The blade slipped beneath his ribs before he noticed the guard shift.
He inhaled sharply. Merely a breath—damp, erroneous, interrupted.
He let the knife fall from his hand. It clanged against the cobblestones and darted beneath the wheel of an aristocrat's carriage. A woman shouted somewhere behind him.
He wobbled backward.
The guards didn't even glance at him. They continued to walk, creating a protective wall around the palanquin. The man within—the one Leon had attempted to murder—continued to smile. One hand against his face, blood seeping through his fingertips.
A mark. That's everything he accomplished.
Another yell. He rotated his head quickly and knelt on one knee. The sky was excessively bright. The road whirled. His hand hit the ground to regain balance but failed to do so. Crimson stained beneath his cuff.
His voice emerged soft, foolish. "Not… I—"
A boot knocked him onto his back.
The crowd swirled around him. A few crossed over. A few didn't notice him whatsoever.
He glanced up at flags fluttering over the grand gates. Maison Merentis. Golden snakes on white.
He cleared his throat once. Blood splattered on his tongue. Pungent metal. Heavy warmth.
If I possessed additional time. If I had practiced. If I—
His throat tightened.
His final breath escaped quietly.
He sprang up suddenly.
No cutting edge. No rock beneath him. No bloodshed.
Only sheets. Sky blue silk. The canopy over his bed.
He gazed at the timber ceiling rafters for an extended period. They appeared genuine. So genuine. Dust on the crossbeam, just as it was previously. Spring sunlight seeping through the gaps in the shutters. Outside, birds.
His breathing became shallow. Limbs rigid. Hands shaking.
He straightened up and clutched his side.
No injury. No suffering. Only skin.
He gazed downward.
His torso felt gentle. His arms—heavy with unutilized mass. A belly pushing against his sleepwear. The aged physique. The fragile one.
This wasn't just a dream prior to death. He was familiar with each shadow in this room.
His mirror was positioned in the corner next to the bookshelf. Identical distorted frame. Identical silver rim.
He got out of bed and walked across the carpet on his bare feet.
The reflection staring back—he had not observed it in years.
Round cheeks. Lacking a jawline. Eyes swollen from sleep. Disheveled hair protruding on one side.
No marks. No scorch marks. No fog.
He grabbed the frame using both hands. His hands left damp marks on the glass.
Still alive.
Still living.
He turned gradually toward the door.
Tap.
He recoiled.
A second tap. This time, at a reduced pace.
"Leon?" The tone was deep. Accustomed. "Are you awake?"
He didn't respond immediately. His voice failed to function.
"...Yes," he eventually said. "I'm alert."
The door slowly opened with a creak. A man with broad shoulders stood at the entrance, wearing a dark doublet accented with gold. Graying facial hair, wrinkles around the eyes.
Leon's dad.
Cedric Valhart entered, his stance rigid as usual. His gaze traveled over Leon from top to bottom.
"You've been away since last night," he mentioned. "Fell down by the barns." The doctor stated, "heat exhaustion."
Leon remained silent.
"Your mom is concerned." "Roderic is too." He stopped momentarily. "Relax." "There's no hurry for anything."
Leon gave a single nod.
Cedric cast him a deliberate glance. He then turned around and departed.
The door snapped closed.
Leon remained in that position for a moment more, his fists tightened at his sides. He then faced the mirror again.
It was not a dream.
Three months prior to the conflict. Prior to the treachery. Before House Valhart was consumed by flames and his father perished beneath a fallen gatehouse.
He had seen it all occur. Subsequently, did not manage to halt it.
And at this moment...
He gazed at his hands.
Feeble. Not trained. Without calluses.
No more justifications now.
He didn't wear noble silks.
He took an old tunic from his chest and secured it with a loose sash. His legs felt more burdened than they ought to have as he walked down the east corridor, disregarding the stares from the servants hurrying by.
He swung the doors of the courtyard open.
Light struck him directly in the face. The gardens were alive with color—lines of neatly cut hedges, white lilies, and pink rosebushes winding around iron structures.
Excessively silent. Excessively gentle.
He pivoted and headed toward the storage shed located at the back of the practice yard. The door creaked as it swung open with a push.
Corroded protective gear. Training shields piled in a corner. A shelf of wooden training swords covered in dust.
He grabbed one.
The hold seemed off—too weak. Zero balance.
It didn't count.
He entered the ring. The identical circle he used to evade. He took a breath. Then struck.
It was unhurried. Uncomfortable. His feet weren't moving properly.
He attempted once more.
The blade fell too far down. Once more. His shoulders twitched. His wrist was twisted incorrectly. Once more.
He repositioned his stance. Pressure on the balls of his feet.
The fifth swing made contact with the air on the right side, but it was not centered. Lacks any force.
His chest was already on fire. Moisture ran down beneath his arms. He didn't even make it for three minutes.
He continued on.
Ten swings. Twenty.
His breathing became uneven. His arms shook.
By the thirtieth swing, he nearly let go of the blade.
He inhaled deeply. Restore. Swung once more.
He only heard the footsteps when they were nearby.
"Leon?"
He spun around.
Elena Greystone positioned herself just beyond the training circle.
She donned a travel cloak over her uniform—silver accents, mage emblem sewn above the chest. Her hair was pulled back, with loose strands curling around her cheeks.
Leon dropped the sword.
"Are you… training?" she inquired.
He didn't respond immediately. His breathing was harsh and shallow.
"From when?" She moved nearer. "You seem like you might tip over."
"I'm not," he replied.
"You're soaking your shirt with sweat."
He gazed downward. His garment was drenched.
"I require it," he stated.
She scowled. "Why?"
"To be prepared."
Elena observed him for a moment. Then entered the ring.
"You've never handled a sword earnestly in your life."
"Now I possess."
"Why is that?"
"Due to the fact that our time is limited."
She leaned her head.
He did not provide an explanation. Unable to.
She took a fabric from her bag and extended it. "You'll lose consciousness before dinner."
He accepted it. Cleaned his face.
Elena gave a single nod. "Don't pass away out here." "If you mean it."
"I'm here."
She pivoted and strolled off.
Leon gazed at the sword.
Still trembling.
Still upright.
He lifted it once more.
The subsequent swing arrived more quickly.