Foresight

Steel rang softly in the courtyard, blades tapping in rhythm. Lucan shifted his weight, breath steady, eyes locked on his opponent. Jorren, the first recruit he had sparred in front of Thorne. He had come to know the older boy, he was from a local village named Ashvolt.

"Better," Jorren muttered as their wooden swords clashed again. "You don't flinch anymore."

Lucan exhaled through his nose, adjusting his footing. "Not flinching doesn't win a duel."

"No, but it keeps you alive in a real fight," Jorren said. He lunged. Lucan dodged it, not by luck, but by instinct. The tip of Jorren's blade scraped harmlessly past.

"See? That's what I mean. You move like you already saw me coming."

Lucan lowered his blade slightly, catching his breath. "Wish I could see my progress as clearly."

"Don't be daft." Jorren wiped his forehead. "You've only been here a few weeks. Most of us came out the womb holding a hoe, not a sword. Soldiers are built, not born. You've caught up quicker than anyone thought."

Lucan gave a modest shrug. "The exam's not going to care where I started. Only where I finish."

"Aye, but Lord Emberlily didn't pick just anyone for this chance." Jorren pointed the blunt tip of his training sword at him. "Only an idiot would've asked him for sixty gold crowns, but you did, so now make good on it."

Lucan didn't reply at first. He tightened his grip on the hilt and offered a quick nod. Before he could think of something humble to say, a voice rang out from the benches:

"Maybe it's not his swordwork he was chosen for!" someone called. Bren, a sharp-tongued recruit, leaned back on his elbows, grinning. "Maybe it's those strolls with Lady Lyra!"

A few nearby recruits chuckled. Lucan blinked. "What?"

"You heard me," Bren laughed. "The lady's always in the gardens lately. Then who shows up not long after? Our favorite sparring prodigy."

Lucan looked confused, glancing at Jorren, who just smirked and shook his head.

"I was called there," Lucan said, a little too defensive.

"Oh, I'm sure you were," Bren said, winking. "Maybe she's just checking your footwork."

The chuckles grew louder until a voice cut through them like a blade.

"That's enough."

Dalan, one of the older soldiers tasked with overseeing the recruits while Thorne was away, stood over by the barracks with the roof hanging over him, arms crossed. His face bore the kind of permanent frown only a long career in battles could carve.

"You lot think you're clever." He looked toward Lucan. "But you, do you not see what's happening around you?"

Lucan blinked. "What do you mean?"

Dalan stepped closer, voice calm but deliberate.

"Lord Emberlily is the smartest man I know. These are troubled times. The kingdoms don't hold steady like they used to. He needs more than strong men and sharp swords. He needs people he can trust."

Lucan furrowed his brow, unsure how to respond.

"You keep your head down. Train. Pass your exam." Dalan turned to walk away but paused. "And maybe try to notice when pieces start moving around you."

Lucan watched him go, the courtyard suddenly quieter. Jorren tapped his shoulder.

"Don't mind them. Bren's all mouth. But Dalan's right, just focus on training."

Lucan thought back toward the bench where Lyra had once sat alone beneath the willow. The moon had been out that night too.

He wasn't sure what Dalan had meant exactly.

But he suddenly felt as if his place here wasn't quite as simple as he'd believed. He had been a product of routine in his previous life, so whilst being a soldier wasn't pleasant, he had grown accustomed to his daily routine.

It comforted him, just waking up and training each day, with only one goal in mind. If he made it into the academy, that routine would be gone, but that could be alright. Life can't be a routine, there has to be more to it.

The recruits went back to their drills, though the mood had shifted. The laughter from earlier had faded to scattered murmurs, and even Bren kept quiet now, glancing toward the barracks where Dalan had disappeared.

Lucan moved to the edge of the yard, running through footwork patterns as the sun lowered behind the walls of Emberkeep. He liked this hour, when the heat broke and the shadows grew larger. It was the one time he could hear himself think.

Then came the horns. Not loud, but clear. A pair of notes rising over the keep. Heads turned. Across the yard, Dalan stepped back into view and shouted, "Line up!"

Within minutes, the main gates groaned open. Dust kicked up from the hooves of a dozen mounted men. They rode in slowly, their armor dulled by travel and streaked with dried blood. The foot soldiers followed behind. Though weary, they looked relieved to be home, and victory surely helped that feeling.

