Ezra finished the tour of Bren in the late afternoon.

  By then the light had gone soft and long, turning dust into gold and the rooftops into burnished bronze. The streets were still busy—merchants calling, carts rattling, boots scraping stone—but the edge had come off the day. Even the guards looked a little less keyed up.

  Reitz and Aerwyna didn’t.

  They had agreed to the tour because hiding taught people they could be scared into hiding. Bren was “secure” on paper—patrols doubled, watch rotations tightened—but neither of them was willing to test how secure it really was after dark.

  No roaming the streets.

  No detours through the markets.

  Straight back to the castle.

  …In theory.

  Ezra walked between them, small steps quick and clean. He wasn’t tired. Not really. His legs still had fuel.

  His brain definitely did.

  “Can we go to the training grounds?” Ezra asked, lifting one small finger toward the distant clatter of steel coming from the southern ward.

  Reitz followed his gaze and grinned.

  “The boy wants to see the steel, Aerwyna. We can’t deny him that on his second name day.”

  Aerwyna opened her mouth to refuse.

  The words were already there: No. Absolutely not. We’re going home.

  Then Ezra’s eyes met hers.

  Wide. Expectant.

  Patient.

  He had been patient for so long.

  He had endured being shut in the castle for over a year without tantrums or screaming fits. No throwing food. No kicking servants. He accepted rules with a calm that, if she was honest, unsettled her.

  Aside from the occasional “escape,” which she counted as play.

  Ezra was behaved.

  That same calm had stolen something from her.

  Sometimes, when she watched him carefully enunciate words he should not yet know, it hit her that she’d never really had a baby phase with him. No nonsense syllables. No babbling. No chance to coo and baby-talk and be answered with giggles and drool.

  The loneliness of that realization would grab her at odd moments, a tiny hollow place in her chest.

  But then Ezra would fold into her arms with quiet trust that felt older than it should be.

  And she would smile anyway.

  Aerwyna sighed, defeated.

  “One hour,” she said. “We watch from above. You do not go down.”

  Ezra nodded instantly, like he had been expecting her to say yes.

  Reitz chuckled and offered Aerwyna a look that said, See? Easy.

  Aerwyna gave him a sharp look that said, Don’t push your luck.

  They arrived at the training grounds south of the castle with the sun still up.

  It was the midsummer equinox; the light would linger long past when it should have fallen, as if the sky itself refused to end the day.

  The grounds were built like a small arena. A raised stone gallery ran along the northern edge with a carved rail—high enough to watch safely, low enough that you could still hear the yard. Below, the sand spread in a wide oval, scored with footprints and scuff marks and churned into shallow ruts. Racks bristled with spears, swords, pikes, polearms, maces, and war hammers. Patches of rock and low shrubs broke up the terrain, and a shallow lake glinted near the middle, reflecting the sky like polished glass.

  Ezra leaned on the stone rail, small hands gripping the carved edge. His eyes ran along the weapon racks until they caught on the longswords. Their steel had a faint bluish sheen.

  In his head, he had assumed this world sat somewhere around the Middle Ages of his old one.

  The more he looked, the less the comparison held. Metallurgy here was better than it should be. Logistics were worse than they should be. Nothing lined up neatly.

  Below, a batch of squires drilled in lines—footing, slashes, thrusts. Blades rose and fell together, boots stomping in unison. Repetitive. Predictable. Useful… but not what he wanted.

  Ezra wanted to see what happened when things went wrong. How they used mana under pressure. How they decided.

  The wanting itself felt strange. In his old life, curiosity had been cool and steady. Here it came with restless heat under his ribs—too large for his small body.

  A horn blew.

  The squires broke formation and scrambled into a line facing the gallery. They clanged fists against breastplates and bowed to the lord they would one day serve.

  Reitz leaned forward over the rail. “Maester Grimfire!” he called. “My son wishes to see a bout.”

