The first rule of the Royal Guard’s training yard was simple: No one cares who you are.

  Titles meant nothing here. Noble or bastard, prince or peasant, all were equal in the eyes of the instructors. Equal in exhaustion, in pain, in blood on the gravel.

  Saezu stepped into the yard on his first morning, still sore from a night without sleep. The sun had barely crested the palace walls, but the guardsmen were already drilling—steel on steel, boot against dirt. Rows of recruits moved in unison, sweat glistening off their backs, their grunts forming a rhythm older than the crown itself.

  Commander Brel stood at the center of it all.

  A former war hero with one eye and a voice that sounded like it had been sharpened on stone, Brel watched Saezu approach with all the warmth of a hammer.

  "So, the King’s stray has come to learn," he said. "Tell me, pup—can you hold a sword without dropping it?"

  Saezu didn’t answer. He drew his blade.

  The steel hissed.

  Brel snorted. "We’ll see how long that spine lasts."

  Training began at dawn and ended after sunset. Swordwork, footwork, formation drills, strength tests, hand-to-hand. The recruits bled into the dirt and crawled back up to do it again. Saezu never complained. Pain was familiar. Discipline, expected.

  His reputation preceded him. Some whispered his name in awe. Others in resentment.

  The first to challenge him was a noble’s son named Torran, tall and arrogant, with perfect teeth and a sneer that never left his face.

  "Think being the king’s bastard makes you special?" Torran said on the fourth day. "You’re just a rumor with legs."

  "Then stop talking," Saezu replied, "and prove it."

  They sparred in front of the whole yard.

  Torran swung wide and flashy. Saezu stayed low, tight, efficient.

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  The match ended with Torran face-down in the gravel, his pride bleeding from his nose.

  Commander Brel said nothing. He only nodded once.

  From that moment, no one called Saezu a rumor again.

  Outside the yard, Saezu’s life was quiet—but watched. Every hallway he walked in the castle felt lined with invisible eyes. Every servant bowed too low or not at all. Every guard’s grip tightened around their spear as he passed.

  He learned to read the palace’s rhythms: which staircases were busiest, which courtyards were silent at dusk, which corridors echoed when empty. He moved like he trained—deliberate, sharp, silent.

  He also noticed the patterns in people.

  Varric ignored him. Hadric smiled too often. Leontes asked too many questions.

  And none of them were ever in the same room unless the King was present.

  One night, Fenric returned.

  They met in a quiet corner of the barracks as the others slept.

  "How many eyes are on me?" Saezu asked.

  "Enough to start a war if you make the wrong friend," Fenric said.

  He handed Saezu a folded parchment. "This is the guard rotation for the southern vault. Keep it. Learn it. Don’t ask why."

  Saezu opened the note. Symbols and names. One underlined: Kaela Windstride.

  "She’s a scout," Fenric said. "From the Farlands. Loyal to the throne, but not the brothers. Keep her close. Trust her blade before her smile."

  "Why help me like this?"

  "Because this court doesn’t reward honesty. It rewards survival. And I’m not ready to watch another good soldier die because of royal politics."

  Weeks passed. The drills grew harsher. Recruits dropped. Some broke bones. Some broke wills. Saezu endured.

  He rose before the bell and trained after dark. He sparred with instructors, memorized guard posts, mapped the palace from memory. At night, he reread the letter from Mirelle. They will betray you.

  He began to believe it wasn’t a warning.

  It was a prophecy.

  Three weeks into training, he was summoned.

  Not by the King. By Varric.

  The prince waited in a private arena beneath the castle, where the walls sweated and the torches burned low.

  "I’ve heard the bastard’s been showing off," Varric said, tossing a training sword to Saezu.

  "Did you come to congratulate me?"

  "I came to test you."

  They circled each other in silence.

  Then Varric lunged.

  Saezu had never fought someone so strong. Varric moved like a battering ram—no finesse, just raw force. But Saezu was faster. He dodged, countered, chipped away.

  Minutes passed. Then—an opening.

  Saezu landed a blow that sent Varric’s blade flying.

  But Varric didn’t stop. He punched Saezu in the ribs, grabbed his cloak, and slammed him against the wall.

  "You think this proves something?" Varric growled. "You’re not one of us. You’re a dog in royal cloth. And when the time comes, no one will bleed for you."

  Saezu coughed blood. Then grinned.

  "Then I’ll bleed for myself."

  He limped back to his quarters, breath ragged, body bruised. But the pain was fire, and fire was fuel.

  That night, he trained until his hands bled. He struck the practice post again and again, until dawn painted his sweat in gold.

  He wasn’t fighting for a title.

  He was fighting for his life.

  And the war had only just begun.