With the door closed behind Radomir and the steward having quietly slipped away, Cedric found himself alone once more, his thoughts swirling like leaves caught in a restless wind.
Could it be true? Were the Corrupted really stirring again, seeking to breach te surface? The notion lingered uneasily, but Cedric dismissed it with a shake of his head. No matter. Old fears to scare old men.
He turned and headed toward the basement, his steps steady as he descened deeper into the manor. His fencing instructor, Ulrich, would already be waiting.
As Cedric walked, his mind drifted to a memory, one gilded with both wonder and discontent. It ha beem years ago when the entire family had traveled to the Duchy's capital for one of the Duke's grand balls. The palace had been a marvel, a towering masterpiece of marble and gold. Its grand halls gleamed under the light of countless chandeliers, and every surface seemed adroned with the spoils of a legacy far older and richer than his family's.
Yet, as grand as it had been, Cedric had found no solace there. The palace, for all its opulence, lacked the charm of their city manor. It was too vast, too crowded. Eyes followed you wherever you went, voices echoed endlessly, and the weight of propriety smothered any chance of being alone with your thoughts.
Here, at home, he could breate. The manor might lack the splendor of a palace, but its halls held warmth that marble could not. And as Cedric passed through the familiar corridors, he couldn't help but feel a faint pang of gratitude for the cozy comfort they offered.
Reaching the door to the training room, Cedric hesitated a moment, brushig aside the lingering unease Radomir had left behind. He pushed the door open, the scent of oil and polished steel filling the air.
Ulrich stood in the center of the room, his arms crossed and his expression carved from stone. "Your're late," the old instructor said, his voice carrying both reproach and a faint undercurrent of humor.
Cedric smirked, stepping inside and shrugging off the weight of his thoughts. "A nobleman is never late. Others are simply early."
Ulrich snorted, already gesturing toward the rack of training swords. "Save your wit for court boy. Here, the only thing that matters is your blade. Now, draw. Let's see if you've learned anything since last time."
Cedric picked up the blade, the familiar weight steadying him. Whatever unease the morning had brought, it could wait. For now, his world narrowed to the training floor and the man standing before him.
The clang of steel echoed through the dimly lit training hall as Cedric's blade met Ulrich's with a sharp, unforgiving clash. The older man moved with a precision that belied his grizzled appearance, each motion deliberate, each step measured.
"Your footwork's sloppy," Ulrich barked, his blade snapping forward in a quick thrust.
Cedric barely parried in time, his arm straining as the impact reverberated through the training sword. He adjusted his stance, shifting his weight onto his back foot to counterbalance. "I thought I was improving," he said, his words punctuated by labored breaths.
"Improving? Is that what you call this flailing?" Ulrich's tone was sharp, but there was no malice in it, only the blunt honesty of a seasoned soldier. "Your enemy won't care how far you've come, only how quickly they can put you in the dirt. Again!"
The older man advanced, his strikes coming in a fluid barrage—an overhead slash followed by a low sweep and a quick jab aimed for Cedric's chest. Cedric blocked the first two, but the jab slipped through his guard, stopping just shy of his ribcage.
"Dead," Ulrich said flatly, stepping back to reset.
Cedric growled in frustration, wiping sweat from his brow. "You didn't even give me a chance to breathe."
"The battlefield won't either," Ulrich shot back, his gaze hard. "If you want to survive, you don't get to rest. You adapt. You endure. Now—on guard."
Gritting his teeth, Cedric raised his sword again, forcing his focus back to the present. He mirrored Ulrich's stance, watching the subtle movements in the older man's shoulders, the shift of his weight.
This time, when Ulrich lunged, Cedric sidestepped, redirecting the blow with his blade and stepping into a counter. His strike was deflected easily, but the faint flicker of approval in Ulrich's eyes did not go unnoticed.
"Better," Ulrich said, though he immediately followed with a feint that caught Cedric off guard, his blade tapping Cedric's side. "But not good enough."
