The morning sun had scarcely breached the horizon when Robert roused Michael from sleep, his cane's tap sharp against the floorboards. Now, in the training yard, dawn's cold bite hung crisp in the air. Michael stood with his blade in hand, its weight foreign, its edge a vague promise. Before him, Robert gripped his cane like an extension of himself, stance firm despite the limp.

  "Show me what you know," Robert commanded.

  Michael hesitated, then settled into what he believed to be a proper stance, mimicking movements the academy had taught him. His first lunge was cautious, tentative—a child dipping his feet into treacherous waters. He swept his sword forward, slow and measured, his muscles tight with inexperience. His footwork lagged, his body stiff, each parry more ceremonial than combative.

  Robert's expression darkened. "Again."

  Michael repeated the movement, but still at that careful, uncertain pace.

  "Again."

  Michael's breath came heavier now, and frustration flared behind his eyes, but he did as he was bid, pushing forward with the same sluggish grace.

  Robert's patience, ever a fleeting thing, snapped like dry tinder. With a grimaced limp, he surged forward. His cane flicked out—not to strike, but to teach. A single twist sent Michael's blade spinning from his grasp, clattering onto the frost-kissed ground.

  Michael recoiled, rubbing his stung fingers. "What was that for?!"

  "You insult the sword, boy!" Robert's voice cracked like a whip. "You move as though this were some chore, as if you were practicing a dance for a midsummer festival. Do you think this is a game?"

  Michael scowled. "No."

  Robert loomed closer, eyes piercing. "A sword's no trinket for show. It's a tool of survival—of death. You wield it to kill. Lift it with less intent, and you'll die holding it."

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  Michael swallowed hard. "I'm trying."

  "Trying? Trying is what a child does when learning letters. There is no 'trying'. There is only kill or be killed."

  Michael clenched his jaw. "I'm not afraid."

  Robert's smirk was cold. "Then you're a fool."

  He took a step back, planted his feet firmly, and spread his arms, exposing his chest. "Pick up your sword."

  Michael hesitated.

  "Pick it up," Robert growled.

  Michael bent, grasped the hilt, and rose. The weight of the weapon felt different now, heavier with the words just spoken.

  "Strike me," Robert ordered.

  Michael blinked. "What?"

  "Try to hurt me."

  Michael hesitated again, doubt and defiance warring within him. He lifted the blade, but the thought of swinging it at his father—even in a lesson—felt unnatural.

  Robert's lip curled. "No wonder she laughed you off."

  The taunt—Lily's rejection—snapped something in Michael. Humiliation flared into refusal. His grip tightened, breath steadied, and he lunged—weight behind it, aiming for Robert's heart, arms shaking with raw will.

  And then—

  With a speed that defied Michael's eye, Robert's hand shot up. Not his cane. Not steel against steel. Just flesh and bone. He caught the blade in his palm.

  Michael froze, stunned. The edge bit into Robert's skin, but his grip was iron, unyielding, fingers locked around the steel like it was a stray twig. Michael yanked back, hard—muscles straining, feet digging into the earth—but the sword wouldn't budge. It was as if the blade had fused to stone, an ancient relic lodged in unyielding rock. His hands burned with effort, the hilt slick with sweat, yet it held fast, rooted by a force beyond nature. Robert's scarred palm didn't flinch, didn't bleed—just gripped, a testament to something unearthly.

  Michael's arms trembled, locked in futile struggle. He stared at his father's grim face.

  Robert's voice came low, steady, and unrelenting. "You look surprised."

  "How? How is that possible?" Michael choked out.

  Robert's gaze never wavered. "Let me tell you something. There are boys who train for war. They put some effort in. They try to stand out amongst their group."

  He took a step closer. "Then there are a select few who train to win. They train every day, every session, so that no matter the battle, no matter the opponent, they win."

  Michael nodded his head.

  "But then there are just those very few, who train to dominate. They train so hard that winning is inevitable. Which do you want to be?"

  Michael looked up at Robert, determination hardening his gaze. "I want to be the best."

  Robert studied him for a long moment. "Fine. How badly do you want it? Because it's going to be hard. You have to pay a price to be the best. How badly are you prepared to suffer?"

  And with that, he released the blade, allowing Michael to stagger back, his heart pounding, his breath uneven.

  "Teach me!" Michael implored.