At the break of dawn, Eadrin gripped his wooden practice sword. The weight of the sword was becoming familiar. His slashes, slices, and jabs were becoming second nature to him. He hadn’t realised just how long it felt to his muscles to hold a sword effectively. He continued to practise as the bitter morning chill seeped through his tunic like a thousand whispered daggers, shivers spiraling up his spine.

Across the vast training yard, Wulfric’s--as he learnt the lad’s name was--youthful energy burst forth in a flurry of spirited, if crude, strikes against him. Laughter and chatter mingled with the rhythmic clack of wood meeting wood, setting a brisk cadence to the morning exercise. Eadrin did his best to block Wulfric’s speed, but he was easily overwhelmed. The occasional smacks of wood against him didn’t necessarily hurt, but he knew he would have a couple of small bruises along his arms, legs, and ribs.

“Come on, Eadrin! You’re moving like an old goat!” Wulfric teased, his voice light yet laced with challenge. Though meant in jest, Wulfric’s remark spurred Eadrin on—each hesitant parry and uncertain swing gradually transformed into a more deliberate motion and movement against Wulfric’s confidence.

Eadrin’s muscles, once raw and untested in this new body, began to recall the echoes of a former life where each movement was honed by relentless battle. Eadrin had to fight against the traumatic images that showed in his head. The blood-soaked battlefield, the arrows stinging his back, the sword slashes across his chest. Eadrin shook his head to rid the thoughts once more. As Eadrin found his rhythm, an unexpected fluidity emerged—a subtle grace that belied his earlier clumsiness. From the sidelines, Sir Cenric’s eyes narrowed with both approval and quiet concern.

There was something unnerving about how swiftly Eadrin was adapting compared to his skills just a full moon prior, Sir Cenric mused. A rapid mastery of the sword could be as dangerous as it is promising. Too early, perhaps—like the flash of a blade in the dark before the full reckoning of its weight is known.

“Focus, boy! Your form is abysmal—again!” Sir Cenric’s voice rang out. Sir Cenric’s voice was as rough as ancient steel, one meant to be ordering about soldiers in war. His gaze lingered on Eadrin a moment longer than his reprimand, analyzing him. The knight noted every subtle shift: the tightening of Eadrin’s grip, the newfound assurance in his swing, and a precision that seemed to burn away the uncertainty of his transformation. The realisation that Eadrin might be adapting too quickly added a layer of tension to the training—a silent omen that would haunt the knight’s thoughts throughout the day and his dreams at night.

Wulfric’s smirk softened as he saw Eadrin wince from a stray strike grazing his shoulder—a small, stinging reminder of his still-fragile state, like a burn recently healed. “Careful now, brother,” Wulfric added with a light laugh. “At least you’re making me look good.” Once again, mockery laced his words, but there was also a hint of concern that belied his playful banter.

In that charged moment, amid the clash and clang of practice, Eadrin felt a surge of determination. Although he knew Wulfric was jesting, Eadrin could tell that Sir Cenric was watching his every movement. He did not want the knight to believe he was incapable. Every faltering swing became a step toward reclaiming the warrior he once was—a man whose heart still remembered the cadence of battle. Eadric allowed those memories of battle to take hold, but he needed to know how to control them. If he did not know how to control those memories that haunted him, he knew he would confront the risk of awakening a power that might be both his salvation and his undoing.

After training concluded for the day, the courtyard transformed into a living tapestry of duty. Retainers hurried along with warm provisions; stablehands polished the last of the family’s weary horses fur and saddles; and the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer spoke of labour and legacy. Beneath it all, a silent sorrow and a sense of foreboding lingered—an echo of responsibilities too weighty to ignore.

Past the training- and the courtyard, there was the dining hall. This was where all – knights, trainees, workers – tended to go at the end of the day and every meal in between. Within the Mammen Style dining hall was a long, worn table serving as both altar and testament to years of hardship. Eadrin always admired the beauty of the dining hall and wanted to ask more questions, but he grew nervous since it was expected that he already knew.

At the worn table, Sir Cenric presided like a weathered sentinel. At the head, his presence was as imposing as the memories of those long-lost, vacant chairs whispering the absent graces of the souls lost to eternity. Elva, whom Eadrin learnt was his sister in this life, stood poised and cool, pouring tea with a calm that contrasted sharply with the simmering tension of familial duty. Eadrin sat at his place, his plate of food steaming.

“The harvest taxes are due next week,” Sir Cenric announced, his voice heavy with concern. “Lord Draemund’s collectors are unforgiving. We may have to sell one of the southern pastures.” His words, though matter-of-fact, carried the bitter taste of impending sacrifice. The southern pastures were vital to their society’s current lifestyle.

Elva’s brow furrowed as she replied softly, “But the locals depend on that land to graze. It will hurt them deeply.” She looked at Sir Cenric with a gaze many would never dare. Eadrin took a forkful of meat, knowing not to comment on her authority.

“Better them than us,” retorted Garin, resignation colouring his tone. Elva turned the look to Garin, astonishment in her gaze. “We’re stretched thin. Eadrin, I expect you to oversee the arrangements.”

Eadrin’s hand froze mid-air, fork suspended as if time itself had paused. “Me? Are you sure that’s wise?” His voice trembled with uncertainty and the dawning weight of responsibility. He looked between the three—Sir Cenric, Elva, and Garin—and wondered if the other two would go against Garin’s demand.