  Maester Aed Grimfire turned. His lined face creased into a bow. “As you command, my lord. We have several squires ready for assessment.”

  He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Waine! Hedley! Front and center!”

  Two youths jogged into the central yard. Both wore plate armor and visors, moving with the stiff confidence of boys who hadn’t yet learned how badly steel could punish them.

  Each carried a sword at his hip, a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a secondary weapon of choice.

  Waine took the right.

  Hedley took the left.

  They settled into their corners.

  “Begin!” Grimfire roared.

  They opened with arrows.

  Three shots each, loosed in quick succession.

  Shafts whistled through the air and clattered against armor, glancing off steel and leather. Nothing fatal.

  But neither of them was playing.

  Then they dropped their bows and ran.

  Ezra let AMP unfurl behind his eyes.

  The world sharpened into lines and angles, trajectories and probabilities.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  It used to feel clinical—like reading numbers on a screen.

  Now it felt more natural.

  Waine closed distance first, weight pitched forward, mana gathering in his left palm like heat shimmer.

  [Stone Bullet].

  The spell snapped into existence mid-stride.Each carried a sword at his hip, a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a secondary weapon of choice.

  Waine took the right.

  Hedley took the left.

  His gaze slid from the ring to the boy standing among their escort.

  Hearth Bedross.

  Hearth stood with arms crossed, chin tipped just a little too high. His expression said plainly that almost everyone here was beneath him—the other squires, the men-at-arms, even some of the Knights. Only when his eyes drifted to Reitz and Aerwyna did that look soften into respect. For everyone else—including the heir sitting in the carved chair—there was thin, chilly contempt.

  Ezra noticed the pattern. Not just pride. Hearth looked at people like furniture. Like they were in his way.

  Earlier, during the walk through Bren, Ezra had seen him brush past a servant carrying a heavy crate without so much as a glance, forcing the man to twist aside. He’d heard Hearth’s tone when Caspian tried to speak—flat, dismissive, as if words from a commoner were noise.

  Ezra wasn’t angry about any one moment. But together they painted a picture he didn’t like. A squire who already believed commoners were dirt would grow into a Knight who ignored warnings, dismissed counsel, trampled people because he couldn’t be bothered to look down.

  That sat wrong with Ezra. Something hot and stubborn rose in his chest.

  He could have slapped the boy and blamed it on a toddler tantrum. No one would have dared say anything. It would have felt good for a moment. It wouldn’t teach him anything.

  He wanted Hearth to be forced to see what he refused to see—that the people he looked down on could still bring him to his knees.

  So he’d made a plan. Asked to see the training grounds. Asked to watch the soldiers. All the while watching Hearth’s expressions, counting every little moment of casual disdain.

  Now, standing above the dueling ring, the chance was right there.

  “Mama, Papa,” Ezra said, raising his voice just enough. “I want to duel too.”

  Reitz and Aerwyna both turned. The Knights and servants around them went quiet for half a heartbeat—then some of the younger men chuckled. To them, it sounded like harmless mimicry. A child wanting to play.

  “What?” Aerwyna blurted. “Why, Ezra? Of course we won’t let you.”

  Reitz was more thoughtful. “And who do you wish to face?” he asked, though his tone carried more curiosity than agreement.

  “Him,” Ezra said, and pointed straight at Hearth.

  Hearth stared back—still proud, still haughty. He didn’t show fear—why would he? Ezra was two. Being singled out like this could mean trouble, yes, but fear of a toddler was a bridge too far for his pride.

  Reitz’s expression tightened. “What? Why, Ezra?”

  “Nothing,” Ezra said lightly. “I just want to test my skills, Papa.”

  Laughter bubbled up again. Aerwyna’s face went flat.

  “NO,” she said, sharp and absolute.

  “That is a somewhat unreasonable request, Ezra,” Reitz added with a pained look. He didn’t want his best friend’s child and his own heir crossing blades. Even if some instinct whispered Ezra could hold his own—anything could happen in a bout.

