I stepped toward the weapons rack, aware of the dozen pairs of eyes watching my every move. Some were bored, others amused, but a few—like Danwell Frey—held something sharper in their gazes.
They wanted me to fail.
I scanned the weapons quickly. A longsword, heavier than I was used to. A wooden practice sword, safer but humiliating. A battle-axe—no chance in hell. My hands hovered for a moment before settling on a simple arming sword. Lighter, faster. If I was going to survive this, I needed to play to my strengths.
"Look at him," one of the men-at-arms scoffed. "Holding it like a maiden at her first bedding."
Laughter rippled through the yard. I ignored it. I had been in locker rooms before, in classrooms full of testosterone-fueled idiots who thrived on mockery. This was no different—except here, failure meant more than just embarrassment.
Danwell's smirk widened. "Come on, bastard. Show us what you've got."
He tossed me a wooden shield, and I barely caught it before he lunged.
I stumbled back, raising the shield just in time. The impact rattled my arm. Danwell wasn't holding back. He wanted to humiliate me, break me in front of the others.
I gritted my teeth.
Think.
Danwell was bigger, stronger, and more experienced. But he was also overconfident. He expected me to be weak. Useless. If I played into that, I could use it against him.
I let him press forward, dodging instead of blocking, making it look like I was barely keeping up. Let him think he was winning.
Then, as he swung wide, I dropped low and drove my shield into his knee.
He grunted, staggering. The yard went silent.
I didn't wait. I surged up, bringing my sword down—lightly, just enough to tap against his ribs. Not enough to wound. Just enough to let him know I could have.
The silence stretched.
Danwell's face darkened.
Then—laughter. Not from him, but from a few of the men-at-arms. "The bastard has teeth," one of them muttered.
Danwell's lips curled. "Lucky hit."
I lowered my sword. "Of course, my lord."
I gave him an easy smile—one that said I knew exactly what had just happened. His jaw clenched, but he didn't push it. Not in front of the others.
This was my second lesson in House Frey.
Strength alone wouldn't save me. But making the right people see me? That was power.
The Watching Eyes
As I left the yard, shaking the stiffness from my arm, I felt someone watching me.
A man stood near the edge of the courtyard, half-hidden in the shadows. Tall, thin, with sharp eyes. He wasn't armored, wasn't a soldier. But he wasn't a servant, either.
Lame Lothar Frey.
Clever. Dangerous. One of Walder's more intelligent sons—and one of the few who really mattered in the Frey hierarchy.
Why was he watching me?
I met his gaze. He smiled. Then he turned and walked away.
I exhaled slowly.
I had drawn attention.
Now, I just had to survive it.
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A/N : Hey guys If you like my book drop a review and some power stones