Chapter 3 Strength Without Favor

  The first stop comes at the edge of a frozen clearing just before dusk.

  Tents rise in uneven rows, canvas snapping in the wind. Fires are already lit, their smoke low and bitter as it struggles against the cold. The march has taken most of the day, and the road has taken its toll, mud-caked boots, aching legs, raw hands.

  The carriage arrives last.

  It rolls in clean and quiet, wheels barely marked by the road. A king’s man hops down and opens the door, and Marrius Jr. steps out stretching like someone waking from a pleasant nap. Marvin follows, broad shoulders wrapped in a thick cloak, face relaxed and dry.

  Eric watches from beside the fire pit as they take in the camp.

  Marrius smiles.

  “Well,” he says loudly, “this looks… rustic.”

  A few supplicants glance up, eyes hollow with exhaustion. No one laughs.

  Marrius draws his practice blade from his belt, not a real weapon, but better made than most, and spins it once, clean and confident. “Tutor says form matters more than strength,” he adds. “Of course, you need both.”

  Marvin cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders. “He’s right. You lot should watch. Might learn something before you embarrass yourselves.”

  Eric feels Emil stiffen beside him.

  “Don’t,” Emil mutters.

  Marrius launches into a series of practiced movements, clean cuts, controlled steps, a flourish at the end. It is impressive, Eric admits. He has been trained. There is no denying that.

  But when Marrius finishes and looks around for praise, he finds mostly indifference.

  That seems to irritate him more than mockery would have.

  Before he can speak again, a sergeant’s voice cuts through the camp.

  “Supplicants! Gather!”

  They form a loose semicircle near the largest fire. The king’s men move among them, not unkind, but distant. Measuring.

  “Step forward if you can read,” one calls.

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  Hands rise. Eric’s does not hesitate.

  “Write?”

  Again, he steps forward.

  “Numbers? Counting? Ledger work?”

  Eric nods once. Emil joins him. A few others.

  The sergeant makes marks on a slate. “Good. Could be useful.”

  Another man steps up, older, eyes sharp. “Any of you have… instincts?” he asks. “Weather sense. Animals. Reading people. Hunches that turn out right more often than not.”

  A pause.

  Eric hesitates, then raises his hand halfway.

  The man notices. “Speak.”

  “I notice patterns,” Eric says carefully. “Storms. Wind shifts. When animals are uneasy.”

  The man studies him for a long moment, then nods. “We’ll see.”

  Marrius scoffs from the back. “So now daydreaming counts?”

  The king’s man ignores him.

  Weapons training follows, if it can be called that.

  Wooden swords are handed out. A rack of simple bows stands nearby, arrows blunted but still dangerous in careless hands.

  “Pointy end goes away from you,” a guard says dryly. “Try not to stab yourself or anyone important.”

  They pair off at random.

  Eric faces a boy from another village, taller but shaky. They circle once. The boy lunges too fast, off-balance. Eric steps aside and taps his shoulder lightly with the flat of the blade.

  “Again,” the guard says.

  They go through the motions. No instruction beyond the basics. No correction of form. Just movement for movement’s sake.

  Nearby, Marrius and Marvin train together, their blows sharp and deliberate. Marvin hits hard. Marrius moves fast. They draw attention whether they mean to or not.

  “Careful!” Marrius calls as someone stumbles with a bow. “Wouldn’t want you to lose an eye before the Kingstone decides you’re useless.”

  Marvin laughs.

  Eric finishes his bout and sets the sword aside. His arms feel steady, his breathing controlled. Field work has taught him leverage, timing, restraint. He does not need to prove it here.

  That seems to bother Marrius.

  He approaches, practice blade resting on his shoulder. “You didn’t embarrass yourself,” he says. “Surprised.”

  Eric meets his gaze. “Is that all?”

  Marrius’s eyes narrow. “You think you’re special because you can lift a log and read a book?”

  “I think,” Eric says evenly, “that I don’t need your approval.”

  The air tightens.

  Marvin steps closer, looming. “Careful.”

  Eric does not step back.

  He does not step forward either.

  They stand there for a breath, long enough for the guards to notice.

  “Enough,” a sergeant snaps. “Save it for the road.”

  Marrius scoffs and turns away, cloak swirling dramatically. Marvin lingers a moment longer, then follows.

  Emil exhales. “You’re going to get noticed.”

  “I already am,” Eric says.

  That night, the cold sinks deep.

  Eric sits by the fire sharpening a stick absentmindedly when Cathryn joins him. She does not sit immediately.

  “You really believe it,” she says.

  He looks up. “Believe what?”

  “That there’s more than this,” she says, gesturing at the tents, the guards, the road stretching south. “That the stories are real.”

  Eric considers her carefully. “I believe they started somewhere.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s the only honest one I have.”

  She studies him, eyes sharp. “If you’re wrong, clinging to that will hurt you.”

  “If I’m right,” Eric says, “ignoring it would be worse.”

  She sits then, staring into the fire. “Be careful.”

  Emil appears on Eric’s other side, lowering his voice. “You should listen to her. People who stand out get pushed where others want them.”

  Eric nods slowly.

  “I know,” he says.

  But as the fire crackles and the wind howls through the trees, Eric feels something settle inside him, quiet, unyielding.

  Strength without favor may not win him comfort.

  But it will carry him forward.

  And for now, that is enough.