A needle-sharp wind ripped across the training grounds of House De Leon before daybreak. Frost clung to the tall grass, glinting in the pale glow of distant torches.

  Arthur De Leon stood at the edge of the practice yard, rolling his shoulders beneath a threadbare cloak. He was the second son of House De Leon, a family once known for fine swordsmen and relentless knights, though that glory felt distant these days.

  His breath steamed in front of him. He pulled the cloak tighter to ward off the chill, scanning the rows of wooden training dummies and battered straw targets. The grounds looked deserted.

  Most people in the estate were still dozing under thick blankets. Arthur had no such luxury. He stepped forward, boots crunching on frosty gravel, and approached a rack of practice swords.

  A single lantern swayed from a crooked pole, lighting the battered steel arms on display. He settled on a balanced, if plain, longsword. The hilt felt cold against his palm.

  He tested the blade with a few arcs, each swing stirring faint sparks from the frosty breeze, he corrected himself silently. His father insisted on daily training before sunrise. His father was seldom around these days, but old habits died hard.

  He moved to face a row of posts driven deep into the ground. Each had notches chipped away from repeated strikes. Arthur's routine started with simple cuts, each measured to refine stance and control.

  He inhaled and slashed horizontally. The blade bit into the wood with a solid knock, leaving a neat cut. He withdrew and repeated from the opposite angle.

  Focus. His father's voice echoed in his mind. Better to master the simplest move than to flail with a dozen half-baked techniques.

  A rustle stirred behind him. At first, he thought it was the wind, but then a shape emerged from the gloom. It was Giles, an old retainer carrying a small lantern and a wooden staff for balance.

  His beard bristled in the cold. A slight limp marred his gait, courtesy of a war wound from years past.

  "M'lord Arthur." Giles dipped his head, a sign of respect that Arthur had never grown comfortable receiving. The older man's gaze flicked to the post with the fresh cut. "Up early again."

  Arthur nodded. "No sense waiting. The Academy entrance exams begin next week."

  "Aye. Time's upon us." Giles pressed his lips together, the corners of his mouth pulled down. "Your father's proud, you know."

  Arthur shrugged, uncertain. He wasn't sure what his father felt about anything these days. The man had buried himself in duties miles away, leaving Arthur to train with whatever half-empty estate staff remained. Pride was a rumor more than a certainty.

  "I'll finish up here, then get ready," Arthur said, turning to the next post. "Don't let me keep you standing in the cold."

  Giles paused. "I've got a bit of news, actually. Your older brother, Sir Leonard, returned last night."

  Arthur froze in mid-swing. "He's home?"

  "Aye, arrived near midnight." Giles stepped closer, lowering his voice. "From what I gather, he's in a foul mood. Something about the border squabbles in the north. Best you watch yourself."

  Arthur's stomach twisted. Sir Leonard De Leon was a hero to many, a knight who had cut down countless monsters in the name of the Crown. To Arthur, he was more of a constant reminder of how short he fell from that shining example.

  Leonard rarely came home except to argue with Father or to scold Arthur. Good times indeed.

  Arthur drove the sword into the next post with extra force, splintering the wood. "Thanks for letting me know."

  He withdrew the blade, panting slightly, and offered Giles a thin smile. The retainer studied him a moment longer and then trudged off, lantern bobbing.

  Alone again, Arthur resumed his strikes. Focusing on the test ahead was all he could do. He wanted to see the Citadel Academy for Nobles, earn a decent rank, and prove that House De Leon wasn't just about one golden son.

  He was determined to rise above the whispers of "the second son" or "the lesser brother." He needed a letter rank that earned respect—C at minimum, though aiming for B or A was better. S-rank was the stuff of legend.

  He finished with a series of overhead blows, each delivered at a measured pace, letting the sword's weight do the work. Every swing hammered the post until it looked ready to topple.

  Sweat gathered on his brow, despite the biting temperature. By the time he sheathed the training blade, first light had broken over the horizon, painting the grounds in pale gold.

  Inside the estate's main hall, a sour hush reigned. The once-proud entrance, lined with dusty tapestries from centuries ago, felt as if it held its breath.

  Arthur passed through with quiet steps, worried he might stumble upon Sir Leonard lurking behind some pillar, half-cocked for a lecture. But his brother was nowhere in sight.

