As Prince Eirik approached the Zephyros training ground, memories flooded his mind, pulling him back to his early days at the Warcrest Manor.
The sight of the vast, open space, the meticulously maintained grounds, and the distinct scent of leather and steel stirred something deep within him. Zephyros' training ground bore a striking resemblance to the one at Warcrest Manor, where he had spent countless hours under the stern gaze of his uncle, Lord Cedric Warcrest.
Eirik had never been one to enjoy physical exertion. The very thought of sweating, of feeling the sticky discomfort of a drenched shirt clinging to his skin, was enough to make him recoil.
He had always preferred the quiet of the library, the elegance of courtly manners, or even the thrill of a well-executed political maneuver. Combat training, with its relentless demands on both body and mind, seemed utterly distasteful to him.
His uncle, however, had different plans. Cedric was a man of discipline, a retired general who believed in the necessity of strength, both physical and mental.
When Eirik had first resisted the idea of training, Cedric had been undeterred. "It's for your own good, Eirik," he had said, his voice carrying the weight of a command that brooked no argument. "You must be able to defend yourself, no matter the circumstance."
Eirik had scoffed at the idea. How could sweating and nearly killing oneself with exertions possibly be for his own good? He had been adamant in his refusal, insisting that he would never take up the sword or don the rough, uncomfortable garb of a soldier.
But Cedric was as stubborn as he was protective. Knowing his nephew's aversion to anything that might mar his smooth, delicate hands, he had made a deal with him.
Eirik had demanded a pair of custom combat gloves, soft and pliable, to protect his palms from the harsh grip of the sword. To his surprise, and annoyance, Cedric had acquiesced almost immediately, procuring the gloves by the very next day.
Eirik had been cornered. A deal was a deal, after all. With a sigh of resignation, he had slipped the gloves on, marveling at their fit, and agreed to begin his training. And so, the days of rigorous practice began.
The training had been grueling. Cedric was relentless, pushing Eirik beyond his limits, forcing him to engage in mock duels, to practice until his muscles screamed in protest, and to hone his skills until every movement became second nature.
Eirik's disdain for the physical exertion had never waned. He had loathed every drop of sweat, every moment of breathless exhaustion, and every bruise that darkened his fair skin.
Yet, something remarkable had happened over time. Eirik had grown stronger, more confident in his abilities. He had learned to wield a sword with precision and grace, his movements becoming fluid and deadly.
Cedric had drilled him on defense, ensuring that Eirik could hold his own in a fight, even against seasoned warriors. It had been a transformation that Eirik had not anticipated, nor one he had particularly desired. But it had happened nonetheless.
As he walked toward the training ground now, the memories came rushing back. He could almost hear his uncle's voice, gruff but encouraging, pushing him to do better, to be better.
Cedric had never let up, never allowed Eirik to slack off or take the easy way out. And in those moments, Eirik had felt a bond between them that went beyond blood, a bond forged in the heat of battle, in the shared struggle of mastering a skill that did not come naturally to him.
He remembered the first time he had bested one of his older brothers in a sparring match. The look of surprise on his brother's face had been priceless, and the pride in Cedric's eyes had been unmistakable. It was one of the few times Eirik had seen his uncle truly smile, a rare moment of warmth that had stayed with him.
Now, standing at the edge of the Zephyros training ground, Eirik felt a pang of longing. He missed his uncle, missed the gruff encouragement, the steady guidance, and the unyielding belief in his potential. Cedric had always seen more in him than Eirik had seen in himself, pushing him to reach heights he had never thought possible.
As he glanced around, taking in the unfamiliar faces and the unfamiliar land, Eirik felt a strange mixture of emotions. He was far from home, surrounded by people who did not know him, did not understand the trials he had faced or the strength he had earned. And yet, he felt a quiet confidence, a resilience that had been instilled in him through countless hours of training.
His thoughts drifted to the customized gloves, a symbol of the deal he had made with his uncle.
They had been a small concession, a way to make the unbearable slightly more bearable. But they had also been a reminder that, even in his reluctance, he was never truly alone. Cedric had been there with him, every step of the way, guiding him, protecting him, and preparing him for moments like this.
Eirik straightened his shoulders, taking a deep breath as he approached the training ground. The memories of Warcrest Manor faded into the background, but they left behind a sense of determination. He was here now, in Zephyros, not as a helpless prince, but as someone who had faced adversity and come out stronger.
And though he still loathed the thought of sweat and exertion, he knew that he was ready for whatever awaited him. Cedric had seen to that.
As he stepped onto the training ground, Eirik's gaze hardened. He might not have chosen this path, but he would walk it with his head held high. The lessons he had learned at Warcrest Manor would serve him well when he needs it, but currently he did not need it.
He will fight when is absolutely necessary, not when someone that goes by the name Kaelix, wants to test him.
With a final, silent vow to himself, Eirik prepared to face whatever trials Zephyros and its heir might throw at him.
He wasn't here to fight for the sake of fighting or for someone entertainment. But only when the time is necessary, will he be ready or able to prove that his uncle's efforts had not been in vain.