Sir Edmund de Montfort was a mountain of a man, his body a map of battle scars and unrelenting discipline. As William entered the training yard, his father was already waiting, two practice weapons at his side - a wooden sword and a weighted shield.
"You're late," Sir Edmund growled, his voice a low rumble that seemed to emerge from somewhere deep within his chest.
William knew better than to offer an excuse. In their world, explanations were luxuries reserved for those who could afford weakness. He simply bowed his head slightly and took his position.
The training was brutal. For hours, Sir Edmund demonstrated techniques passed down through generations - how to hold a shield, the precise angles of sword strikes, the importance of footwork that could mean the difference between life and death.
"A knight is not born," Sir Edmund would repeatedly say, "He is forged. Forged in pain, in discipline, in the understanding that your life means nothing compared to your duty."
Each strike of the practice sword sent tremors through William's arms. His muscles burned, his breath came in ragged gasps, but he was forbidden from showing fatigue. The other young squires watched, some with admiration, others with a mix of pity and relief that they were not the ones under Sir Edmund's unforgiving instruction.
By midday, William's hands were blistered, his arms felt like lead, and sweat mixed with dirt on his face. But he did not complain. Complaining was for the weak, and weakness meant death on the battlefield.