  He hurried upstairs to the cramped side room that served as his quarters. Unlike the grand bedchamber locked away for Leonard, or the polished suite for their father, Arthur's space was modest:

  A narrow bed, a small desk, a trunk for clothes, and a single window letting in gray light. He changed out of his sweaty training garb into a warmer tunic and strapped on a simple belt that carried a short blade.

  Even within the estate, a sword at the hip was common practice for a De Leon.

  Just as he adjusted the buckle, a knock rattled the door. Arthur tensed. "Yes?"

  The door opened, revealing a tall figure with broad shoulders—a man wearing polished boots and a travel-stained cloak. Dried mud caked the hem. A single glance at those keen gray eyes told Arthur all he needed to know.

  "Leonard," Arthur said quietly.

  "Little brother." Sir Leonard stepped in, ignoring the cramped dimensions of the room. He scanned the shelves, the unmade bed, the battered practice sword propped in the corner. "You've kept busy."

  Arthur resisted the urge to scowl. Leonard's presence brought a swirl of conflicting feelings: respect, resentment, admiration, annoyance. "You got in late," Arthur said. "I didn't expect you'd be awake so soon."

  Leonard shrugged out of his cloak. Underneath, he wore a tabard bearing the De Leon crest—a rampant lion crossed by a blade. "Didn't sleep much. Reports from the north weigh on me."

  He looked Arthur up and down. "So you plan on the Academy, do you?"

  Arthur squared his shoulders. "Yes. The entrance exams are in a week. I'll pass."

  Leonard studied him, arms folding over his chest. "You realize it's not a casual test. They'll measure your might, your speed, your spirit. Low ranks can get in, but you'll be stepping on the same grounds as brats from High Houses. They won't treat you kindly just because you're a De Leon."

  Arthur felt a spark of defiance. "I'm aware."

  "Hmph." Leonard reached out, flicking a bit of dust off the short blade on Arthur's belt. "At least you've grown some spine since I last saw you."

  He stepped back, gaze wandering over the meager room once more. "Father left instructions that you're to have whatever you need. Not that we have much to spare these days."

  A bitter note hung in the words, and Arthur felt a pang. He knew the estate struggled financially. Part of him regretted any expense his training would cost, but House De Leon once stood for power, and letting that name vanish behind debt or overshadowed by everything else didn't feel right.

  Leonard sighed. "I have to ride back north tomorrow. Came only to confirm the House's obligations and check on you. Don't fail." He paused at the door. "Our father would hate that."

  Arthur swallowed. "I won't."

  Leonard nodded curtly, then left without a farewell, heavy boots echoing down the corridor. Arthur closed the door, leaning against it with a shaky exhale. He let a moment pass before he moved to gather supplies for the day.

  Breakfast was a stale hunk of bread and a bit of cheese. Arthur ate standing up, gaze fixed on a map pinned to the wall. The region around the Citadel Academy was marked with mountain passes, old fortifications, and rumored monster dens.

  The Academy itself rose on a plateau. Thousands flocked there each season to train or attempt to climb the ranks: G, F, E, D, C, B, A, S, and the nearly mythic SSS. The letters might as well have been stepping stones to a realm of legends.

  Finishing the last crumbs, Arthur rolled the map and stuffed it into his pouch. He retrieved a worn cloak from a hook by the door and set off down the hallway, heading out to the local training yard outside the estate's gates, the place where mercenaries and lesser knights often took contracts or tested new steel.

  Perhaps he could find a sparring partner outside the stiff formality of House grounds.

  He slid onto a half-frozen path, noticing the sky—slate gray with streaks of lighter clouds. The sun offered little warmth. He kept his hood low, preferring not to draw attention.

  Beyond the gate, a narrow road led to a small clearing used by traveling guards or merchant hirelings. Arthur followed it until he saw a cluster of huts and an open patch of ground.

  A few men swung swords at straw dummies, while others rummaged through a battered cart of weapons for sale. A blacksmith's anvil rang in the distance.

  A wide-shouldered mercenary with a chipped pauldron spotted Arthur. "Oi, looking to buy or test your steel?"

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  Arthur raised his chin. "I'm training for the Citadel Academy trials."

  The mercenary snorted. "Ambitious. That place will chew you up if you're not prepared." He set aside a notched blade. "Name's Corran. I've bashed heads from here to the capital. If you want a real challenge, I'll spar you."

  Arthur appraised him. Corran stood a head taller, arms thick as tree trunks. "Sparring is exactly what I need."

