Word travels fast in the pace. By the time I arrived at the training grounds, several eyes had already turned toward me. Some were curious. Others were skeptical. A few looked downright amused—whispers already curling like smoke between the watching knights.

  I recognized some of their faces. A few had trained with me in the past, or rather, had been tasked to do so back when I treated these sessions like an inconvenient chore. They looked startled now—one of them even rose to his feet hastily, unsure whether to bow or assume a defensive stance.

  I said nothing. No dramatic announcement. No expnation.

  I simply stepped onto the practice field and picked up a training sword from the rack. The hilt pressed against my palm like a stranger. It wasn’t the weight that felt foreign—it was the weight of memory. Of all the chances I never took. All the moments I let slip through indifference.

  The master-at-arms approached, posture wary, as if unsure whether this was a prank or a test from above. His eyes scanned me, waiting for a sign that I’d change my mind and walk away.

  “Shall we begin?” I asked, voice calm.

  He gave a short, respectful nod. “As you command, Your Highness.”

  And with that, we began.

  My stance was wrong. My feet are too stiff. My grip choked the hilt like I feared it might escape me. My arms moved in fits and starts—clumsy, too tight in some moments, too loose in others.

  The wooden sword slipped once.

  Twice.

  And again.

  My body remembered nothing. My pride burned with every correction barked at me. But I kept going.

  Again. And again.

  Each swing carved away more of the boy who once believed a prince didn’t need to bleed.

  My breathing grew ragged, sweat trailing down the back of my neck. My muscles ached from movements I had never cared to master. But I refused to stop. Refused to give them what they were waiting for—a sign of retreat.

  Let them watch.

  I was no longer here to be admired.

  I was here to be forged.

  By the end of the session, my tunic clung to me, damp with effort, my arms trembling slightly from overexertion. I had not won any battles. Had not impressed anyone with talent or fir. But I stayed. I had tried. And I would return.

  Because this time, I wouldn’t run from the sword.

  This time… I’d earn the right to survive.

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