The morning bell rang, and Zak was already awake. He’d been awake half the night, listening to the crackle of frost outside the shutter and the weight of thoughts that didn’t melt with daylight. He sat up and stared at the faint outline of his boots beside the bed. They looked like someone else’s problem.

  He’d laughed his way through most of training for the last two years. Laughed at his bruises, laughed at Toby’s stubbornness, laughed at Reece tripping over his own sword hilt, laughed even when Maxwell called him half-asleep with a blade. It was easier to be the joke than the disappointment.

  He knew what they whispered—not cruelly, but they whispered all the same. Oldest of the four. Still hasn’t touched the Art. Kay didn’t say it, and Toby and Reece were too decent, but silence was its own kind of echo.

  He could feel it every time the others talked about what they’d seen, what they’d felt—that brief heat in the blood, that weightless surge. Zak had nothing. No light, no strength, no whisper of speed. Just his own sweat, and a wooden sword that felt heavier every week.

  He dragged his tunic over his head, buckled his belt, and joined the morning line for livery—the castle’s daily meal for squires, guards, and workers. The smell of oats and salt pork hung thick in the air. Servants moved down the benches, ladling stew into bowls. Zak’s portion landed with a dull splosh.

  He stared at it a moment. It wasn’t bad food, better than he’d ever had at home, but it tasted like debt. Every spoonful reminded him that this was paid for by the labor of others. That he was supposed to be earning it, somehow.

  Toby was already there, spoon in hand, trading some quiet joke with Reece. Kay sat straight-backed near the end of the table, manners neat even in the noise. Zak dropped down across from them, forcing a grin. “Morning, lads. Still got all your fingers?”

  Reece smirked. “Barely.”

  “Good,” Zak said, stirring his porridge. “Means I’ve got competition.”

  But as he ate, the grin faded. He’d been at this longer than all of them. He’d trained, fought, learned every rule Maxwell could hammer into his skull. But every time someone mentioned the Art, it was like a door slamming somewhere far away.

  He’d seen Toby strike like lightning, Reece move with that sudden power yesterday. Even Kay—Kay who was perfect at everything—had that quiet gleam about him, like the air itself obeyed when he breathed.

  Zak told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself he’d get there when he got there. But the words had started to taste like old bread—dry and hard to swallow.

  He wanted to be more than the lazy one. He wanted to be worth the food, worth Kay’s trust. But wanting and being were two different things.

  He pushed the bowl away half-finished, rubbed his face, and muttered to himself, “Maybe tomorrow.”

  ***

  By the time the morning chill faded into the clangor of the yard, Kay was already tired. Not from lack of rest—from the weight of being seen.

  Every movement, every breath, carried eyes on it. Knights, guards, even the servants who swept the steps—they all looked at him and saw the lord’s son. The future of Highmarsh. The boy who would one day command these walls, these men, this air. He was expected to lead even before he’d earned the right to walk behind.

  He drew his practice sword from the rack and felt its balance in his hand. It was good—polished smooth by use, his grip instinctive now. But still, every time he held it, a question followed: Are you holding it like a knight or like a child pretending to be one?

  The squires filed out behind him. Toby nodded respectfully, Reece shuffled his feet, and Zak sauntered in with that easy grin that fooled everyone but Kay.

  “Morning, my lord,” Zak said with mock formality, bowing just deep enough to be almost proper. “Ready to humiliate us again?”

  “Only if you insist,” Kay said lightly.

  He knew humor was Zak’s armor, and courtesy was his shield.

  The practice began with drills—the same rhythmic forms that had carved the shape of his days for years. Step, pivot, strike. Step, pivot, block. Over and over, until thought turned into breath. But beneath the repetition was the noise of expectation.

  You’re Sire Ray’s son. You must be better.

  Don’t embarrass the lineage.

  Make the knights proud. Make the vassals trust.

  Earn the castle you’ll one day inherit.

  Every parry felt heavier than it should. Every correction from Maxwell carried a sting it didn’t have for the others. When he stumbled, even slightly, the air itself seemed to flinch. And yet—he couldn’t show the strain. Leadership wasn’t permission to break. It was the art of never letting others see the cracks.

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  Between bouts, while Maxwell adjusted Toby’s stance and Reece mopped his brow, Kay glanced at Zak. The older boy was leaning on his sword, grinning as if the world were a tavern joke—but his eyes were distant. The grin didn’t reach them anymore. Kay had noticed that change creeping in since that first time Toby accidentally used the Art. Zak hadn’t said a word about it, but he didn’t need to.

  He’s falling behind, Kay thought. And he knows it.

  Zak had always been there—loud, loyal, unshakable—the first to volunteer, the last to quit. But lately, the laughter sounded forced, the ease an act. Kay wanted to say something, to reach across the invisible border of rank and tell him it didn’t matter—that strength didn’t come from magic alone. But how did a lord’s son comfort a weaver’s boy without sounding like pity? He adjusted his gloves instead and said nothing.

