Re: An Age of Ashes

The morning air in the camp was crisp, and a thin mist still clung to the earth, swirling around Adrian's feet as he moved across the dirt. He could feel the weight of his blade, his fingers tingling from the rawness of the grip, but also from the power it symbolized. This was no longer just an ornamental piece of metal—a tool for ceremonies and displays of wealth—it was now a reminder of the strength he needed to find within himself.

His breath was still uneven from yesterday's training. His body ached in places he didn't even know could hurt. Muscles screamed in protest with every movement, and his hands burned from the hours spent gripping the hilt. He had lost count of how many times he had dropped the sword, how many times Otto had berated him for being too stiff, too loose, too slow. But each time he failed, something inside him shifted.

There was something fundamentally different about today.

Adrian couldn't quite place it. He had always been a man of the mind, a strategist by nature. The art of combat had seemed distant to him, more theoretical than real. But now, with the cool morning fog settling around him, it felt as though the weight of the sword was teaching him something deeper than technique—it was carving new instincts into his soul.

Otto's lessons echoed in his mind: "In battle, instinct keeps you alive."

Adrian's eyes scanned the camp as he made his way to the clearing where Otto would no doubt be waiting. Soldiers moved about with purpose, their morning routine already in full swing. There was no lingering in this world, no time for second-guessing or hesitation. A man who hesitated died.

When he reached the clearing, Otto was already there, leaning casually on his own sword. His gaze flicked to Adrian, but his expression remained unreadable.

"You look less stiff today," Otto said, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "But we'll see if that means anything when the sweat starts pouring."

Adrian swallowed hard and took his stance. He could feel the eyes of the soldiers on him, watching him as if his every move was a spectacle. There was no going back now.

The first few hours of training were grueling. Adrian's arms felt like lead, his muscles quivering with the strain. But today, he was determined. There was something within him that had shifted since the previous night, a flicker of purpose burning in his chest. He wasn't going to be that noble who could only sit behind a desk, surrounded by men who fought for him. He was going to be a leader—a warrior—someone who could stand beside his men, not just command them.

Otto's sharp voice cut through the air. "Shift your weight! If you don't feel like you're about to fall, you're doing it wrong."

Adrian adjusted, though the motion was stiff, too deliberate. He needed to find the fluidity Otto spoke of. His mind buzzed with the steps and the instructions, but each time he tried to commit them to instinct, his body rebelled. His grip tightened on the sword, and his legs felt heavy, as though they were not his own.

The sun climbed higher, the air growing warmer, and still, Adrian could feel the sweat pooling beneath his armor. By now, every soldier who had gathered to watch him seemed unfazed by the laborious movements. Some looked at him with a mix of curiosity and skepticism, while others watched with an unspoken judgment. Klaus, standing a few paces away, was one of the silent observers, his gaze unwavering as he appraised Adrian's every move.

"Better," Otto said, his voice gruff but approving. "Not great, but better. Now, move faster."

Adrian's breath was ragged, his chest heaving with each inhale. But he pushed forward, refusing to let his body betray him. He knew what was at stake now. If he couldn't endure this—if he couldn't push through the pain—then how could he expect anyone else to follow him into battle?

The air was still cool, and the morning fog clung to the earth like a blanket, making everything seem distant and muted. Adrian had always thought of the world as something he could control from a distance, something that unfolded according to his designs, like the pieces on a board game. But out here, with the dirt beneath his feet and the weight of a sword in his hand, he realized how little he knew about the reality of survival.

His arms were heavy, the weight of the blade seeming to multiply with every movement, and his breath came in ragged bursts. He had barely slept, the memory of the fight with the assassins still too fresh in his mind. The adrenaline of battle had faded, leaving only the raw ache in his limbs and a lingering sense of inadequacy.

Otto was watching him again, standing still with his arms folded, a silent presence that seemed to weigh on Adrian more than any spoken word. The soldiers had gathered around the clearing, their eyes fixed on him, and Adrian could feel their scrutiny like a hundred pairs of eyes boring into him. He had thought the training would be an isolated affair—something private, where he could fail without embarrassment—but instead, it was a public trial, one where his every mistake would be noted and remembered.

"Shift your weight!" Otto's voice rang out, breaking the silence. Adrian barely had time to react before Otto stepped forward, his wooden sword crashing against Adrian's blade with a sharp crack. The force of the blow rattled through Adrian's arms, and the sword slipped from his grip, clattering against the ground.

Otto didn't wait for Adrian to recover before barking his next order. "Pick it up, and this time, don't let it go."

Adrian's cheeks burned with the sting of humiliation, and his jaw tightened as he knelt to retrieve the sword. His fingers were slick with sweat, making the hilt slippery in his grip. But he forced himself to focus, forced himself to block out the noise in his head and the watchful eyes of the soldiers. He couldn't afford to let his failures define him, not now. Not after everything that had led him here.

He stood and faced Otto again, holding the blade with a firmer grip. The old warrior didn't speak, just nodded his approval with a grunt. Adrian took that as a sign to proceed.

For the next few hours, he went through a series of drills. Otto had him move through different stances—each one an awkward, unfamiliar position that felt more like a puzzle than a combat technique. His feet shuffled through the motions, stumbling over their own uncertainty as his body tried to memorize the steps. But his mind was slow, too slow, and his body had trouble keeping up. Each time he adjusted his stance, Otto was there with a harsh correction.

"No. Keep your back straight. Bend your knees. Your center of gravity is all wrong."

The older man moved quickly, like a shadow, slapping Adrian's sword aside with ease. "Your grip is too tight. Loosen up. Don't strangle the sword. You're not trying to break it."