  Corran grinned, revealing a missing tooth. "You from a noble house? That cloak doesn't scream coins, but you carry yourself like one of them 'sir-lings.'"

  Arthur tried not to bristle. "I'm from House De Leon."

  Corran's eyes narrowed. "De Leon, huh? Once proud, right? Suppose that means you can handle a blade."

  Arthur shrugged off the cloak, revealing the longsword at his hip. "We'll see."

  Corran shouted to a lanky youth nearby, who fetched practice swords. They looked heavy and rough, but functional. Arthur accepted one, rolling his wrist to get a feel for the weight.

  Then the mercenary pointed him toward a scruffy rectangle marked by stones. It would do as a makeshift ring.

  They stepped inside. A few onlookers paused their own training to watch. Arthur lifted the sword in a ready stance, letting out a measured breath. Corran hefted his weapon in a close guard, eyes scanning for weakness.

  They circled each other. Corran lunged first, powering in with a diagonal slash that aimed to flatten Arthur. Arthur blocked, arms shaking from the impact.

  He stepped aside, pivoting to Corran's flank. The mercenary recovered fast, slamming a strike that forced Arthur on the defensive.

  He recognized Corran's style: heavy blows to break one's guard. If Corran landed even one full hit, it might end badly. Arthur needed speed and precision.

  He feinted a thrust, and when Corran moved to parry, Arthur angled the blade, hooking Corran's practice sword and pulling it slightly off-line. Corran growled and backstepped, barely avoiding a counter blow at his ribs.

  Cheers and jeers arose from a handful of watchers. Corran spat. "Not bad for a twig."

  Arthur kept silent, focusing on footwork. He adjusted his stance, distributing weight carefully. Corran came in again, hammering away with broad swings.

  Arthur deflected, allowing Corran's momentum to carry the mercenary forward. On the third blocked strike, Arthur twisted his blade under Corran's hilt, directing the big man's arm to the side. Then Arthur lunged, the tip of his practice sword tapping Corran's sternum.

  Silence hung for an instant. Corran stepped back, chest heaving. Then he let out a rasping laugh. "You sly devil. That's a point to you."

  Arthur kept his guard up. "Shall we continue?"

  Corran nodded, sweat trickling from his hairline. "One point each. Next decides the match." He brandished the sword again, shifting posture. "Let's see if you can do that twice."

  Their blades met in a whirlwind of ringing impacts. Corran tried to shove Arthur off-balance with raw muscle. Arthur yielded ground strategically, refusing to match power.

  A sudden hook from Corran forced Arthur to drop low. The practice sword whooshed over Arthur's head, missing by inches. Arthur answered with an upward slash.

  Corran angled his weapon to block, and the two swords locked.

  "I've gotta hand it to you, boy," Corran hissed, forcing downward pressure.

  Arthur's arms strained. "I'm not a boy."

  He pivoted sideways, letting Corran's weight slip. The mercenary stumbled. Arthur hammered a quick strike against Corran's shoulder, then reversed the direction and rapped the mercenary's thigh.

  Corran yelped, toppling onto one knee. Arthur leveled his sword at Corran's chest.

  A brief hush. Then Corran barked a laugh, pushing the blade aside and standing. "You got me," he admitted through clenched teeth. "De Leon, you say?"

  Arthur relaxed, lowering the sword. "Yes."

  Corran patted Arthur's shoulder. "I can see you making the Academy's cut. If that's your skill with a practice sword, maybe you've a shot at a mid-tier rank."

  He offered his hand. "Corran McNabb, freeblade. Good spar."

  Arthur grasped it, ignoring the sting in his shoulders. "Arthur De Leon. Likewise."

  A scrawny onlooker in patched leathers approached, eyes wide. "That was something else, Master Arthur. Will you be training here every day?"

  Arthur slid the practice sword back onto the rack. "Might come by if I need a spar. I'll pay for your time, Corran, if you're open to more bouts."

  Corran waved it off. "I'm in the area for another week, waiting on a merchant escort job. You want more rounds, I'll be here at dawn."

  He gave a brief grin. "No coin needed. You're giving me a chance to sharpen up, too."

  Arthur inclined his head in thanks, collected his cloak, and left, heart thudding in his chest. Though the match was just practice, it felt good to test himself against someone outside the estate.

  He had no illusions about the Academy's difficulty. Still, every test he passed, every spar he won, chipped away at his insecurities.

