Gabriel stood at the edge of the training yard, a knot of anxiety gnawing at his insides. Lovren, his steadfast friend, stood by his side.

“You don't have to do this,” Lovren cautioned.

“I have no other choice; I cannot flee from this,” he replied.

Understanding, Lovren placed a supportive hand on his shoulder. “I'm honored to call you my friend.”

Gabriel returned the gesture with a warriors’ handshake, their wrists intertwining in solidarity.

With a last glance at Lovren, Gabriel drew a deep breath and stepped into the training yard. The sands beneath his feet held a familiar comfort, stirring both trepidation and excitement within him. A hushed silence swept over the yard as he entered. The ongoing sparring ceased, the warriors nudging each other to signal his arrival.

Previously subjected to open ridicule, Gabriel now saw a medley of reactions. Some jeering looks had intensified, while others averted their gaze, too fearful of displaying any disdain. The reactions, although expected, left him feeling uneasy.

Rufus, his eyes burning with unspoken hatred, approached him. “Why did you do this? You've ruined my life.”

Gabriel held his ground, acknowledging the pain he had inflicted on Rufus and his family.

“I'm sorry,” he uttered, fully aware of its insignificance.

“They’ve got my da locked up in a cell. We haven’t seen him or heard from him; for all we know, your father could have killed him, and we wouldn’t know,” Rufus said.

“Your father was guilty of treason,” Lovren interjected.

“My father is innocent,” Rufus shot back.

Gabriel knew his next words would fuel Rufus's anger, but they needed to be said. “All the evidence pointed to your father’s crimes.”

“Was this just some petty revenge against me?” Rufus’s lips trembled as he asked, the training yard's crowd leaning in to catch every word.

Gabriel questioned himself for the first time. Had there been a part of him motivated by revenge? He shook off this thought; his actions may have been misguided, but his intentions weren’t.

“No, it wasn't about that. Your father was selling grain to the enemy while our people starve. I couldn’t let that stand,” Gabriel countered, hoping he had concealed the self-doubt that was plaguing him. He could not show weakness, not after all that had happened. Gabriel needed to project a strength he didn’t have.

If you can’t trust yourself, who can you trust, he thought.

Gabriel continued, “When I found out what the king planned, I tried to stop him. I sacrificed myself so your people wouldn’t be hurt. Your father lacked the courage to do the same.”

Rufus's eyes twitched. “I’ll make you pay for what you did. I swear by Victra and Ash, you will beg for your death.”

“Careful now, your father is already in the cells, you wouldn’t want to join him, would you?” Gabriel hated for using fear as a weapon, but he had to.

At this, Rufus clenched his fists, every muscle in his body taut, ready to strike a blow.

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“Gabriel, come, you need to catch up on the training you’ve missed,” called out Ser Rodrick, the master of arms, his voice booming across the yard.

Grateful for the interruption, Gabriel headed towards Ser Rodrick. Before parting, Lovren murmured, “At least Rufus won't be beating you up,” a feeble attempt at humor that weighed heavily on Gabriel's conscience.

The nobles and warriors parted way; he walked through them without turning his gaze away from Ser Rodrick. Upon reaching Ser Rodrick, Gabriel was met with a curt question. “Can you fight?”

“Yes,” he nodded.

“Don't be foolish, you’ll reopen your wounds.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow.

“We'll start you off with light training.”

“Understood, Ser Rodrick.”

Ser Rodrick barked out a set of instructions, and Gabriel listened intently, waiting for the conclusion. “Well, what are you doing still standing here? Off you go,” Ser Rodrick ordered.

With that, Gabriel began his training, starting with the weighted squats. Clutching the circular iron weight against his chest, he carefully maintained a straight back as he lowered down, repeating the movement until his legs shook with exertion. Concerned about straining his wounds, he soon moved onto the next part of Ser Rodrick’s instructions.

He began work with the training dummy, marking specific points on the wooden body to target. Moving at a slower pace than usual, he focused on accuracy and precision rather than speed or force. Surprisingly, the slower movements seemed to hinder, rather than help, his accuracy. Yet, with each repetition, he found himself improving. As he gradually increased the speed of his strikes, he maintained the precision he'd gained, his efforts evidenced by the sweat dampening his hair.

Transitioning to his left hand, Gabriel was met with an immediate challenge. His arm felt awkward and sluggish, straining under the unfamiliar weight of the sword. After ten strenuous minutes, his strikes became less precise and more erratic. He recognized the need to build symmetry in his strength.

Eventually, Gabriel moved back to the weights, performing various exercises until his muscles screamed in protest and refused to lift any further.

The gentle exercises, initially a source of apprehension, became a source of comfort. They eased his strained muscles, offering a welcome distraction from his tumultuous thoughts.

Longing washed over him as he watched the other warriors spar. He yearned for the simplicity of a swordfight, a task that allowed him to block out the outside world and focus on the sword in his hands. His gaze lingered on Lovren, who was locked in combat with a guard. Lovren’s movements were swift and precise, his long hair flowing with each dodge and strike. Gabriel knew Lovren was destined to be a formidable warrior in the kingdom.

As Gabriel was about to leave the training yard, a figure drew near. It was Jeremiah, the son of a minor noble from Alandale, a region located on the westernmost edge of the ocean, Teetering on the brink of adulthood, Jeremiah was a foreboding presence. With a sharp face and a wiry physique that towered above most. Jeremiah was no master with a sword, but what he lacked in skill, he made up for with brutality.

Gabriel remembered the tales of Jeremiah's exploits during the Paresh invasion from the Eastern Continent. Jeremiah had stood alongside his guards as the Paresh, drawn by the promise of easy pickings, had crossed the continent to attack the western edge of the Accamanian kingdom. The stories painted Jeremiah as a fierce combatant, even going so far as to claim that he had personally executed a handful of Paresh soldiers after they had been tortured and deemed worthless.

The Eastern Continent was a mystery to many in the realm. Its inhabitants, who spoke an indecipherable tongue, were seen as barbaric savages. They had first made their presence known a few decades ago. Since then, their raids had primarily targeted Balatia and Eldoria, as they were on the eastern and southern tip of Valandor. But still, the Accamanian Kingdom was not immune to their attacks, with sporadic invasions troubling the region from time to time.

Interrupting Gabriel’s thoughts, Jeremiah said, “It seems you've been underestimated, Gabriel. I didn't think you had it in you to be so brutal.”

“I didn’t intend to be brutal,” Gabriel retorted. “I merely exposed treason. Anyone would have done the same in my place. It had nothing to do with Rufus.”

“Your words may deceive others, but I’ve seen the way you look at him, the disdain apparent in your eyes. You wanted payback,” Jeremiah said.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Gabriel replied.

“Sure, you don't,” Jeremiah said, a smirk starting to form. “I recognize that look. I see it in my own reflection.” His expression deepened into a chilling grin.

Unwilling to prolong the unsettling conversation, Gabriel offered a curt nod.

“I’ll be seeing you around,” Jeremiah said, leaving Gabriel with an uneasy feeling.

Just then, Lovren joined him. “What was that all about?”

“Honestly, I have no clue,” Gabriel admitted, still perplexed by the encounter.