Late morning was clean and cool. Mist hung in thin ropes across Shimmerfield’s inner yard, and the pale stone held the chill like a memory. Servants raked the arena of packed dirt smooth while a handful of onlookers—grooms, pages, a few off-duty men-at-arms—drifted to the edges, mugs steaming in their hands. The stag banners above the wall-walk stirred, then settled as if the keep itself were taking a breath.

  Sire Ray’s errants entered together. Ser Maxwell and Ser Sid took the near rail with Sire Gordon’s master-at-arms, a scar-creased man named Arn, whose left ear had a notch missing and who spoke as if every sentence cost him copper. The four squires—Kay, Zak, Reece, Toby—stood at center, checking laces, stretching shoulders, testing grips.

  Across from them, Shimmerfield’s squires lined up: four boys of similar ages, polished and bright. Their gambesons were a uniform pale gray; their wooden swords were oiled and clean. One—a tall one with light hair—wore a leather gorget stamped with the stag. Another rolled his shoulders the way men who’ve already bled do.

  “House rules,” Arn said, voice flat but carrying. “No thrusts to the face, no strikes to joints. Helmets on. If it cracks, it stops. First to three clean touches wins. Point is to learn, not to limp.”

  Maxwell folded arms across his chest. “We can manage that.”

  Arn’s mouth didn’t move, yet somehow he smiled. “I’ll be the judge. If you argue, you run.”

  “Fair,” Sid said. “We enjoy running on mornings like this.”

  “We do not,” Zak murmured.

  “Quiet,” Kay said, not unkindly.

  Warm breath steamed from the squires’ mouths as they fitted metal helms and tugged straps. Toby flexed fingers inside his gloves and let his gaze travel the yard. The packed earth, the scuffed posts, the raked lines—all of it looked like Highmarsh and not like it at the same time. New place, same work. His pulse steadied with the idea.

  Maxwell’s voice reached him without turning. “Remember your feet. Remember your breath. Win or lose, keep your head.”

  Toby nodded. The thin current under his skin, that quick tide that sometimes made the world lean, flickered. He breathed it away, not out of him, but down into his legs, where it could do less harm.

  Arn raised a hand. “Let’s start. Reece of Highmarsh, Beran of Shimmerfield.”

  Reece startled, then swallowed and stepped forward. Beran, the stocky Shimmerfield boy with scar-touched shoulders, rolled his neck once and saluted.

  Toby clapped Reece on the back. “You’ve got this.”

  Zak leaned close and whispered, “If you die, I’m stealing your boots.”

  Reece snorted, which was the point.

  They met in the center, tips touching, and backed to measure. Arn dropped his hand.

  Reece came on quick, quicker than his nerves suggested, two neat cuts that Beran slid off without fuss. Wood rang high and clean. Beran answered with a low snap toward Reece’s thigh—Reece hopped, parried late but present, and shuffled out. Their feet kicked up pale dust.

  “Don’t lead with your shoulder,” Kay called. “Hips, hips!”

  Reece corrected. He wasn’t graceful, but he was listening, and sometimes listening was better than grace. He circled left. Beran cut right. The blows weren’t heavy; they were questions.

  Beran’s guard dipped a hair. Reece’s eyes flicked to it, hungry. He struck too eager—Beran’s parry bit late and twisted. Reece barely nicked Beran’s shoulder, his sword swinging by like a flat stone tossed to leap over water. Arn’s palm lifted a fraction, then settled. Not a takedown—not today. Reece recovered, cheeks flushing inside the helm.

  “Breathe,” Maxwell said, not loudly. “Breathe when you’re scared.”

  Reece did. Toby could see it even from the rail—the way Reece’s shoulders eased, the way his feet remembered how ground worked. He slid in, feinted high, then bit low, a tidy clip to Beran’s leg guard.

  “Point, Highmarsh!” Arn barked.

  A ripple of noise—not applause yet, but something like approval. Reece’s eyes brightened through the slit.

  Beran replied as if reading from a clean book. He pressed forward, not hard, but constant. Reece gave ground twice, then caught a low strike on the flat, turned it, and—this time gently—tapped Beran’s shoulder.

  “Two.” Arn’s tone remained bored, which meant he was satisfied.

  Beran grinned behind his helmet and did what good fighters do when losing—he stopped chasing and started shaping. He let Reece come, drew him long, and met him where he leaned. The next two touches were Shimmerfield’s, one to the thigh—a neat, convincing check—and one to the ribs when Reece overcommitted to a high line.

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  Two and two. Reece’s breath went rough again. He backed off, circling.

  “Eyes,” Kay called. “See the rhythm.”

  Reece’s gaze sharpened. Beran’s tell—a slight roll of his front foot before he cut—showed itself the way tells always do when bodies get tired. Reece waited through one fake, didn’t bite on another, and when Beran tried to sneak the real thing inside the fake, Reece’s blade was already there, meeting it and sliding up and—tap—shoulder.

  “Match, Highmarsh,” Arn said.

  Reece lowered his sword, panting, and saluted. Beran saluted back immediately, grin broad and honest.

  Toby felt his own mouth stretch in relief. He turned and found Maxwell not smiling, but the line of his jaw had eased. Kay clapped once. Zak whooped, to the mild amusement of the onlookers.

