Gabriel's shoulders were heavy with the weight of defeat. He reluctantly trudged back to the unforgiving training yard. The throbbing in his head was constant. It was a relentless reminder of the blow he received yesterday, and it tangled his thoughts up in a thick fog of exhaustion. Seeking solace from the searing pain, he had spent the rest of the previous day secluded in the darkness of his room. They brought meals to him, and he avoided his mother when she came to check on him, feigning sleep.
In truth, he couldn't shake the fear pulsing through him, intertwining with doubt. His determination to learn how to protect himself— and honor his mother's wishes—had waned, overshadowed by a growing sense of despair. The prospect of enduring more beatings and injuries filled him with dread.
Reluctantly, Gabriel acknowledged the harsh reality that refusing to attend the training would only invite further punishment from his father. The realization that his title as a prince offered little leniency in the realm of combat sank in, leaving him with no choice but to continue down this arduous path. He had to fight against his failing body, against the doubts that plagued his mind. I have to fight.
In a feeble attempt to find a glimmer of optimism, Gabriel reminded himself that at least he hadn't vomited again yesterday. It was a slight consolation, albeit quickly overshadowed by the unsettling thought that he'd been robbed of consciousness before bearing witness to the sight of blood pooling from his wounds.
"The doctor said you shouldn't be here today," Ser Rodrick said with what sounded like genuine concern.
Gabriel raised an eyebrow, unsure of the sudden change in attitude. Frustrated, he said, "I told you, I'll come back every day, no matter how much you hurt me."
To his surprise, Ser Rodrick's tilted his down slightly. "I don't want to hurt you, boy. I want to help. Pain is growth. By experiencing it, you'll learn to prevent it from happening again. It's a hard lesson, but a necessary one."
The logic behind Ser Rodrick's words made little sense to Gabriel. He couldn't shake the feeling that the knight was being cruel. He pitted me against my friend, then made me fight against attacker after attacker with barely any training. It only fueled his burning anger. Gabriel refused to give him the satisfaction of a verbal reply, only responding with a piercing glare.
"We'll take it easy on you today," Ser Rodrick finally said. "I'll teach you how to hold a sword properly before the rest of the lazy buggers join us." He walked over to the rack of practice swords, carefully selecting one that seemed suitable for Gabriel, and approached him.
"You need to learn how to hold a sword properly. A firm grip is the foundation of any good warrior."
He extended the practice sword towards Gabriel, who accepted it with both hands, feeling its weight. "Assume the stance I taught you yesterday." Gabriel complied, planting his feet firmly on the ground, preparing himself for what lay ahead.
"Now, raise the sword and grip it with both hands," Ser Rodrick continued. "Your dominant hand goes on top, while your other hand supports from below. Remember, lad, a loose grip won't give you control, but a death grip will tire you out too quickly. Find the balance." Gabriel followed the instructions, testing the weight of the sword and the strength required to hold it steadily. The master adjusted Gabriel's grip slightly, ensuring his hands were properly aligned.
With each adjustment, Gabriel began to understand the intricacies of holding a sword correctly. It would be a while before it felt natural, but at least he could keep it in his hands now.
"Now, when you swing the sword, keep your wrists flexible," Ser Rodrick said. "You want the blade to flow smoothly, not be rigid and jerky. It's all about finding that fluid motion."
Gabriel swung, focusing on maintaining a fluid motion as the sword arced through the air. Then his sword skittered out of his grasp as Ser Rodrick struck it with his own.
“You’re holding it too loosely, hold it firmer,” the master said.
Gabriel tried again; his grip tightened as his knuckle turned white against the hilt. Ser Rodrick struck again, and although this time the sword stayed in his grasp, his arm was numbed in pain.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Too firm.”
Then came the words that Gabriel started to dread. “Again.” And so they did, again and again, his wrist aching.
"You need a lot of work, boy," Ser Rodrick said. "Keep practicing until your arms are too sore to carry that sword and then keep going until you fall on your face again,” the master chuckled. Gabriel nodded, understanding the challenge that lay before him.
