Royal Kitchens.
"More venison, Master Arthur?"
Arthur stared at the plate in front of him. It was his third. He was sitting on a stool near the massive hearth, surrounded by cooks in white aprons who seemed delighted to feed someone who actually ate with gusto, unlike the nibbling nobles upstairs.
"I... I probably shouldn't," Arthur mumbled, though his eyes were glued to the dripping roast. "The Queen... Erika... she said I was a guest, but this feels like stealing."
"Her Majesty ordered it herself," the Head Cook, a woman with arms like tree trunks, laughed. "She said, 'Feed the farmboy until he stops looking like a scarecrow.' Eat up, lad."
Arthur ate. It was the best meal of his life, but he couldn't enjoy it fully. The castle was overwhelming. The ceilings were too high, the floors too polished. Every time a servant bowed to him, he looked behind him to see who they were actually greeting.
He was wearing fresh clothes—a simple but well-made linen tunic and trousers that didn't itch. He felt like an imposter.
Leo and Maya are in a cell, he thought, guilt souring the venison. And I'm eating like a king.
He needed to clear his head. He thanked the cooks and wandered out into the corridors. He didn't know where he was going, but the hum in his blood was pulling him somewhere. It wasn't the jagged warning hum of danger; it was a rhythmic, metallic song.
He followed it. Down a winding stone staircase, past the armory, and out into a massive, open-air courtyard.
The sound of steel ringing against steel shattered the afternoon air.
Arthur stopped.
In the center of the training grounds, a single man was fighting ten.
Conrad.
He moved with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a man. He wielded a blunt training sword that must have weighed fifty pounds, swinging it like a willow switch.
The ten guards surrounding him were the Elites—the same blue-caped knights Arthur had seen in the alley. They attacked in coordination, a wall of shields and swords.
Conrad didn't even look like he was trying.
He parried three strikes with a single sweep of his blade, the impact sounding like a thunderclap. He spun, his footwork defying gravity, and slammed the flat of his blade into a knight's shield, sending the man flying ten feet backward.
"Sloppy!" Conrad roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "You rely on your armor! Armor is paper! True defense comes from the will!"
He dropped his shoulder and charged. It was like watching a boulder roll through a field of wheat. The remaining knights scattered.
Arthur watched, mouth open, the half-eaten apple in his hand forgotten. The hum in his blood was screaming now, a desperate, longing cry. That. That was what he wanted. To be strong enough that no one could put him in a cage. To be strong enough to break his friends out.
Conrad finished the bout, planting his sword in the dirt. The guards were groaning on the ground, nursing bruises.
Conrad wiped sweat from his brow and turned. His gray eyes locked onto Arthur instantly.
"The guest," Conrad grunted. "Enjoying the show?"
Arthur scrambled forward, tripping over his own feet before righting himself. "That was... I've never seen anything like that. You moved like the wind, but you hit like a mountain."
Conrad snorted, accepting a towel from a squire. "Flattery won't improve your stance, boy. You're standing like a duck."
Arthur straightened up, self-conscious. "I want to learn."
Conrad paused. He looked at Arthur. He saw the broad shoulders, the calloused hands of a worker... and something else. A faint resemblance around the eyes that made Conrad's heart ache with old grief.
"Learn what?" Conrad asked quietly.
"To fight," Arthur said, stepping closer. "Like you. I want to be strong."
Conrad's expression hardened. "Go back to the fields, Arthur. Strength is a curse, not a gift."
"I'm strong," Arthur insisted. "I can lift an ox cart. I can chop down an ironwood tree in three swings. Uncle Gareth says—"
"That is nothing!" Conrad spun around, his voice sudden and sharp. "You think muscle makes a warrior? My way... the way of the Guardians... it requires more than muscle. It requires Ancient Magic."
He held up his hand. The air around his fist shimmered, warping like heat haze.
"Can you do this?" Conrad challenged. "Can you pull the mana from your very blood and harden it into steel? No. You are a farmboy. You have no magic. Without it, my techniques would tear your muscles apart."
Arthur stared at the shimmering air. He felt the hum in his own veins—was that magic? Or just adrenaline? He didn't know how to bring it out. He looked at his hands, empty and normal.
"I..." Arthur's shoulders slumped. "No. I can't do that."
"Then you cannot be my student," Conrad said, his voice final but not unkind. "Go enjoy the Queen's hospitality. Leave the fighting to those cursed enough to endure it."
Conrad turned to walk away. Arthur stood there, the rejection stinging worse than a slap.
"He has spirit, though."
A new voice cut in.
Arthur turned to see a man walking down the steps from the battlements. He was younger than Conrad, with short-cropped blond hair and a face that looked like it was carved from granite. He wore the golden cape of the Lord Commander.
"Richard," Conrad nodded respectfully.
"Conrad," Richard replied. He stopped in front of Arthur, looking him up and down with critical, calculating eyes. "The Queen has taken a liking to you, boy. She says you stood in front of my knights to protect her."
"I didn't know they were knights," Arthur muttered. "I thought they were going to hurt her."
"That makes it braver," Richard said. He walked over to a weapon rack and picked up a standard infantry sword. He tossed it to Arthur.
"Catch."
Arthur caught it by the hilt, instinctively adjusting his grip. It felt light. Too light.
"Swing it," Richard commanded. "At the dummy."
Arthur looked at the straw target set up against a wooden post. He took a breath. He remembered how he chopped wood—the focus, the follow-through.
He didn't know any forms. He just swung.
The blade whistled through the air.
CRACK.
It wasn't a clean cut. It was a brutal impact. The sword bit deep into the wooden post behind the straw dummy, burying itself halfway through the solid oak timber. The vibration jarred Arthur's arm, but he held on.
The courtyard went silent. The knights on the ground sat up.
Richard raised an eyebrow. "That... is an expensive post."
Conrad, who had stopped to watch, narrowed his eyes. That wasn't magic. That was pure, unadulterated brute force. But the way the blade had sunk in... it was almost unnatural.
Arthur tugged on the sword. It was stuck fast. "I'm sorry. I did it wrong."
"You have zero form," Richard stated bluntly, walking over. "Your footwork is atrocious. You leave your entire left side open. A goblin with a rusty spoon could kill you."
Arthur looked down at his feet.
"But," Richard grabbed the hilt of the stuck sword and yanked it free with a grunt of effort. "You have power. Raw, undisciplined power."
He handed the sword back to Arthur.
"Conrad may deal in magic and legends," Richard said, glancing at the giant. "But I deal in steel and sweat. I am Richard, Commander of the Aethelgard Army. And if you are willing to bleed, I can teach you how to not die."
Arthur looked at the sword in his hand. It wasn't the magical, shimmering power Conrad had. But it was steel. And it was a start.
He looked up at Richard, his eyes burning with determination.
"When do we start?"
Richard smiled, a thin, sharp expression. "Now. Run ten laps around the courtyard. If you vomit, you clean it up."