They continued, the rhythm of their sparring filling the room. Sweat dripped down Cedric's back, his muscles burning with exertion, but he refused to yield. Each clash, each correction, was a lesson etched into his body—a reminder of how far he still had to go.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Ulrich called for a halt. He rested his sword against his shoulder, studying Cedric with an appraising look. "You've got potential, lad," he said, his voice softer now. "But potential won't keep you alive. Discipline will."
Cedric nodded, too exhausted to muster a reply. He dropped his training sword onto the rack and leaned against the wall, his chest heaving.
Ulrich crossed the room and handed him a water skin. "You'll need more than noble blood if you're going to make something of yourself. You've got the fire in you, but you need to learn how to temper it."
Cedric took a long drink, the cool water soothing his parched throat. As he caught his breath, he looked up at Ulrich and nodded. "Then I'll learn," he said, his voice steady despite his fatigue. "Whatever it takes."
Ulrich raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. "Whatever it takes, eh? You sure about that? Because tomorrow we're doing the same, but twice as long—and no breaks for whining."
Cedric groaned, leaning his head back against the wall. "Okay, maybe almost whatever it takes."
Ulrich smirked. "Thought so. You nobles are all the same—big words until your feet start hurting."
Cedric couldn't help but chuckle despite himself. "I'll have you know my feet already hurt, and I'm still standing."
"For now," Ulrich shot back, already heading toward the weapon rack. But before he could add more, the door burst open, slamming against the wall. In the doorway stood Friedrich, Cedric's older brother, his expression as rigid as steel.
"Cedric, come with me. Father wants to see us."
Us? Cedric thought, his brow furrowing. Why both of us? I'm not the heir.
"Why us both? You're the heir," Cedric quipped, wiping sweat from his brow. "Go yourself."
Friedrich's already serious face darkened further, his tone sharp as a blade. "This is no time for jokes, Cedric. Get moving, or I'll make you clean the stables again."
Cedric groaned inwardly, glancing at Ulrich, who gave him a knowing smirk. "Better do as the man says, lad. I'd hate to see those noble hands ruined by horse muck."
With a resigned sigh, Cedric grabbed his towel and followed Friedrich, his mind racing with questions—and maybe a small bit of dread.
Inside the Count's study, the air felt heavy with the weight of the conversation. The Count sat with a determined look in his eyes, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "Boys, what do you know about the Corrupted?"
Cedric remained silent, sensing the tension in the room. Friedrich, ever eager to answer, spoke up quickly. "They are the gods' punishment for the sins of the Elves."
Cedric's mind churned, the word Corrupted echoing in his thoughts. Again? He couldn't help but think. This is the second time today I hear about them. What's going on? What is happening today?
The Count nodded grimly. "Yes, that's true, but what do they want? Why do they act the way they do?"
Both boys fell silent, unsure how to answer.
"They seek to corrupt others," the Count continued, his voice low but steady. "But they have no thoughts of their own, no strategy. They are predictable, and because of that, they are not a real threat." He paused, his fingers drumming thoughtfully on the table. "But... the dwarven refugees who arrived a few days ago say otherwise. Have you even noticed them from up here?" He glanced at Cedric briefly, as if waiting for an answer.
Cedric was about to speak, but the Count waved his hand dismissively. "No matter. I want you, Friedrich, to go to the marketplace and negotiate a deal with the merchant for a large batch of foodstuffs, so that the dwarves starve. And you, Cedric, you will help the city watch captain with her duties and to learn more about from the Dwarves. Is that understood?"
Both boys responded immediately, almost in unison.
"Yes, sir!"
The Count smiled softly, his stern expression giving way to something gentler as he looked at his sons. "Remember, no matter what happens, you are both my pride and joy. Stay safe, and take care of each other."
With that, he gave them a nod of approval, the love in his eyes unmistakable, though rarely shown. The moment passed quickly, and Cedric and Friedrich left the room, Cedric feeling a sense of duty—and perhaps, just for a moment, a bit more of the fatherly affection they rarely saw in his usual stern demeanor.