The training grounds were alive with the sounds of practice: the sharp clanging of steel against wood, the thud of arrows striking targets, and the occasional shout of effort from soldiers honing their skills. The sun hung low in the sky, its soft light casting long shadows across the courtyard.
Galahad wiped the sweat from his brow, his breath steadying after finishing his detailed report. Across from him, his father, Duke Lysandor, stood tall and composed. One hand rested thoughtfully on his chin, while the other crossed over his chest. His sharp eyes stayed fixed on Galahad, assessing every word and detail.
When Galahad described the final moments of the battle—the spectacle of Helbrand's shield slicing through the orc king's neck—a deep, rumbling laugh escaped the duke, startling his son.
"So, that's how he died?" Lysandor said, shaking his head in disbelief. "A legendary orc king, felled by a flying shield that returned like a boomerang? Only Helbrand could devise something so absurd."
Galahad couldn't help but smile. "You've seen that move before?"
"Of course I have," Lysandor replied with a faint smirk. "Years ago, he used it against a troll. The thing was twice his size, but Helbrand just stood there, hurled his shield, and ended it in seconds. It was ridiculous… but undeniably effective."
He paused, the smirk fading slightly as his piercing gaze returned to Galahad. "But enough about Helbrand. Let's talk about you."
The duke stepped forward, his boots crunching lightly against the dirt. "You did well, Galahad. Taking the initiative to hunt down the shaman showed courage and strategic thinking. Your mentors speak highly of you, and I'm inclined to agree."
A flicker of pride lit up in Galahad's chest. Praise from his father was rare and hard-earned, making it all the more meaningful.
But Lysandor wasn't finished. "Still," he continued, "a single victory doesn't define a knight. You have much to learn."
He turned toward a nearby weapon rack, pulling out a simple longsword with an effortless grace. "And there's no better way to teach than a duel."
Galahad blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "A duel? With you?"
A small but sharp smile crept across his father's lips. "Yes. I want to see how far you've come. Show me what you can do with that sword of yours."
The duke tested the balance of the blade with a few fluid swings, his movements precise and controlled. His every motion exuded a confidence that only years of mastery could provide.
Galahad hesitated for a moment, then drew his own saber, its polished blade catching the sunlight. It was a weapon he knew well, light and perfectly balanced for his quick and precise fighting style.
"You're sure about this, Father?" Galahad asked, a teasing note creeping into his voice.
Lysandor raised an eyebrow. "Be careful, Galahad. Arrogance is the fastest path to defeat."
Despite the warning, Galahad couldn't suppress a small grin. "Well then, I'll give it my best."
The two moved to the center of the training ground, drawing the attention of the nearby soldiers. Conversations hushed, and a circle began to form as the men turned to watch. A duel between the duke and his son wasn't just a contest; it was a spectacle.
Lysandor raised his blade, adopting a relaxed but ready stance. "Don't hold back," he said evenly. "I won't."
Galahad mirrored the stance, his own blade steady in his hand. "I wouldn't dream of it."
The fight began with startling speed.
Lysandor moved first, closing the gap between them in an instant. His sword cut through the air in a series of strikes so fluid and deliberate that it felt like water flowing downhill—unrelenting and unstoppable.
Galahad met each attack with precise parries, his saber flashing as it deflected his father's blade. The impact of steel on steel sent vibrations up his arms, but he held his ground.
The sound of clashing swords filled the courtyard as the two exchanged blows. Galahad was quick and agile, his movements sharp and efficient, but Lysandor's strikes carried a weight and control that reminded Galahad of just how wide the gap between them truly was.
"Not bad," Lysandor said, stepping back briefly before launching into another attack. "But you're still too predictable. Your footwork lacks variety."
Galahad gritted his teeth, refusing to let the critique distract him. He adjusted his stance and began to incorporate feints and shifts in rhythm, aiming to catch his father off guard.
For a moment, it seemed to work. He saw an opening in Lysandor's guard and lunged, his blade arcing toward the duke's shoulder.
But Lysandor anticipated the move. With a swift pivot, he deflected the strike and countered with a blow that forced Galahad to leap back.
"Better," Lysandor said, his tone calm but firm. "But not enough."
The duel continued, each exchange faster and more intense than the last. Sweat beaded on Galahad's brow as he pushed himself harder, trying to match the sheer precision of his father's movements. He poured every ounce of his focus into the fight, searching for any weakness he could exploit.
Lysandor, meanwhile, fought with an almost effortless grace. He wasn't just testing Galahad's skill; he was teaching, exposing flaws and forcing his son to adapt.
Finally, the duke made his move. With a sudden burst of speed, he broke through Galahad's defenses, twisting his blade in a maneuver that sent the saber flying from his son's hand. In the same motion, he stepped forward and placed the tip of his sword lightly against Galahad's throat.
The training ground fell silent.
"Yield," Lysandor said, his voice calm but commanding.
