Gray light flooded the encampment, and fog surrounded the tents, creating a ghostly atmosphere. Most tried to stay inside at this time of day, during this time when the first sun had just risen. The air was still cold with only the first sun to warm the day. A sharp clang rang from the central bell, signaling for the soldiers to wake up. A faint murmur of voices broke through the fog. Smoke started to rise, and sounds of food being made and people starting their day echoed through the camp like hollow, ghostly voices in the wind.
These sounds swept through the training fields and reached a rock where a young man sat. He hunched over, fiddling with a pencil in his hands. On his lap rested a pad of sketching paper. A picture of a beautiful lady stared back at him from the paper. He reluctantly set aside his paper and pencil. His hands were red and numb from the cold, but he didn’t care. He liked being outside in the cold. He felt like the cold was the only thing that understood him—it was hated by everyone although it was only doing its job.
He sighed deeply. He dreaded going back into the camp. He hated it here. The tents were cold at night, and the grounds were almost unbearably hot during the Height. The stench of filthy people and sweat made his stomach churn. But more than anything, he felt alone.
He was set apart from the other men his age. He had always been different—not in the ways one might think. He was athletic and was skilled with a sword. He loved to fence and never backed down from a good challenge. He was naturally good with people and made a good leader. All these qualities would have made him the most popular guy, right? But there was one more factor. He was the Prince. Not the prince of one of the larger cities, but the Prince. Prince Caspar of Cantoria.
When he turned ten his toys, friends, and general pleasures were taken away and he was given lessons in History, Arithmetic, Economics, Court Etiquette, and, the only thing he actually enjoyed, Weapon Training and Military Strategy. His father had enforced the learning of these skills and forbade Caspar from associating himself with the common people. By the time he was eighteen, he was practically as perfect as he could be. He could follow orders but also commence complicated military strategies without the slightest hesitation. His fencing was the best in the kingdom. He had expected his father to be proud of how far he had come, but on his father’s last visit the king had just sadly shaken his head at Caspar before walking away.
The next day, Caspar was dispatched to the Ward Soldier training grounds just outside of Virelith City, which was a two-week journey from the Cantorian capital, Castle Alderith, Caspar’s home. He was to train this batch of men from the Ward into soldiers as least fit for the Forge ranks. If he succeeded he would be allowed to lead them into battle where he would take up station as his father’s right hand war and military second in command. If he didn’t, well…that couldn’t happen. He would succeed.
“Lyrion, is that you? I couldn’t find you anywhere.” A voice sounded from behind him. Caspar grimaced as a dark figure in the fog appeared and seemed to be heading towards him. He guessed it was Ryn. The little guy had decided that he was Caspar’s shadow. He was the only person in the camp who actually liked Caspar. He was really just annoying, always following Caspar everywhere but that was no reason to ignore him. Caspar sighed, “Yes, Ryn. I’m over here by the rocks.” A little figure bounded out of the fog. His messy brown hair bounced off his forehead. He seated himself on the rock beside Caspar.
“You, Lyrion, know my name!” he said intelligently.
Caspar smiled a little at the innocence in the boy’s face. His pure delight at someone as important as Caspar remembering his name. The bell rang again, this time chiming twice to indicate that the first meal was about to be had. Ryn held up his little palm to Caspar. In his hand was a squished little pastry. Ryn’s father was the camp cook and always gave Ryn some early in case none was left after the men had taken their fill. Usually, women and children were not allowed in any camps but the cook had brought his little son along with him. Ryn was used to fetch small items and do small chores for the cook and so he was allowed to stay.
The jam on the pastry was smeared, and the whole thing looked like a sad mess, but Caspar took the food, thanking Ryn for his generosity. The pastry had likely been in Ryn’s pocket for at least an hour but he ate it anyway. The pastry was fluffy and light despite its odd shape and the jam was just the perfect mixture of sweet and tart. He looked to his side where Ryn sat staring into the sky contentedly eating another pastry.
“Are you going to go back to camp?” Ryn shifted his gaze from the morning sky to Caspar. I wish I didn’t have to. Caspar wanted to answer but he held his tongue knowing that that was not what Ryn had meant. He had meant, “Was Caspar going to go back to camp to eat?”