  “One for us,” Sid murmured.

  Arn didn’t waste time. “Next. Zak of Highmarsh. Lyle of Shimmerfield.”

  Lyle—the tall fair one with the stag gorget—stepped out, rolling his wrists. Zak went to meet him with the new, leaner way he’d carried since Highmarsh. The laziness was gone from his stance; the humor remained in his eyes. He saluted and took measure.

  “Try not to break him,” Zak whispered under his breath to no one in particular.

  “Try not to trip,” Kay returned.

  Arn dropped his hand.

  Lyle started careful. Zak obliged by being obvious—first few exchanges simple, solid. Block, cut, recover. Lyle had polish; Zak had weight and a sense for the ugly parts of a fight. Twice Lyle’s pretty parries made the right noise; twice the follow-up died because Zak’s blade stayed mean in the bind.

  “Don’t let him sleep on you,” someone from the Shimmerfield side called.

  Zak’s grin showed in the helmet slit. “I don’t sleep on anyone,” he said, then almost got his knuckles rapped for it and had to yank back quick. Lyle pressed; Zak met him and forced the line inside, shoulders quiet.

  “Hands,” Maxwell warned.

  Zak tightened his guard. The next pass he kept it small, not trying to win all at once. Lyle flicked high. Zak didn’t chase the point; he stepped to the pressure and let Lyle’s blade glance past, then answered with the simplest thing—a clean, short stroke to the outside thigh. The thud of wood on leather had an honest sound.

  “Point, Highmarsh,” Arn said.

  Lyle nodded like a man who’d learned something true and came again with a tighter game, hands lower, feet quicker. He clipped Zak’s shoulder with a brisk rising cut.

  “Point, Shimmerfield.”

  They grinned at each other, both enjoying what the work felt like when it worked.

  Toby watched the way Zak moved now—not smooth, but honest, and that was better; smooth could be faked. He kept waiting for Zak to look for the Art and falter. Zak didn’t. He stayed where his body was, not where his pride wished it. He made small choices well.

  Second exchange: they tied up in close. Lyle tried for a bump to unseat him; Zak planted and pushed back, then did something Maxwell had drilled into them all winter—a patient beat, not a hard one, and flowed into a low line. Tap. Thigh again.

  “Point, Highmarsh. Two.”

  Lyle blew out a breath. He changed his angle, circling left, trying to pull Zak long. For a pass, it worked—Zak swung wider than needed, wood bit air, and Lyle stung his ribs.

  “Point, Shimmerfield. Two each.”

  “Don’t chase,” Kay said calmly.

  Zak didn’t. He waited. Lyle feinted twice; Zak didn’t rise. The next time Lyle meant it, Zak did too—stepped inside the arc and touched the shoulder before Lyle’s cut finished singing.

  “Match, Highmarsh.”

  The yard gave this one a louder answer. Zak lifted his blade and saluted, then leaned close to Lyle as they passed.

  “Well fought.”

  “You too,” Lyle said. “You hit like a door.”

  “Open or closed?”

  “Depends if you’re in the way.”

  They laughed, and the humor did what humor should—it bound, not broke. Two matches, two to Highmarsh. Toby felt warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the sun.

  Arn lifted his palm. “Kay of Highmarsh. Teren of Shimmerfield.”

  Teren was the smallest of Shimmerfield’s four, but he carried himself like a man accustomed to eyes. He set his feet with care, raised his sword with economy, and saluted deep. Kay returned the salute with exactness, every gesture correct.

  They began like a dance where both partners know all the steps. The wood rang less; the edges whispered. Kay’s blade lived on the shortest path. Teren’s made shapes just a hair wider, as if he enjoyed the lines it drew.

  “Too open,” Maxwell murmured, and Toby realized he meant Teren; Kay saw it too. He pressed one step, then two, kept the measure short enough to sting, and found the shoulder clean.

  “Point, Highmarsh.”

  Teren’s smile flickered, then steadied. He changed guards. Kay did not.

  Second pass ran longer. Teren tried to hook Kay’s rhythm out from under him—feints stacked on feints, foot taps, hip twitches. Kay suffered none of it. He let the noise pass by, then put the blade exactly where it needed to be. It wasn’t a hit so much as a correction. Tap—thigh.

  “Two.”

  The Shimmerfield squires fell into a different quiet, one shaped less by expectation and more by appreciation. Their master-at-arms didn’t look displeased. He looked as men do when they see a clean cut and remember why they love the craft.

  Teren came hard on the third, pride biting. He threw a flurry, not wild, but near it, and Kay did what his father had taught him since he could walk—he stayed who he was. He didn’t rise. He didn’t answer early. He let Teren spend, then placed the last coin. Shoulder again.

  “Match, Highmarsh.”

  Kay lowered his blade and stepped back. He was breathing hard but not loud. Teren removed his helmet and bowed, and Kay matched it. The gesture was one of respect, not display.

  “Three for three,” Sid said, almost surprised.

  Maxwell didn’t move. His eyes slid briefly to Toby and away. Toby felt the look like a cold cloth on the neck.

  “Last pairing,” Arn called. “Toby of Highmarsh. Mave of Shimmerfield.”