As the other warriors trickled into the training yard, they jeered and laughed at Gabriel, their mocking words like venomous arrows aimed at his pride. Rufus, always quick to taunt, raised his voice, “Need another lesson?” But Gabriel turned away, refusing to engage. He had a task to do.
With every swing of the sword, Gabriel poured his energy and determination into the repetition, as if striking against a world settled to pain him. He pushed himself beyond his limits, drawing strength his refusal to succumb to weakness.
And when Ser Rodrick instructed him to run, he did so without hesitation, circling the training yard, his mind fixated on his feet as he took leap after leap. He repeated a mantra in his head, Left, right, left, right, willing each step to be carried by its rhythm, pushing himself further than before. But even his reservoir of hidden strength had its limits. His body drained of vitality, he stumbled and fell, exhausted and breathless.
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Half a cycle of Victra's moon passed, marked by days of relentless training. The bruises and sore muscles served as constant reminders of the rigorous regimen he endured. Each morning, he pushed himself, determined to improve, his body a canvas for the toil and dedication he poured into his training.
Although Gabriel had yet to learn any forms, his training regimen had developed. Ser Rodrick, still cautious about his head injury, spared him from the humiliation of sparring with others. Instead, he focused on refining his stance and swing.
As he watched the sparring sessions that unfolded on the sands, Gabriel became mesmerized by the ferocity of the warriors. Studying their form, he hoped to improve his own. He watched their movements, seeking to understand their strengths and weaknesses. It was not the boasters and braggarts, but the quieter ones, he learned to fear, those who let the dance of their swords speak for them. Though he lacked the strength and skill to exploit the knowledge he had gleaned, Gabriel meticulously cataloged their techniques.
Since Gabriel's first day on the sands, his brothers had not spoken to him. Not a word had passed between them, neither within the yard nor beyond its confines. Yet, their animosity towards him felt more palpable than ever, laughter in their eyes as they watched him, a constant reminder of his perceived incompetence.
The popular pair, with their entourage of power-hungry followers, reveled in their dominance. It was widely accepted that his brothers were amongst the best warriors in the kingdom. But Gabriel knew their past victories had not been genuine tests of their abilities. The other warriors held back in training, perhaps out of fear—or to please them, knowing either of them could become the future ruler. If their opponents fought with unyielding determination, Gabriel believed his brothers would meet defeat as often as victory.
Ser Rodrick had introduced a training dummy to Gabriel's regiment—a large, sturdy piece of wood fashioned in the likeness of a scarecrow. Gabriel attacked the wooden figure with a fervor that came from deep within. With each strike of the training sword, his commitment to improve propelled him forward. With every movement, he honed his footwork on the quest for fluidity and precision. Over time, his strikes became less clumsy and more natural, reflecting the progress he had made in taming the weapon.
Rufus, ever the instigator, attempted to provoke Gabriel with his taunting remarks about training with a dummy. There were moments when Gabriel felt his anger surge, the desire to retaliate burning within him. But he knew that succumbing to such provocation would only mean letting the enemy win. Instead, he channeled his energy into the blows he rained upon the dummy, each strike becoming more forceful as his anger fueled his movements.
Gabriel's endurance grew, allowing him to withstand the pain that radiated through his arms, enabling him to wield the sword for longer periods. His muscles, once weak and trembling, now held firm, strengthening with each arduous session. His body adapted to the demands he placed upon it, which only motivated him further.
Throughout this time, the training slowly detached him from his peers. He was an island unto himself, rarely engaging in conversation with Lovren and a few short words with some guards. His friend's encouraging words kept him going whenever he thought he couldn't go on. His singular focus was on his training, his mind set on absorbing as much knowledge and skill as possible. His energy reserves had been depleted to such an extent that he could barely manage to hold conversations during supper, much less dive into his books, including the one that Tunklard had gifted him.
Unbeknownst to Gabriel, the grueling days of training served as the foundation for something far greater, something that would test not only his physical prowess but also his resilience and character. The challenges he faced now were but a prelude to the trials that awaited him. Destiny, in its mysterious design, had far grander plans for him than he could have ever imagined.