Galahad raised his hands slightly in surrender, a breathless laugh escaping him. "I yield."
Lysandor lowered his sword, extending a hand to help his son to his feet.
"You fought well," the duke said, his tone softer now. "You've improved greatly since I last tested you."
Galahad accepted the praise, his chest swelling with pride despite his exhaustion. "Thank you, Father."
Lysandor studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, a faint smile appeared. "But don't think this is the limit of your potential. You have the talent, Galahad. One day, you might even surpass me."
Galahad met his father's gaze, his own smile widening. "One day," he agreed. "But not today."
"Not today," Lysandor echoed with a chuckle.
***
The steady rhythm of training on the grounds was interrupted by the arrival of a breathless messenger. His boots struck the dirt with urgency as he sprinted toward Duke Lysandor, his gaze locked on the imposing figure of the duke.
"My lord!" the messenger called, bowing deeply as he reached the center of the training grounds.
Lysandor turned to face him, his sharp features immediately attentive. "What is it?"
The messenger straightened, sweat glistening on his brow. "The captain of the Ducal Guard has discovered a nest, my lord. A large one. They believe it belongs to a colony of wyverns, though it may be something worse. They've deemed it urgent enough to require immediate consultation."
The weight of the announcement settled heavily over the training grounds. Even the nearby soldiers paused their drills to glance toward the duke, their faces a mix of concern and curiosity. A nest wasn't just a threat—it was an opportunity to cripple the monstrous population in the region.
Lysandor's expression grew grim. He remained silent for a moment, clearly calculating the next steps. Finally, he spoke with a voice that carried command and purpose.
"Summon the entire high command," he said. "I want them in the war room within the hour. We cannot waste this chance."
The messenger bowed again. "At once, my lord." He turned and sprinted away, leaving the training grounds buzzing with quiet speculation.
Lysandor turned his gaze to Galahad, who had been observing in silence.
"Galahad," he said, his tone softening slightly. "This mission isn't yours to carry for now. You've done enough for today. Go and rest. There will be more battles soon enough."
Galahad hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yes, Father. Thank you."
The duke gave a curt nod, already turning toward the barracks as he began to prepare for the coming strategy meeting.
Galahad climbed the stone stairs leading to his quarters, his boots echoing in the quiet corridors of the castle. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting great victories, interspersed with torches that cast flickering shadows across the polished stone.
When he reached his room, he pushed open the door and exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
His room was simple yet full of personality. A large window overlooked the sprawling lands of the duchy, allowing natural light to flood the space. Shelves lined the walls, filled with small artifacts Galahad had collected during his travels—runes etched in stone, old daggers, and a crystalline shard that sparkled faintly even in dim light.
He set his sword gently against the wall and dropped onto his bed, the soft mattress a welcome contrast to the harshness of the battlefield. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, his mind wandering through the events of the past few days: the ambush in the mountains, the duel with his father, and the discovery of the nest.
After a few hours, Galahad had showered, eaten a simple meal brought by a servant, and settled at his desk. He absentmindedly traced the carvings on a small wooden amulet while replaying the battle against the orcs in his mind.
A sudden tap-tap at the window jolted him from his thoughts.
He stood, brows furrowing slightly, and moved toward the window. When he opened it, the cold night air swept into the room, carrying with it a familiar voice.
"Galahad," said Elric, grinning mischievously from his perch on the window ledge.
"Elric?" Galahad asked, his surprise quickly replaced by exasperation.
Elric, his blond hair tousled and his leather tunic dusted from climbing, swung his legs over the ledge casually. "It's me," he said, flashing a wide smile. "Are you going to let me in, or should I hang out here all night?"
Galahad sighed but extended a hand to help his friend climb inside.
Once inside, Elric dusted himself off and glanced around the room. "Still as neat as ever," he said, his eyes lingering on the rows of artifacts and the organized shelves. "You're like a soldier even when you're off duty."
Galahad smirked, leaning against the edge of his desk. "And you're as invasive as ever. What do you want, Elric?"
Elric held up his hands in mock surrender. "Relax! I'm here to save you from yourself."
Galahad raised an eyebrow. "Save me from what?"
"From sitting here brooding all night," Elric said, crossing the room and leaning against the windowsill. "There's a new tavern in town. They've got a beer strong enough to knock a troll on its back. I thought it'd be a great way for you to unwind."
Galahad folded his arms. "After everything that's happened today, you want me to go drinking with you?"
"Exactly," Elric replied, grinning as if the answer were obvious. "You just survived a battle with orcs. You've earned a night to relax. Come on, we can't be knights every second of the day."
Galahad hesitated. The idea of going out felt both absurd and oddly tempting. He hadn't had a moment of normalcy in what felt like weeks.
"Fine," he said finally, sighing. "But if this turns into another one of your bad ideas, I'm holding you personally responsible."
Elric clapped him on the back, laughing. "That's the spirit! Now grab your coat. Let's see if this beer lives up to the hype."