Adrian's hands were sore now, raw from the constant grip of the hilt. The blistering heat of the midday sun beat down on him, and his body screamed in protest with every move. But there was no time to rest. Otto had already begun the next drill, demonstrating a series of cuts and blocks that Adrian struggled to imitate. The strikes were fast, too fast for him to follow at first. He was slow, clumsy, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. With every misstep, he felt the weight of his failure more keenly.

"You're thinking too much," Otto's voice came again, gruff and insistent. "Stop overanalyzing every movement. In a real fight, you don't have time to think. You move. You react."

Adrian's chest heaved as he tried to keep up. He couldn't stop thinking, couldn't stop questioning whether he was even capable of becoming a fighter. His mind was full of doubts, full of the realization that this world didn't care about titles or lineage—it only cared about survival. And in that moment, Adrian realized that he might not survive if he didn't change.

His legs felt weak, his arms like lead. Each time he tried to block Otto's strikes, he failed, and the sound of the wooden swords clashing filled the air like an endless rhythm of failure. Adrian's feet slid in the dirt, and he could hear the quiet murmurs of the soldiers watching him. He could feel their judgment, their unspoken thoughts.

But in the midst of the frustration, in the midst of the doubts that gnawed at his insides, something else flickered—a glimmer of determination. He wasn't just training to survive. He was training to lead. He had to.

Otto's next words hit him like a punch to the gut. "You're a lord, yes, but that doesn't mean you're immune to death. It doesn't mean you're exempt from the rules of battle. If you want your men to follow you, if you want them to believe in you, then you need to be able to protect them."

The words stung, but they were true. Adrian swallowed hard and straightened his posture, tightening his grip on the sword. He would protect them. He had to. His body was breaking, but his mind was starting to understand. Otto wasn't just teaching him how to fight. He was teaching him how to lead with strength and conviction.

The next strike was a little smoother. His footwork was a little more confident. The sword felt less like an alien object and more like an extension of his will. Adrian's body still trembled with exhaustion, but his resolve began to harden. He could feel the change in the air, the shift in his own thoughts. He wasn't some noble who had been born into this world. He wasn't some idealized figure who could command respect without earning it. He had to prove himself. He had to show that he could be more than a name on a page.

Otto stepped back and nodded, his expression unreadable. "Better. Not perfect. But it's a start."

Adrian took a breath, his hands still aching but his heart beating stronger with each passing second. He wasn't done. Not yet. The lesson wasn't over. It would never be over.

Hours passed in a blur of sweat, movement, and sharp instructions. By the time the sun began to sink low in the sky, Adrian was barely standing, his legs shaking with fatigue. But despite the exhaustion that had taken root in every fiber of his being, there was a fire inside him that refused to be extinguished. He had found something within himself, something that had been dormant for far too long.

Otto finally called for a break. The soldiers slowly drifted away, their eyes lingering on Adrian for just a moment longer before they disappeared into the camp. Adrian didn't notice them. He was lost in the rhythm of his own thoughts, the weight of the sword still heavy in his hands.

Klaus had seen plenty of lords in his time, and none of them had ever come close to showing the kind of resilience Adrian was displaying now. Most nobles were good for nothing but sitting in their chambers, barking orders to men who were doing all the real work. But Adrian… Adrian was different.

Klaus's shoulder burned as he adjusted the makeshift bandage over the deep gash where the assassin's blade had found him the night before. He wasn't sure if it was the wound itself or the reminder of what had nearly happened that unsettled him so. He had come so close to losing someone who, against all odds, had begun to earn his respect.

The young lord wasn't backing down. He hadn't once complained, even when he was soaked with sweat, even when his body trembled from exhaustion. He was pushing himself harder than anyone Klaus had ever seen. And it was starting to make Klaus feel something—something he hadn't felt in years. Maybe it was hope. Or maybe it was just a quiet understanding that things were changing.

Klaus had been born to a different kind of life—a life where duty and survival were the only things that mattered. His parents had been soldiers, and he had learned to fight before he had learned to read. His world had always been one of blood and steel, where the only true measure of a man was his ability to wield a weapon and stay alive.

But Adrian—Adrian was from a world entirely different. He had been born with privilege, with titles that held no weight on the battlefield. And yet, here he was, with a sword in hand, struggling to stay upright as Otto drilled him on footwork and balance.

There was something noble about that, something that made Klaus realize that maybe… just maybe… there was a place for men like Adrian in this world after all.

The sun began its descent as the day wore on, and Adrian's training stretched into late afternoon. His body was now nothing but a series of aches, each movement a reminder of how far he still had to go. But through the pain, through the endless hours of repetition and failure, something had changed.

His stance had shifted, becoming more fluid, less mechanical. His hands, which had once fumbled with the sword, now seemed more certain. There was still a long road ahead, but Adrian felt something else—the stirrings of confidence, the realization that he was capable of more than he had ever believed.

Otto noticed, too. He paused as Adrian executed a series of parries and strikes, his movements becoming more deliberate, more natural.

"Good," Otto said, his voice gruff but approving. "You're starting to get it."

Adrian wiped the sweat from his brow, his muscles trembling from the exertion, but a spark of pride glimmered within him. For the first time since he had arrived in this brutal world, he felt like he was becoming something—someone—worthy of leading these men.

"You'll never be a true soldier," Otto continued, his tone softening just a touch, "but that doesn't mean you can't fight like one."

Adrian nodded, the words sinking deep into his chest. He wasn't just fighting for survival anymore. He was fighting for respect—for his men, for his family's name, and for the right to stand beside them as a leader.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a long shadow across the camp, Adrian could feel the weight of the day on his shoulders. But it wasn't a burden anymore. It was a promise—a promise that tomorrow, he would be stronger.