The next morning, Arthas woke up early. The first thing he did was look at Eleanor's sleeping face, her delicate features softened in slumber, a faint smile playing on her lips as the morning light gently framed her. He watched her for a while before leaning in to plant a kiss on her forehead. Eleanor scrunched her nose at his touch but remained asleep. He smiled warmly before he left the room.
The sun was yet to rise as Arthas waited in the living room, sitting in silence. Slowly, the first rays of light crept over the horizon, and he could hear the faint crowing of a rooster from the town nearby. Standing up, he stretched and made his way to Aldrich's room.
He opened the door quietly. Inside, Aldrich was sprawled across the bed, a line of drool trickling from his mouth as he snored lightly. Arthas chuckled at the sight of his son and stepped closer. "Rise and shine, son," he whispered near Aldrich's ear.
Aldrich swatted his hand sleepily at nothing in particular. Slowly opening his eyes, he groaned, "What's the matter, Papa?"
Smiling, Arthas leaned down to scoop the boy up in his arms. "Today, you're coming with me to the training grounds," he said.
Aldrich, still drowsy, nestled against his father's shoulder and fell back asleep.
By the time they reached the training grounds, the ten soldiers stationed there were already hard at work. The area was a sprawling expanse of packed earth, bordered by wooden fences. Training dummies stood in neat rows, their surfaces marred by countless strikes, while the faint metallic tang of sweat and sharpened blades filled the crisp morning air.
Nearby, a small shed housed various weapons and armor, and a weathered banner bearing Arthas's family crest fluttered in the light breeze. These men were Tier 1 Fighters, seasoned and well-trained under Arthas's command.
Their leader, Ralph, was a Tier 2 Warrior who had fought beside Arthas in their youth. Ralph was close in age to Viscount Edward, a grizzled veteran whose years of service were etched into the lines of his face.
As Arthas approached, Ralph called out to the soldiers to halt their drills. They stopped and turned to face their lord, saluting him in unison.
"Good morning, Milord," they greeted respectfully.
Ralph stepped forward, his eyes falling on the boy in Arthas's arms.
"What's the boy doing here, lad?" he asked, his tone laced with familiarity. He'd long earned the right to speak casually with Arthas after years of camaraderie.
Arthas set Aldrich down gently before responding. "I'll be leaving for war in a month, Ralph. Until then, I want Aldrich to learn from us. He'll observe how warriors cultivate their strength."
Ralph's expression darkened briefly at the mention of war. "Aye, war again. Need me to come along? I may be old, but I've still got a few good swings left in me."
Arthas shook his head. "No, Ralph. I need you here. Protect my family and guide Aldrich. He'll need your wisdom."
Ralph sighed, then clapped Arthas on the shoulder. "As you wish, lad."
The movement stirred Aldrich awake. The boy rubbed his eyes and looked around, confused. "Where are we, Papa?"
Arthas crouched to meet his son's gaze. "As I said earlier, you'll be watching us train today. Look alive, son."
Straightening, Arthas introduced Aldrich to the soldiers. "This is Ralph," he said. "He was my war mate when I was younger. One day, he'll guide you, too."
Ralph nodded in acknowledgment, a faint smile on his lips. The other soldiers murmured greetings, their tones warm.
Arthas instructed the men to arm themselves with their greatswords.
These weapons were no ordinary swords. Even the lightest among them weighed 10 kilograms, suitable only for Tier 0 Militia. The Tier 1 Fighters wielded 30-kilogram swords, while Ralph's personal blade weighed a hefty 50 kilograms. Arthas's own greatsword, a behemoth of 100 kilograms, was a symbol of his unmatched strength. Forged from the rare blacksteel of the northern mines, it had been gifted to him by his father upon his ascension to knighthood. Over the years, it had cleaved through countless battlefields, becoming both a weapon and a legend among his men.
"First stance!" Arthas commanded, raising his greatsword overhead. The soldiers mirrored his movement, their swords gleaming in the morning light.
"Strike!" The air hummed with power as the blades cut through it in unison.
"Second stance!" Arthas pointed his blade downward at an angle. "Strike!" The soldiers thrust forward, their movements precise.
For hours, they continued—sweeping strikes, thrusts, and parries. Aldrich watched, enraptured by the display of discipline and power. His eyes widened with admiration as he saw his father's unparalleled strength.
When the drills concluded, the soldiers collapsed onto the ground, drenched in sweat. Arthas approached his son with a grin. "That's the basics of wielding a greatsword, boy," he said.
He turned to Ralph. "Fetch it from the shed."
Ralph returned moments later with a wooden greatsword.
Arthas held the practice weapon with a nostalgic smile. "This is the sword I trained with at your age. Your brothers used it, too. Now, it's your turn. You'll return it to me when you're seven."
Aldrich's eyes lit up as he reached for the wooden sword. He struggled under its weight, nearly dropping it. The soldiers laughed, their voices kind.
"Don't worry, lad," Ralph said. "With enough work, that'll feel as light as a feather one day."
Over the next month, this routine became Aldrich's new normal. Each day, he grew stronger and more determined. On the first day, he barely managed to lift the wooden sword, wobbling under its weight. By the second week, he could swing it in controlled arcs, though his strikes lacked the power of his father's. On one occasion, Ralph clapped him on the back after a particularly well-executed thrust, declaring, "That's the spirit, lad!" By the end of the month, Aldrich could hold the sword steady for longer drills, his once small hands now calloused and his stance more confident.
When the day of Arthas's departure arrived, the morning was heavy with unspoken emotions. Marion, the daughter of the family, clung to Eleanor's arms, her hands trembling. She gazed up at her father with wide, tear-filled eyes, unable to comprehend the weight of his leaving. A quiet tension hung in the air, punctuated only by the occasional chirping of birds. Eleanor's eyes, though resolute, glistened with unshed tears. Aldrich clung to his father's leg, refusing to let go, while Marion's soft sobs broke the morning silence as she buried her face in her mother's dress. The servants moved silently around the courtyard, their usual chatter replaced by solemn faces. Even the breeze seemed hesitant, carrying with it the faint scent of dew and the unspoken worry of those left behind. Eleanor stood beside her husband as he packed his gear, her face composed but her eyes glistening with tears.
"Stay strong and guide Aldrich," Arthas said softly. "The others can manage themselves."
Eleanor nodded, her voice breaking as she embraced him tightly. "I will, my love."
Arthas pulled away gently and mounted his horse. Looking back at his wife, he smiled. "Keep my bed warm for me when I return."
Eleanor laughed through her tears. "I will, every night."
With a final wave, Arthas rode off toward Viscount Edward's estate, leaving the Kane household behind.