“Not right now. I’ll be back in time for the first training session, though. You should go. Your father will be looking for you now.” Caspar replied. Ryn nodded his head thoughtfully, “Father is making me bring all the bowls back now since I can bring tons without dropping a single one.” Ryn lept from the rock and scampered towards the camp while humming a song. It was an old work melody, “One step. Then the next. Keep on moving. No time to rest. Move on. Get your mind on moving. Move on…”
Caspar sat on the rock and watched as the second sun rose, shining bright and warm. He reluctantly stood up, stretching his back from sitting in one spot for so long. Yawning he picked up his pencil and pad.
“Never be afraid to tackle a challenge but do not let that challenge overtake you. Rise for the first sun. Work for the second. Rest for the first moon.” Caspar spun around but no one was there. It sounded like his mother’s voice.
“Work. Make me proud.” The voice drifted off like the wind leaving Caspar behind as it moved to its next destination.
“I will. I will make you proud, Nava.” Alight with a new found determination Caspar struck off with a steady walk towards the camp. He crossed the training fields where men were starting to gather. He entered his tent at the side of the grounds, a little set apart from the rest of the tents.
He removed his soft brown slacks and instead put on a pair of more sturdy combat slacks. In exchange for his soft sleeping shirt, he put on a linen shirt and a brown jerkin. He exited the tent, boots shining, cape flying, and sword at his side. His messy blonde hair was artfully mussed, and he plastered a determined smile on his face.
The third bell sounded. Time to train. He jogged over to the field where the men were hastily pulling on armor and choosing weapons. He gave them a few more minutes to get settled.
“Men!” Caspar shouted. Heads snapped to attention, “Line up!”
The men scrambled to get in line. Once they were somewhat organized into lines, Caspar set them at ease.
“What did we look at yesterday?” Caspar questioned. A man in the back rows raised his hand, and Caspar nodded at him to speak, “We focused on the last of the cuts and thrusts.”
“Good. Today we will be looking at Training Sequences. These will likely save your life. Muscle memory is key.” Caspar nodded to a young man at the side of the training grounds. The boy pulled a training bale out from a stack and placed it in front of Caspar before backing away. Caspar removed his cape and drew his sword, “Sequence One!” He shouted, “Overhand! Backhand! Thrust! Step forward! Side sweep! Overhand! Rest.” As he said each move, he demonstrated cutting the bale to pieces. He then went through each of the other seven sequences.
After the lesson he assigned each man into partners. Instead of practicing with swords, they used wooden rods that didn’t cut but still packed a nice black bruising. They practiced Sequence One. The boy came back with a drum. The men struck in rhythm with the drum. A war march. The Cantorians didn’t fight like savages. They fought as a unified whole—a majestic wave of rhythm and sound drowning out the enemy.
Thump! Thump! Swish! Shuffle! Thump! Thump!… The pattern went. A pair of men broke the rhythm. Their swings were too fast. Caspar walked over to where they were. A big burly man and a thin but oddly muscular man whacked each other. The big man was trying to stay with the beat, but the thin man just moved faster. Hitting without rhythm and setting himself and his partner off course. The swings were made without the proper form and deliberation. The strikes were too quick and light. Caspar raised a hand towards them to stop. The smaller man didn’t listen; he kept on hitting, and when the bigger man didn’t take his turn, he just kept whacking away.
“ALL PRACTICE IS ON STANDSTILL!!!” Caspar bellowed. Immediately the sound of thumps and drums fell away. Only the thin man was left still whacking away. He looked at the others but didn’t stop. Finally, the bigger man grabbed the smaller one’s arm and ripped the rod away from him.
The thin man glared at him but said nothing.
“What are you doing?” Caspar questioned him.
“Only the Sequence you told us to practice.” He retorted in a surly way.
“Why were you deviating from the Rhythm and going off on your own?”
“You didn’t say that we had to follow the rhythm. All you said was to practice Sequence One.” The man’s eyes held a dangerous glint. Caspar took a deep breath before answering.
“It was implied that you would be completing this training to the Rhythm.”
The man shrugged, “You should have said it. What is a young kid like you doing here anyways? You should be off at home with your Nava. Maybe she could read you a story.” The man taunted. Caspar sucked in a breath to speak but the man continued, “I bet you haven’t even been in a real battle! You might be able to cut up a practice bale, but I bet you couldn’t hold your own in a real fight. You’re not a man, just a child playing dress-up in his father’s clothes. Go home, kid!” The man laughed a screechy laugh, which turned into a hacking cough. The rest of the men stood in rigid silence, waiting for Caspar’s response. Caspar could feel the weight of their eyes, some wary, others amused. A challenge. A test.
