The rains had not stopped since the battle. They came each morning, as if the heavens themselves refused to let the smoke of the dead settle. The downpour wasn’t fierce, only constant—a fine, cold mist that soaked cloaks and eaves alike, blurring the edges of the world until even the keep seemed tired of standing.

  Highmarsh had survived the war, but it did not feel like victory. It felt like something broken that had been mended poorly—still standing, but weaker at every seam.

  Within the outer walls, the courtyards had turned to rivers of mud. Guards moved with slower steps, their armor dull beneath the rain. The mercenaries who’d fought beside them camped back in the western barn, their pikes leaning against the palisade, smoke from their cooking fires rising in pale ribbons. They were quieter now too, their laughter rare and uneasy. Paid men they might be, but even they understood the weight that had settled over the fief.

  Rumor said they’d stay until Sire Hudson proved too wise—or too afraid—to march again. Some said he’d retreated with his pride intact, others that he licked his wounds in the west. Either way, Highmarsh waited, not sure whether to rebuild or to brace for another blow.

  Inside the keep, the rhythm of life had changed. The maids still moved through the corridors, but without song. Their skirts whispered against the stone, their eyes lowered. Even the castellan’s voice echoed more often than his usual sharp remarks now, all spoken in tones too polite to name the truth: their lord was dead.

  In the kitchens, pots clattered less. In the town below, shutters stayed drawn against the wind. Even the tavern’s hearths burned quieter, the warmth too heavy to enjoy.

  When people spoke of Sire Ray, they did so with the hush reserved for prayer. They didn’t mourn like peasants or soldiers; they mourned like a people ashamed to have survived him. And still, beneath the rain, the three squires trained.

  The morning bell sounded dull beneath the clouds. The rain drummed a steady rhythm on the courtyard tiles—steady, endless, and cold. Maxwell stood at the center of the yard, cloak soaked through, the water running from his shoulders like melted iron.

  “Form line,” he said simply.

  Toby, Zak, and Reece took their places. Their boots squelched in the mud, their gambesons heavy with water. The air smelled of wet leather and the faint bite of oil from the armory behind them.

  Kay would not be joining them today. He rarely could anymore. Twice a week, sometimes less. The rest of his hours were spent in meetings, reading ledgers, overseeing the fief, and hearing those who had lost in battle—or honoring those who had survived. He’d inherited the seat at the high table, the voice of Highmarsh—and though no one had yet called him “Lord,” everyone knew the title was coming.

  Maxwell hadn’t spoken of it, but the absence was felt like a missing limb.

  “Step,” Maxwell called. “Guard. Cut. Again.”

  Wood struck air. The sound echoed faintly against the wet walls. Toby moved through the forms, rain plastering his hair against his forehead. His muscles burned, not from effort but from frustration. The motions felt hollow—empty, mechanical. His sword hissed through the mist, the droplets scattering like sparks, but there was no life in the swing.

  “Again,” Maxwell said.

  He obeyed. Each step sank an inch into the mud, each guard dragged at his shoulders. The repetition had always brought comfort before—that quiet rhythm of control, of focus—but now it only reminded him of everything he couldn’t reach.

  Sire Ray had made it look effortless. Not just skill, not just strength, something divine. The image of that final moment refused to leave Toby’s mind. It haunted the back of his eyes, so clear it might have happened yesterday. The river valley shrouded in mist. The clash of banners. The sound—steel, loud as thunder.

  He’d seen knights fight before. He’d seen fury, and rage, and desperation. Sire Ray’s power had been none of those things. It had been pure control. Every movement had purpose—no waste, no hesitation.

  His blade had sung through armor as if through cloth. Men fell before him as though their courage had been unmade, their swords too slow to even touch him. The Physical Art had surrounded him like a storm without sound—the air itself bending, the world narrowing around his will.

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  Toby had felt it. Surely everyone had. That impossible weight, that pressure, that heat—like standing too close to a forge, the air shimmering with unseen fire. The grass had steamed beneath Ray’s boots. He’d become something more than human—and in doing so, had burned himself away.