  This was Ezra’s plan in the first place.

  He never meant to fight.

  “Very well,” Ezra said, and turned his head as if conceding without fuss. “How about someone duels in my stead?”

  He pointed at Caspian.

  Caspian jerked as if slapped. He’d been standing dutifully to one side, watching the duels with wide eyes. On the journey, he and Ezra had talked; Caspian had shared the short, rough story of being an orphan. Ezra had a soft spot for people like that—apparently that part of him had come along for the ride.

  And Ezra had been testing him, too. Small, quiet trials. Sudden tosses. Shouted warnings. Watching how quickly Caspian moved when he didn’t have time to think.

  Caspian looked miserable now. He didn’t want to face Hearth. Ezra could see it in the way his shoulders hunched.

  “But I’ll have to go down into the ring,” Ezra added, “because I want to guide Caspian.”

  Evan said nothing. His expression darkened for a moment. He knew Hearth’s haughty streak. He’d planned to correct it later. He hadn’t expected Ezra to move first.

  Still—he could see the shape of the lesson forming and didn’t entirely disapprove.

  “Hmph. A lowborn commoner dares take me on?” Hearth said, looking Caspian up and down. He didn’t dare speak that way to Ezra, so he vented at the easier target.

  Reitz sighed. Hearth had clearly gotten under Ezra’s skin. There was no walking this back completely without undermining his son in front of the retinue.

  “Very well,” Reitz said at last. “Wooden swords only. Sir Evan, you will oversee. No serious injuries.”

  Aerwyna’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t like it. But she didn’t stop it.

  Caspian stood off to the side, trying to look steady and failing.

  Ezra tugged at Evan’s glove until Evan set him down. Ezra walked straight up to Caspian and looked him dead in the face.

  “You want to be a Knight,” Ezra said.

  Caspian swallowed and nodded.

  “Then swear,” Ezra said, calm as if asking for a sweet, “that when I speak, you obey. No pride. No thinking.”

  With Reitz and Aerwyna watching—and no one stopping it—Caspian straightened. “On my knightly vow,” he said hoarsely, “I will obey you, my lord.”

  Ezra nodded once. “Good. Practice.”

  He pulled Caspian to a patch of open ground out of Hearth’s sight and scooped a few small stones from the edge of the yard.

  “Close your eyes,” Ezra said.

  Caspian did. Ezra tossed a stone; it thudded into Caspian’s chest. Another clipped his shoulder. Caspian flinched, jaw tightening.

  “Not like that,” Ezra said, impatient. “Feel with your aura.”

  Caspian opened his eyes, confused.

  Ezra shook his head. “No. Keep them closed. I’ll say when.”

  They tried again. At first Caspian swung too early, then too late—wooden blade cutting empty air while the stones struck home. Ezra adjusted, changed the rhythm, calibrated the gap between command and motion. A few more passes, and Caspian started moving on Ezra’s word instead of his own panic.

  By the end, blindfolded with a strip of cloth torn from a spare wrap, he knocked each thrown stone aside on cue.

  Ezra lowered his hand, satisfied. He patted Caspian’s sleeve. “Good,” he said softly. “Now do that in the ring. Just listen.”

  Aerwyna hesitated. Then nodded, lips pressed together.

  Caspian and Hearth descended into the yard. Squires handed them wooden practice swords.

  Hearth spun his in one hand, showing off.

  Caspian almost dropped his, catching it at the last second. His knuckles turned white around the grip.

  Ezra’s eyes narrowed. He had assumed spells wouldn’t factor. At this age, squires should barely manage drills, let alone combat casting.

  As the two boys approached each other, AMP slid into place behind his eyes again.

  “Begin!” Evan called.

  Hearth moved first.

  [Stone Bullet].

