Arthael's hands shook as he held the heavy wooden practice sword. The burn in his muscles had become a familiar enemy. But today, they had been practicing hard, and now his arms felt numb. The sweat in his eyes stung, and he tasted blood in his mouth.

The strain of the last ten minutes was taking its toll, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could go on. But his body had begun to surprise him. They were forced awake at the crack of dawn and made to run miles and miles. They ran so much and so often that he had given up trying to count the distance.

Some mornings it seemed the runs would never end, and some mornings the runs ended with them being ambushed by other boys wielding whacking sticks. A battle erupted yesterday that left his entire body in welts. And one of the boys who had gotten him the best was the one in front of him now.

He was the same height but stockier and more muscular than the other boys. There were so many of them that it was hard to remember their names. Every day he trained with a different group, but this boy, he remembered.

His name was Karthas—and Arthael didn't like him. His angry green eyes were always too wide open, and he never seemed to blink, as if he was challenging everything in front of him and wouldn't for a moment show weakness. The boy was a good fighter--maybe one of the best, but he didn't fight fair, and that's why he didn’t like him.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

Karthas kicked up dirt and poked forward with his practice sword. Arthael shielded his eyes from the dirt--partially expecting the cheapshot, but the wooden point of the sword dug painfully into his stomach quicker than he expected. Arthael doubled over, coughing and straining to breathe. Once he recovered, he looked up to see Karthas grinning at him.

Arthael felt a new wave of energy as anger pulsed through his veins. He got up and charged the boy. They hit the ground together hard. Arthael began to pummel the boy's face before he could defend himself. He heard a pop, and blood spurted from the boy's nose.

Karthas couldn't get his arms in front to defend himself. Instead, he scrunched up and knocked his forehead against his own. Pain exploded in Arthael's head, and he fell back to the ground.

For a moment, all they could do was lie there on the ground and groan. Then Karthas spat out blood and wiped his nose.

"You’ve got a devil in you," Karthas said. He pinched the bridge of his nose tight with one hand and the lower part of his nose with the other. Then he twisted the cartilage and bone back into place. He winced at the pain but did not cry out. Then he spat out blood and got to his feet, offering Arthael a hand.

Arthael looked up at Karthas, and a part of him wanted to ignore the gesture and spit in his face. But there were many boys in the camp, and there were others that he didn't like, and perhaps more than didn't like him. He would need friends, and Karthas might be a cheat, but Arthael knew he would rather have him as a friend than an enemy. He took the hand and forced himself to smile.