  The memory made Toby’s stomach twist. He swung again, harder. The sword smacked uselessly against the damp air.

  “Stop forcing it,” Maxwell said, voice steady. “Control it.”

  “I’m trying!”

  The shout came sharper than he meant it. The rain seemed to pause for half a heartbeat, the air too still.

  Maxwell didn’t answer. He just stepped forward, meeting Toby’s glare with the calm of a man who’d seen too many tempests.

  “Trying isn’t control, boy. It’s wanting. And wanting doesn’t make a blade strike true.”

  Toby clenched his jaw. The wooden sword trembled slightly in his grip.

  “Then what does?”

  Maxwell’s expression softened by a degree. “Patience. Practice. Time.” He gestured toward the horizon—gray, endless, soaked in rain. “The Art isn’t rage. It’s rhythm. You’ll learn it the same way he did—through years, not anger.”

  The words stung because they were true. Toby bowed his head, ashamed of the outburst. The rain on his cheeks disguised whatever else might have been there.

  “Again,” Maxwell said, turning away.

  They drilled until the clouds darkened to slate. Zak grunted through every swing, muttering oaths beneath his breath. Reece kept his guard tight, his breath ragged but steady. And Toby—Toby fought against the weight in his chest as much as the rain in his eyes.

  Every movement became a memory. The swing—the sound of metal parting air. The step—Sire Ray’s final charge. The guard—the lord’s hand falling, slow and steady. He moved until his arms shook and the sword slipped from his fingers.

  “Enough,” Maxwell said at last.

  No one argued. They bowed their heads briefly—both to Maxwell, and to the unseen memory that watched them all.

  They gathered under the archway when the drill ended, dripping water onto the stone. The wind carried the scent of wet pine and smoke from the mercenaries’ fires beyond the wall.

  Reece shivered, rubbing his arms. “Feels colder every day.”

  Zak snorted softly. “You’re just softer every day.”

  Reece made a face. “At least I don’t complain like an old man.”

  “Old man?” Zak said, eyebrows rising. “I’ll have you know—”

  “Enough,” Toby said quietly.

  He didn’t mean it harshly, but both of them fell silent all the same. They stood in stillness for a while, listening to the rain beat against the roofs and stone. Somewhere above them, the falcon banner rippled faintly.

  “He would’ve hated this weather,” Zak muttered finally.

  Toby gave a faint smile. “He would’ve trained through it anyway.”

  “Yeah,” Zak said. “He would’ve.”

  They fell quiet again.

  Toby’s mind drifted to the training stones of Highmarsh—those pear-shaped pillars that stood like a history carved in rock, each one marking a knight, a heritage, a right to title and honor. He felt something twist in his chest. That was where he’d seen it—the true height of strength. That was where he’d first understood what mastery could look like. He wondered if he’d ever reach it. If anyone could.

  A sharp whistle broke his thought. Maxwell motioned toward the keep doors. “Enough standing about. Food, then your duties. You’re no use to me if you catch a fever.”

  Zak groaned. “Wouldn’t mind a week’s rest.”

  “You’ll rest when you’re dead,” Maxwell replied. “And even then, I’ll find you work.”

  Reece grinned faintly at that, a small ember of warmth in the chill. Toby didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched—the first hint of life since the rain began.

  They followed Maxwell inside. The air within the keep was warmer, the torches throwing soft gold light across the hall. Yet even there, the mood lingered. Servants spoke in low tones. The smell of broth and smoke filled the corridors, comforting and sad at once.

  Toby walked in silence beside the others, his thoughts still on the yard. He could feel the rhythm of his breathing, the ache in his muscles, the echo of Ray’s final words burned into his mind.

  Breath is rhythm. Rhythm is control.

  Control.

  He lacked neither strength nor courage—only command over himself. The Art was both power and surrender—to rhythm, to purpose, to something greater than rage. He had seen what it could do when unleashed without restraint. He had seen a man of legend burn brighter than the sun, only to fall before the shadow could cool. He would not make the same mistake. He would master it.