Alden's hands trembled as he raised the spoon. The broth scorched his tongue—sharp with hemlock. He collapsed, convulsing, as Reinhardt laughed.
"Lesson one, boy: trust no one."
He awoke hours later to Sylvie dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth. Her hair fell around him like a curtain, shutting out the world.
"Why do you stay?" he croaked.
She smiled, her calloused hand warm against his.
"Someone's gotta keep you alive."
And for a year, she did—sneaking him bread, stitching his wounds, laughing whenever he botched a sword drill. Then one day, she died in an accident. Alden buried her beneath the old willow, its branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers.
He never cried. Not even when Evelynn tossed Sylvie's diary into the hearth, calling it "a servant's scribbles."
Now, in the dark, Alden clutched Bedringer tighter.
"I'm back, Sylvie," he whispered. "Watch me."
Alden woke before dawn and slipped into the inner court of the squires' quarters. The air bit at his skin as he stepped barefoot onto the stone, the sun just beginning its ascent.
No ceremony. No audience.
Dawn light split the fog as Alden began.
Bare feet slapped the icy stones as he leapt sideways, kicking at invisible enemies—silent, lethal. Breath came in sharp bursts, lungs burning between each burst of motion, his mind honed razor-sharp.
He crouched low—knees bent like twisted roots, arms wielding phantom blades. Legs trembled, muscles howling, but he held the pose until the walls blurred and his pulse roared in his ears.
Collapse was weakness.
When sparks danced behind his eyes, he launched upward and crawled on elbows across jagged stone. Skin split. Blood smeared the rock, ignored. He reached the gnarled oak.
Thick branches tested his resolve. Upside-down, he hooked his legs over a limb and lowered into push-ups until sweat-soaked hair brushed dirt. Shoulders tore. He grinned through gritted teeth.
Fifty.
He seized a rock the size of a boar's skull and crushed it against his chest until his knuckles split. Blood slicked his fingers as he sprinted the yard, daring the weight to break him.
At the cliff's edge, he balanced on one leg, eyes shut. Below, the rocks waited to devour him.
Push-ups followed—nose brushing the edge of death. At eighty, his shoulders screamed. He stopped only when the rock crumbled to dust, unbeaten.
By mid-morning, sweat drenched him. He ended as he began: brutal. Scaling the oak once more, he hung between two branches by fingertips and toes—a mantis hold.
Agony.
Fire.
Darkness crept into his vision.
He dropped. Rolled. Plunged into the stone cistern.
Icy water stabbed his skin. He surfaced, gasping, heart hammering, muscles quaking.
The sun climbed.
He looked back at the cliff, the oak, the blood-streaked stones.
And then—he saw a shadow.
A figure, watching him.
In one leap, Alden closed the distance and got behind the spy. He spun the figure around, ready to strike—only to freeze.
It was Sylvie.
Emotion punched through him like a wave. He nearly cried, but swallowed the tears. He didn't want to scare her.
She flinched, flustered, and ran.
Alden just watched her go—and let her.
The Second Day
He walked to his room, stripped down, and stepped into the shower. The hot water struck his skin, stinging fresh wounds.
He wasn't alone.
The maids were spying—giggling from around the corners, whispering about his body. Scarred, but still admired. Years of brutal training had carved him into something hard, something lethal.
Alden's senses were sharp enough to notice. And for once, he didn't mind. In his last life, no one looked at him like that.
After the shower, he stepped out—only to find Sylvie waiting for him with a jar in hand.
"Here. An ointment for your wounds."
Sweet, sweet Sylvie.
Alden had forgotten how gentle her voice was. He smiled, took the jar, and returned to his room.
Before nightfall, the matriarch summoned him.
Alden walked there slowly. He hated Evelynn—but part of him always enjoyed their sharp-tongued games.
But when he entered the study, it wasn't her waiting for him.
A Ransdov officer stood at her desk.
He unrolled a scroll and read aloud:
"Alden, bastard of Lionfelt.
In a few moons, you will enter the arena at the heart of the Lionfelt estate.
You are to participate in the Phoenix Tournament.
You will battle commoners. You will battle royals.
Let's see if the bastard can handle it."