  Maxwell’s shout drew their attention: “Form pairs! Three rounds, no mercy.”

  They obeyed. The clatter of wood filled the yard. Kay’s body moved on instinct, but his thoughts were elsewhere—on Zak’s hollow grin, on Toby’s raw determination, on Reece’s quiet desperation. All of them were struggling in their own way, and he was supposed to be the one holding them together.

  It felt less like leading and more like trying to keep the roof from falling in with his bare hands…

  Kay had been ten, the night he slipped from the keep. The rain came soft at first, like the breath of a secret, and then harder—heavy drops drumming against the shutters. The guards at the gate huddled near the brazier, half asleep. Kay had watched them from the stairwell, cloak too big for him, excitement thrumming in his ribs.

  He wasn’t running away, not really. He was running toward something—the town below, with its lights and laughter, its smells of bread and smoke. He’d seen it from the walls a thousand times and wondered what the world looked like from the ground.

  He crept past the stableyard, climbed the narrow postern stair, and slipped into the rain. The first cold drop on his face felt like freedom. The second felt like trouble.

  Down in the lanes, the cobbles glistened like mirrors. The houses leaned together like gossiping old women. Lanterns swayed in doorways; voices drifted from taverns. He breathed it in, every sound and scent—roasting chestnuts, wet wool, the metallic tang of smithy air. For a moment, he was just a boy in a story.

  Then he turned a corner and found the dogs. Two strays—ribs sharp as knives, eyes the color of hunger. They moved like smoke, low and certain. Kay froze. His hand went to the short stick he’d carried for show. The rain slicked his grip.

  The first growl rolled up his spine. The second made him back into a wall. He raised the stick, heart thundering.

  “Go on!” he shouted, but his voice broke halfway through.

  The dogs advanced, teeth bright in the lantern-light. But then came a voice through the rain, loud and rough.

  “Oi! Get off him!”

  A boy about twelve came pelting down the alley, barefoot, soaked to the bone. He swung a length of wood like a club, yelling curses at the dogs. One turned on him—he didn’t stop. He charged, wild and fearless, and the mutts scattered into the night.

  The boy grinned at him through the rain. “You all right, fancy boots?”

  Kay bristled. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Zak,” the boy said, brushing rain from his face. “My family weaves down near the mill. Who’re you?”

  Kay hesitated. “No one.”

  Zak laughed. “No one owes me a drink, then.”

  They’d barely caught their breath when hoofbeats clattered on the stones. Guards rounded the corner, torches flaring. His father rode behind them, cloak plastered to his shoulders, eyes dark with worry.

  “Kay!” his father barked, and Kay flinched.

  Then his father saw Zak, standing his ground beside him with the stick still raised like a sword.

  “You found my child,” Sire Ray said simply.

  Zak blinked. “Aye, my lord. The dogs would’ve had him if I hadn’t—”

  “Bravery doesn’t need apology.” Ray dismounted, boots splashing water onto his clothes. “What does your family do?”

  “Weavers, my lord.”

  “And what do you want to do?”

  Zak looked from Ray to Kay and back again. “Something that matters.”

  Ray nodded slowly. “My son will need men who stand their ground. Come to the keep tomorrow. We’ll see what you’re made of.”

  Zak’s mouth fell open. “Me, my lord?”

  “If you’ve the courage to face my son’s temper,” Ray said dryly, “you’re already half a knight.”

  Kay had blushed scarlet. Zak had laughed, fearless even dripping with rain.

  That sound of his laughter—free, proud, alive—had stayed with Kay ever since…

  The clang of wood against wood marked the end of practice. The squires filed toward the mess for lunch, arms aching, breaths short.

  Toby and Reece were already halfway through their stew when Kay sat down. He picked at his bread, thoughts miles away, until finally he said, “You’ve noticed Zak, haven’t you?”

  “What about him?” Reece asked.

  Kay looked around; Zak wasn’t there yet. “He’s not himself. Not since—” He stopped himself, not wanting to turn Toby into the problem.

  Reece shrugged uneasily. “He still jokes. Maybe he’s fine.”

  “He’s not,” Kay said quietly. “I’ve known him longer than any of you. He hides it well, but it’s there.”

  Toby frowned. “Then ask Master Maxwell about it. Or Sire Ray. Maybe they’ll know what to say.”

  Kay considered that. He didn’t like the thought of running to anyone—it felt like weakness, or worse, betrayal. But maybe Toby was right. Maybe help wasn’t always something a person could give alone.

  Reece stirred his stew, unsure. “He’ll pull through,” he said finally. “He always does.”

  Kay looked down the hall toward the doorway, and imagined Zak’s laughter echoed from somewhere unseen. He folded his hands and said, mostly to himself, “I hope you’re right.”