  By midday, Arthur returned to the estate, where a stablehand took his cloak. Inside, a waft of roasted potatoes drifted from the kitchen. His stomach rumbled, but before he could see about lunch, footsteps rang in the corridor behind him.

  "Master Arthur," called a raspy voice. "The steward requests your presence in the main hall."

  Arthur eyed the corridor. "Steward Robert? Why?"

  The servant shrugged. "I'm just relaying the message, sir."

  "Alright," Arthur said, sighing. "Tell him I'm on my way."

  After a brisk walk through drafty corridors, he entered the main hall. Dust motes swirled in the high ceiling. A solemn presence emanated from the faded banners depicting old De Leon triumphs—some triumphs he wasn't sure even truly happened, given how old the tales were.

  Steward Robert, a thin, sharp-faced man, stood by a side table with ledger scrolls.

  He turned with a frown. "Arthur, good timing. We need to finalize your travel arrangements to the Citadel Academy."

  Arthur tried not to sound too eager. "Yes, sir."

  Robert gestured at a small map spread across the table. "You'll depart in three days. We have enough silver to pay for your enrollment fee."

  He paused, pulling a face as though the cost pained him. "You'll arrive with minimal retinue—just you and one guard, I'm afraid. Resources are tight."

  "That's fine," Arthur replied. He didn't need an entourage, anyway.

  Robert tapped a notation. "Once you reach the Citadel gates, you'll confirm your entry with this slip." He slid over a folded parchment with the House seal. "Keep it safe. Without it, they'll turn you away."

  Arthur tucke

  Resources are tight."

  "That's fine," Arthur replied. He didn't need an entourage, anyway.

  Robert tapped a notation. "Once you reach the Citadel gates, you'll confirm your entry with this slip." He slid over a folded parchment with the House seal. "Keep it safe. Without it, they'll turn you away."

  Arthur tucked the parchment into a small pouch inside his shirt. "Understood. Anything else?"

  "Yes, about your father's expectations..." Robert cleared his throat. "He asks for nothing less than a letter rank that secures your seat. B or above, if possible."

  Arthur's jaw tightened. So typical. The second son must prove himself. "I'll do what I can," he said, forcing politeness.

  A flicker of sympathy crossed Robert's face. "I know the House is counting on you. But I believe you'll manage."

  Arthur nodded, then turned to leave. Before he crossed the threshold, Robert called out quietly, "Arthur."

  He paused.

  "I'm aware the burden is heavy," Robert said in a rare gentle tone. "But do remember, House De Leon's future is tied to how well you do. I wish you the best."

  Arthur's throat felt tight. He gave a short bow and exited. The upcoming trials loomed in his mind, a test that would define not only his personal worth but also the House's standing.

  He felt the weight of it pressing down.

  Night settled over the estate. Arthur stood by an open window in a dim hallway, gazing at the courtyard below. A pale moon cast silver lines across stone tiles.

  He spotted Sir Leonard near the stables, speaking with a groom. The older brother wore a drawn look, as if a thousand problems swirled in his head.

  Part of Arthur wanted to join him, maybe share concerns about the Academy, ask about father, but the thought of Leonard's barbed remarks kept him back.

  He retreated to the library instead. It was a cramped room stuffed with books and manuscripts, the shelves dusty from disuse. Many volumes were on knightly histories, monstrous bestiaries, or accounts of great explorers from times long gone.

  He lit a small lantern and scanned a shelf, plucking a battered volume: Records of the Citadel Academy—Aspirant Ranks and Trials. The pages crackled as he flipped them.

  Sketches of the Academy's main tower, descriptions of the letter ranking system, notes on the typical difficulty: G or F ranks for lesser feats, B or A for top-tier noble scions, and the rare S rank for those who truly shone in body and spirit.

  The text mentioned rumored perks for students who achieved high letters early, like private instruction, better dormitories, or direct leads on monster subjugation missions.

  One chapter outlined the "Initial Trials": a standard measure of physical, magical, or synergy-based skill. Many aspirants struggled. The Academy favored multiple disciplines—those who lacked magical talent had to be extraordinary in martial prowess, or vice versa.

  Arthur had minimal skill in magic. He'd have to rely on swordsmanship and wits.

  He traced a finger along an illustration of a hooded examiner testing a trembling youth. Each trial also came with an assigned difficulty set by the Academy staff. Failing outright meant going home in disgrace.

  Arthur closed the book. "I won't fail," he murmured, steeling himself. He left the library with the vow still ringing in his thoughts.