  Mana surged and snapped into a tight sphere roughly three fingers across. The spell launched from Hearth’s off-hand with vicious speed.

  Caspian had just enough time to flinch.

  He remembered Ezra’s earlier instruction.

  Block. Don’t freeze.

  Caspian jerked his sword up. The stone hit his left hand instead of his head.

  Pain exploded through his fingers—bone crunching between wood and rock.

  Caspian howled and stumbled. His sword nearly flew from his grip. He dropped to one knee.

  Ezra flinched. The sound of that cry dug under his skin.

  Reitz’s eyes widened. “A spell? In the opening?” he murmured. “At his age?”

  Most squires Hearth’s age could barely form a decent spell standing still.

  Hearth smirked and closed in, swinging his wooden blade in broad, confident arcs. Every parry from Caspian made him wince. His injured hand throbbed. His grip weakened with each impact.

  Ezra watched from the edge of the yard, lower now, the packed earth close enough to smell. Knights’ boots loomed around him.

  Before the bout, he’d briefed Caspian: follow commands exactly. No improvising. No second-guessing. Caspian had sworn.

  Now Ezra let AMP dig deeper—not just vague impressions. Patterns.

  Hearth favored his right. His weight shifted before every heavy swing. His left foot dragged a fraction when he reset.

  At the same time Ezra’s chest hurt watching Caspian cradle broken fingers. He wanted to stop the fight.

  He didn’t.

  The contradiction sat like a stone in his throat.

  “Caspian,” Ezra called, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Listen to me.”

  Caspian’s eyes snapped to him for a heartbeat, wide and damp.

  “Now,” Ezra said. “One step right. Thrust.”

  Caspian obeyed—one step, a straight thrust.

  Hearth was caught off guard. He jerked aside, barely avoiding a solid hit, but his dodge was clumsy. His stance opened.

  Ezra felt a cold spark of satisfaction.

  During the past year, he’d realized AMP could be used this way—to read patterns, not just whisper numbers. He had wanted to test that in a real fight.

  “Sweep toward his left knee,” Ezra ordered.

  Hearth’s awkward sidestep left his leg exposed. Caspian’s wooden blade swept low and smacked into it.

  Hearth’s knee buckled. He lurched forward with a hiss.

  “Quickly,” Ezra said. “Swing upward.”

  Caspian recovered faster. The wooden sword snapped up in a rising arc.

  Hearth heard the command and tried to twist away.

  Too late.

  The blade caught him square on the forehead with a sharp crack.

  Hearth reeled, stunned. Red anger flooded his face.

  Ezra felt a thrill—and a sharp pang of guilt. Caspian’s fingers were swelling purple. This hurt.

  Hearth’s humiliation burned hotter than pain. He retreated a step, then let out an inarticulate shout and charged.

  Whatever technique he’d been taught vanished under rage. He swung wildly, repeatedly, trying to batter Caspian into the dirt with sheer force.

  “Keep dodging,” Ezra called, heart pounding hard enough to hurt. “Just dodge—”

  Caspian ducked one wild swing, then another, stumbling, breath coming fast.

  “Now!” Ezra shouted. “Kick!”

  Caspian slipped past another flailing cut and snapped his foot forward. The timing was perfect.

  The kick landed squarely in Hearth’s gut.

  Hearth folded around Caspian’s boot. Air blasted out of him in a choked grunt. He dropped to the ground, curling in on himself, gasping, eyes wide with shock and pain.

  “Enough!” Reitz’s voice rang out over the yard.

  Evan stepped between them at once, a hand on Caspian’s shoulder.

  Caspian stood panting. His crushed hand trembled. But he kept his back straight. He didn’t look victorious, just relieved it was over.

  The training grounds had gone silent—squires, Knights, servants—all of them staring at the small boy at the edge of the ring who had just steered a commoner to victory over a noble squire.

  “Remember this, Even commoners can beat princes. So don’t wear that smug look next time.”