Caspar suppressed his rage, exhaling slowly to steady himself. If he backed down now, he would lose whatever was left of their respect. He lifted his chin, his voice calm but firm, “You may say what you like, but until you can prove you can beat me in battle, you will treat me with respect.”
“Sure, just say the word, princeling. I will beat you anytime and anywhere.” The man replied, sneering.
Caspar didn’t hesitate, “Then, now. Here. One on one. Your weapon of choice against mine. These men are our witnesses.”
A ripple of interest passed through the watching soldier. Some shifted forward eagerly, others exchanged bemused glances. The man’s sneer widened into something closer to excitement, and he gave a sharp nod.
“I would have it no other way.”
Caspar turned away, stripping off his jerkin and accepting a tangled stack of armor from one of the soldiers. As he fastened the leather straps, his hands worked with practiced ease. This was no mere sparring match. It was a statement—one that would determine whether these men followed him into battle with loyalty or resentment.
On the other side of the field, the thin man tested the weight of his sword. It was shorter, bulkier, and built for brute force. Caspar’s own blade was light and elegant, its edge honed to a razor-sharp point.
A deep drumbeat sounded, slow and steady. A battle rhythm. Caspar met his opponent’s gaze as they took their positions. The pulse of the drum quickened, faster and faster, then stopped.
The match had begun.
The man lunged, his sword flashing towards Caspar’s side. Caspar sidestepped, his blade meeting the strike with a sharp clang. He countered swiftly, aiming for his opponent’s shoulder, but the man twisted away while simultaneously slashing downwards. Caspar barely dodged, feeling the wind of the steel grazing past his leg.
The man lunged again, this time feinting to the left, before bringing his sword in from the right. Caspar managed to block this strike, his arms shaking under the force. He shifted his weight and retaliated, slashing towards the man’s ribs. The blade found its mark, cutting through the leather armor just enough to draw blood.
The man grunted but did not falter. He pressed forward, swinging wildly without rhythm. He forced Caspar back. In a sudden burst, he aimed a powerful overhead strike. Caspar braced himself, raising his sword to block. The impact sent a shock through his arms, but he used the moment to twist his wrist, redirecting the force. The man’s sword slid to the side, his balance was thrown off.
Seizing the opportunity, Caspar spun, sweeping his opponent’s legs out from under him. The man hit the ground with a thud, and, before he could recover, Caspar stepped forward, pressing the tip of his sword against the man’s throat.
The man’s chest heaved, his eyes flitted around as if seeking an escape, but there was none.
Caspar steadied his grip, “Yield.”
The man clenched his jaw, then exhaled sharply.
“I yield.”
Caspar withdrew his blade and stepped back. The tension in the air eased as murmur spread among the soldiers. They looked at Caspar with newfound respect, while others exchanged knowing glances.
Caspar turned to the gathered men, “Attacking without rhythm will throw you off balance. Skill and strategy will always triumph over brute force. In battle, use your mind as well as your blade.”
The men nodded, murmuring their agreement. Even the defeated man gave a grudging nod, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Caspar sheathed his sword and walked away.
The rest of the training finished without any more disturbances. Afterward, when the men had left for the evening meal, Caspar seated himself on his favorite rock again. He looked up into the sky where the first moon, Virell, was starting to appear. He let himself drape over the rock he basked in the warmth of the slowly receding suns. He steadied himself, slowly breathing in and out in time to a peaceful rhythm. He methodically released the tension in his muscles, starting from his head all the way down to his feet. He hadn’t realized how tense he had been during the training session. I could have really hurt myself during the duel this morning, he thought. He resolved to never rush into a duel without proper preparation again.
Breathing out a long sigh, he sat up. He surveyed the training grounds and then broadened his perspective, taking in the whole area surrounding the camp. His eyes scanned over the land. Would it even be possible to escape this place? I mean…the guards are really only patrolling the main area of the camp. They pretty much ignore the training ground section. Maybe I could make a pretense of letting my horse graze here on this turf and then make a break for it? No, that wouldn’t work…his eyes locked on a dark shape. It hadn’t been there before.
He stood up, slowly walking towards it. As he approached, he realized the shape was a person. A girl lay on the ground. Her face and hands were smeared with dirt and grime. She lay stomach down. Silver blood seeped from her side, staining the ground. Dark black wings lay folded on her back.
“An Aureli.”