  The next morning arrived with biting cold. Arthur departed the estate early, heading back to the clearing to meet Corran. The mercenary had said he'd be around for more sparring.

  Arthur wanted every edge possible before traveling to the Academy. He trudged through the half-frozen path, breath pluming in the gloom.

  He found Corran already awake, stretching by a crude fire. A few other fighters milled about, sipping weak ale from tin cups or sharpening weapons.

  "Back for more?" Corran teased, tossing Arthur a practice sword. "We can add a wager if you like."

  Arthur smirked faintly. "I'll pass on wagers. But I'd appreciate a real challenge."

  Corran barked an amused laugh. "You're a serious one. Let's see if you can keep that stoic face after a few rounds."

  They clashed in the makeshift ring, under the half-light of dawn. Corran was more aggressive than the day before, pushing Arthur's reflexes to the limit.

  The watchers hollered each time a blade struck a near hit. Arthur's arms burned, but his form held steady.

  He remembered each detail from his father's lessons: keep the elbow tucked, shift weight on the balls of the feet, watch the opponent's torso to predict movement.

  Their final exchange ended with Arthur disarming Corran, though it took everything he had. Corran stepped back, panting. "You've got talent. Enough that I'd bet coin on you at the Academy."

  Arthur breathed hard, sweat trickling despite the chill. "Thanks."

  Corran clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll be around a couple more days. Stop by if you want. Otherwise, good luck."

  Arthur nodded, pulling on his cloak. Time was short. He'd leave for the Academy soon. Each step away from that clearing felt like stepping into a future that both thrilled and terrified him.

  That evening, the entire De Leon estate seemed unsettled. Sir Leonard would depart at dawn for the northern front, and Arthur would follow a day later for the Academy.

  Their father was absent, off in the capital for negotiations or so the rumor went. The staff moved around quietly, as if not to disturb the hush of parting.

  Arthur stood in the courtyard, leaning against a stone pillar. In the center of the yard, a fountain trickled even in the cold. He stared at the statue of some distant ancestor, a knight with a lion crest, sword raised to the sky.

  Greatness, the inscription read. Arthur wondered if that meant anything now.

  Footsteps sounded behind him—Leonard, wearing travel armor of dark leather with metal plates. He carried a bag slung over one shoulder. "I'm leaving earlier than planned," he said without greeting.

  Arthur turned. "Off to face beasts again?"

  Leonard exhaled, features grim. "Yes. They grow bolder every day. They'll keep me busy."

  Silence. Arthur wasn't sure what to say. "I'll be heading to the Citadel soon. With luck, I'll rank decently."

  Leonard raised a brow. "Just decently? Aim higher. Show them you're more than second best."

  The words stung. Arthur mustered a nod. "Understood."

  Leonard glanced around at the silent courtyard. "We used to laugh here, you remember? When Mother was alive." His voice softened. "She believed House De Leon stood for honor, not wealth. I sometimes wonder if we lost sight of that."

  Arthur's throat tightened. He recalled faint memories of a kinder time, long gone. "I remember."

  Leonard's expression hardened again. "I have to go. Make something of yourself, Arthur. For the House. For yourself. Surpass me if you can."

  Arthur squared his shoulders. "I intend to."

  A faint smile tugged at Leonard's mouth. He raised a gauntleted hand in a brief salute, then walked off through the gate.

  Arthur watched until his brother vanished into the gloom.

  That night, Arthur packed essentials: a few changes of clothes, personal funds, a short bow strapped to the side of the trunk, and the official parchment from House De Leon guaranteeing his place at the Academy's entrance.

  He slid an old signet ring—his mother's—into a hidden pocket. It was a small reminder of what he fought for.

  The next day, dawn found him at the estate's stables. Giles stood ready with a horse, a sturdy brown mare. "She's calm, good for traveling," Giles said, patting the horse's flank.

  Arthur slung his pack over the saddle. "Thank you, Giles. For everything."

  The old retainer managed a smile. "Go on, lad. Show them who you are."

  Arthur nodded. He climbed onto the horse, the crisp morning biting at his cheeks. A single guard, a wiry man named Taron, mounted beside him.

  They set off down the winding road, leaving House De Leon behind.

  As hooves clopped against frost-hardened dirt, Arthur stared ahead. The Citadel Academy's famed trials awaited. He wouldn't return until he'd earned a rank worthy of House De Leon's proud name—B, or maybe A if he poured every bit of sweat and skill into it.