The first light of dawn crept through the narrow windows of Oakenheart Castle, casting long shadows across stone walls that had witnessed generations of Saxon nobility. William de Montfort stirred on his narrow bed, the rough woolen blanket a stark contrast to the delicate tapestries that adorned the castle's great halls.
At fifteen, William was no longer a child, but not yet fully a man. His father, Sir Edmund de Montfort, had been a renowned knight, his reputation etched into the very stones of their ancestral home. The weight of legacy pressed down on William's shoulders more heavily than any suit of armor ever could.
The chamber was spartan, reflecting the austere life of a noble-born warrior. A single wooden chest held his meager possessions - a practice sword inherited from his father, a small collection of books on military strategy, and a worn leather-bound journal detailing the family's military history. Mounted on the wall hung his father's shield, its surface marked with the scars of countless battles.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. Margaret, the castle's most senior servant, entered with a steaming bowl of porridge and a pitcher of fresh water.
"Your father wished you to be prepared early," she said, her voice carrying the weathered tone of someone who had seen too many young men march off to battle. "The master wants to begin your training at first light."
William nodded, his throat tight with a mixture of anticipation and fear. He knew the path of a knight was not a choice, but a destiny carved by blood and tradition. The de Montfort family had served the Saxon lords for generations, their loyalty bought with land, honor, and the constant threat of violence.
As he dressed, William's fingers traced the old scars on his hands - remnants of previous training sessions. Each mark was a lesson, each bruise a memory of his father's unforgiving instruction. Sir Edmund believed that mercy had no place on the battlefield, that a knight's worth was measured by his ability to survive and protect.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew-covered grass and distant woodsmoke. Outside his window, the castle grounds were already alive with activity. Stable hands prepared horses, blacksmiths hammered at newly forged weapons, and young squires practiced their formations in the courtyard.