2.6 KiB
The frost hadn’t melted yet. It clung to the flagstones in jagged lace, whispering underfoot as Weylan moved. His breath came in shallow puffs, rising like ghosts around him as he thrust and turned, again and again, the old spear trembling slightly in his grip.
The weapon was too long for him. Too heavy near the haft. One of the loyalist veterans had given it to him after the flight from the capital—after Enric fell. It was splintered near the tip, bound with pitch cord, and the iron had lost its polish. But it had once belonged to a Talpian royal guard.
Now it was his.
Weylan gritted his teeth and repeated the form.
Step, twist, shoulder-check. Anchor the rear foot. Lunge. Recover. Again.
Each movement played out in the silence of dawn, the rhythm hollow but persistent. From above, on a frost-crusted balcony of the keep, a shadow stirred. He didn’t look up, but he knew it was her. The princess—no, the queen, now more soldier than sovereign. She never spoke during his drills. She only watched. And when he faltered, her silence pressed heavier than judgment.
The spear slipped. He growled, started again.
“Again,” came a voice from the colonnade—rough with age, not the queen’s.
It was Old Kerric, a broad-shouldered loyalist who had once fought in the skirmishes along the Danals River. He stepped forward now, wrapped in a patched cloak, one hand on a cane carved from elk bone.
“You’re leading with your shoulder,” Kerric said. “That’s not Enric’s form. You’ll lose your reach.”
Weylan blinked, then nodded mutely. He adjusted his stance.
Kerric stepped beside him, mimicking the motion. Slower. Measured. “Balance. Not muscle. That’s how they broke us. Precision, not fire.”
Weylan didn’t ask who they were. He already knew.
The Temerian Empire hadn’t crossed the Danals in a generation—border skirmishes, yes, but nothing like war. Until they did. In the space of three weeks, they burned through Talpian defenses like wind through wheat. Not with rage, but with cold, unrelenting brilliance. Logistics like clockwork. Roads cleared ahead of them. Supplies rerouted with perfect timing. Then came the siege—three days, and the city fell. No time for retreat. No chance for glory.
Enric had called it a great work of martial art. Weylan called it the end of the world.
Now he trained because it was all he had. He repeated the form. And again. This time, cleaner.
Kerric grunted approvingly. “Legacy is earned, boy. Not worn like a cloak. Don’t forget that.”
Weylan didn’t answer. But his hands were steady now. Snow began to fall again—light, almost kind.
Above, the princess turned and left the balcony.