The weight of a name

Elara was exhausted.

The training today had been brutal—endurance drills, sparring, weapons practice, and more running than she thought humanly possible.

And she was barely keeping up.

Her body ached, her legs felt like lead, and every breath she took was ragged.

Yet, she refused to fall.

I have to keep going. I have to get stronger.

The other recruits were in various states of exhaustion too, but unlike them, Elara had more to prove.

She wasn't just another boy trying to become a knight.

She was Elijah, the one they all thought was too weak.

And more than anyone—Damien thought so.

He stood on the sidelines now, watching the recruits finish their last round of sparring.

His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable, but even without speaking, his presence carried weight.

"Next pair!" the instructor called.

Elara stepped forward.

Her opponent was a broad-shouldered trainee who had bested nearly everyone before her. His strikes were heavy, his footwork precise.

The moment the match began, Elara was on the defensive.

She dodged, barely missing a hit to her ribs. She stepped back—only to be forced into another retreat.

The recruits watching murmured among themselves.

"She's too slow."

"He'll knock him out in seconds."

Elara clenched her jaw.

She refused to lose like this.

When the next strike came, she didn't dodge completely.

Instead, she shifted just enough to let it graze past her, using the momentum to pivot around and strike back.

Her opponent stumbled.

It wasn't a victory, but it was something.

And just as she caught her breath, she heard Damien speak.

"Elijah."

Elara froze.

He wasn't speaking to anyone else.

Only her.

She turned slowly, pulse hammering.

Damien's gaze was sharp—assessing. "What was that?"

Elara hesitated. "A counterattack, sir."

His expression didn't change. "Sloppy."

Her stomach twisted.

But then—

"…Better than before."

Elara blinked.

That—

That was praise.

From Damien.

It was barely anything, but still, her chest tightened with something dangerously close to pride.

That Night…

Elara sat on the edge of her cot, unwrapping the bandages on her hands. Her fingers were sore, her knuckles raw, but she didn't care.

Today had been progress.

Not a victory.

Not enough.

But still, progress.

As she lay back on her cot, staring at the wooden ceiling, one thought repeated in her mind.

Damien was watching.

And for the first time—

He didn't just see a weakling!