Lord Emberlily was among them, still on horseback, helm tucked under one arm. He spoke quietly to Thorne, who had ridden beside him, and gestured once toward the keep before dismounting. A pair of attendants moved to assist with his gear, but he waved them off.

Lucan watched the soldiers pass. Some looked wounded. A few walked in silence, their eyes distant. It had been a victory, but one that came at a cost.

Thorne barked orders, dispersing the returning men and sending recruits to fetch water and wine. The courtyard grew noisy again, but not with celebration, instead with movement.

Then one of the attendants approached Lucan directly.

"You're wanted," the man said. "Lord Emberlily."

Lucan's heart kicked a little faster. He wiped his face and followed.

He followed Emberlily into his chambers, where the stone walls were darker and cooler. The lord stood near the armor stand, one attendant removing the clasps of his chestplate while another prepared a basin of water and cloths. The scent of blood and sweat lingered in the air.

"Lucan," Emberlily said without looking at him. "Wait there."

The lord's armor came off slowly. The mail shirt was next, the heavy chain pulled away to reveal a tunic soaked through at the shoulders. A faint streak of blood marked his sleeve.

"Not mine," Emberlily said offhandedly, noticing Lucan's glance. "Greenreach went poorly. For some."

He turned finally, eyes sharp despite the wear of travel. "Tell me, Lucan. If a commander strikes a vanguard but then allows the enemy a parley… What has he risked, and what does he gain?"

Lucan hesitated. "If the strike was decisive, it shows confidence. But giving the enemy a parley afterward…" He thought aloud. "It risks letting them regroup. Or stall. But it also lets you set the terms if they're shaken." Lucan had played enough strategy games to understand some of this stuff, but a lot of it was from his recent reading.

Emberlily watched him, unmoving. "And if they weren't shaken?"

"Then the blow wasn't hard enough. Or the commander was too late."

There was a long pause. Emberlily moved to the basin and began washing the blood from his hands.

"You're learning," he said. Not quite praise, rather just measured acknowledgement. "And your training?"

"Yes, my lord," Lucan said, although it felt weird to call him that. "Every chance I get, I'm improving in one aspect or another."

"I hear you've taken to sparring daily with the big lad. Jorren."

Lucan blinked. "I have. He's strong."

"The sons of Ashvolt were always steady. Not the most clever, but they stand when told. You… you're harder to command."

Lucan wasn't sure if that was meant as praise. He kept silent.

Emberlily dried his hands, then walked past Lucan, motioning him to follow. They stepped into the hallway where tapestries hung between arched stone windows, each lit orange by the setting sun.

"Most boys your age talk too much. Think too much of themselves. You aren't much different," Emberlily said. "But thinking too little is no better."

Lucan wasn't sure if that was meant to sting. "I just want to be ready for the exam, my lord."

"Ready," Emberlily echoed. He stopped walking and turned to face Lucan fully. "Then answer one more question."

Lucan straightened.

"If your presence here were more than training, if it carried weight, say, influence or responsibility, would that change how you've acted these past weeks? I've heard of your complaints about wanting to ride out with me."

The question stunned him. Not because it was harsh, but because it felt as though the world beneath his feet had shifted without his notice.

"I… I don't know," Lucan admitted. "I wanted to fight in a real battle and prove myself."

Emberlily held his gaze a moment longer, then gave the faintest nod.

"You don't know it yet, but you will freeze the first time you see a man die by a sword. Or worse, to your own."

He turned away again. "You'll join the evening meal tomorrow night at my table. No training at dawn tomorrow. Let your body rest."

"Alright. See you there."

Emberlily gave him that glance, the one that meant Lucan had said something strange or improper.

Lucan bowed slightly, embarrassed, then turned to leave but paused just before the doorway.

"Lord Emberlily?"

Emberlily glanced over his shoulder.

"You have plans for me. You think I'm a future asset of your house, don't you?"

The older man was silent for a beat.

"I see my younger self in you," he said. "I have too few men I can trust. You've saved precious lives for me twice now. My daughter and my soldiers. That's all I'll say."

Lucan departed, uncertain about which of those paths lay before him.