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Garin’s eyes narrowed in silent decree. “You are the eldest of the group. It is time you learnt to bear the burden of responsibility, especially if you are to become a knight one day like Sir Cenric. Wulfric cannot shoulder every duty, and Elva has her own battles to fight.”

In the charged silence that followed, Eadrin’s fingers curled tightly beneath the table—a silent vow to rise to the challenge, even as a persistent whisper in his mind recalled Sir Cenric’s wary observation: that his sudden proficiency might unlock more than he could control.

After the meal and into the night, as the estate’s routine unfolded like a carefully choreographed dance of duty and despair, whispers began to ripple through the market. Villagers exchanged hushed accounts of strange lights flickering among the trees and mysterious losses among their livestock. Amid the throng, murmurs of rebellion in the southern lands and a king’s waning power reached Eadrin’s ears—each rumour adding to the weight of expectation on his shoulders.

The rumours helped build Eadrin’s understanding of this new place. He hadn’t seen a map of the world he was dropped into, so hearing about the southern lands and the king’s castle helped build an idea of what the map would look like. Hearing rumours told Eadrin a story about the politics between kingdoms, difficulties between families, and phenomena surrounding them. Slowly yet surely, Eadrin was getting an understanding of who was important, who he should avoid, and what he was being trained to do and become.

It wasn’t long before Elva joined him in the crowded square. Her eyes, serious and searching, met his. “The world is changing,” she said quietly. “We’re not as isolated as Father believes.”

Eadrin’s gaze sharpened as he noted the tension in her voice. “You sound worried.” He tried to make sure his voice was neutral.

“Shouldn’t I be?” She replied, her tone layered with unspoken truths. “There are forces stirring that even Father’s blade may not be able to hold at bay. You know this. You have heard the stories Mother told us ever since we were babes.”

“You know something,” Eadrin pressed, returning Elva’s sharp gaze, “and you’re not telling me.” His voice went to a whisper, full of concern.

Elva’s eyes flickered toward a distant corner. “For now, some things must remain unsaid. Focus on what you can control, brother. The rest will reveal itself in time.”

The next evening, Eadrin wandered in the hushed sanctuary of the old library. Libraries always intrigued him. He found himself running his fingers across the spines of the dusty books. Sometimes, he would make sure he was alone and grab a book from the bookshelf that sparked his interest and skim the first few chapters before putting it back, sooner if he thought he heard footsteps in the distance.

Today, Eadrin found Elva poring over a dusty, ancient volume. The air was heavy with the scent of aged leather and secrets. “You’ve been hiding something,” he declared, his tone mingling with accusation and concern.

She sighed, closing the book with deliberate care, placing it on her lap. “You’ve been avoiding something,” she countered softly, not even looking up at him.

“What is it supposed to mean?” Eadrin asked, frustration mingling with curiosity. He wished he knew more about Elva and how they were raised. He hated how he was thrown into such a confusing world by that strange creature in the void with no explanation.

Meeting his gaze steadily, Elva replied, “We all bear burdens, Eadrin. Yours is etched on your face, even if you refuse to see it.” Before he could probe further, she slid the weathered book from her lap into his hands. “If you wish to understand this world, begin here.”

Tracing the enigmatic symbols along its spine—a script as mysterious as the depths of his own past—Eadrin felt a stirring deep within, a faint echo of remembrance he could neither name nor ignore. “Knowledge,” Elva murmured, “but remember: knowledge always comes at a cost. Be sure you’re ready to pay for it.”

Eadrin watched Elva leave the library with a new stillness enveloping him. He looked between the book and her silhouette. How did she know? Was she like him, or was she able to see who he truly was hidden under his new body?

Later into the night, as a storm tore through the keep with wild abandon, Eadrin ascended the battlements. Lightning scorched the sky in jagged scars, illuminating a tempest both outside and within. With each thunderclap, an almost imperceptible energy pulsed through him—a reminder of the previous day’s unexpected revelation. Was it merely the fire of renewed skill or the awakening of a power that might soon prove too great?

He clutched the cold stone wall and felt his nails nearly crack under the pressure of his grip. The roar of the storm mingled with the echo of Sir Cenric’s caution in his mind: the warning of a talent that could blossom into something dangerous if left unchecked.

Eadrin shook his head, trying not to let the thoughts overwhelm him. He knew his past; hell, he experienced his past firsthand, just in a different body, but nobody else knew – except, to some extent, Elva. He could still smell the iron of the battlefield and knew it could not overwhelm him like it did before. In this new life, he needed to have more control. In this new life, he needed to make sure he was more careful. Eadrin splayed a hand on his chest with a small rub, remembering the scars of his past life.

When dawn finally broke, the storm’s fury had given way to a misty aftermath. The grass below was covered in dew, and the smell of earth was strong. The keep stirred awake amid soft caws of distant crows, and the murmur of renewed routines commenced.

In the courtyard, Sir Cenric was already engaged in a sparring session with a young knight. Sir Cenric’s movements were measured and deliberate despite his age. Noticing Eadrin’s pensive stance, Garin called him over.

“A knight’s strength isn’t merely in his sword arm, boy,” he intoned, his voice both a lesson and a benediction. “It lies in the firmness of his will. Remember that.”

Eadrin nodded slowly, though the memory of that cautious glance from Sir Cenric lingered like a haunting shadow. As he prepared to depart, Garin’s parting words resonated with quiet determination:

“You have potential, Eadrin. Do not waste it.”

For the first time in many weary hours, a spark of resolve ignited within him. The journey ahead promised hardship and sacrifice, yet he promised himself that he would face it with the burgeoning strength of one reborn—and with a wary eye on the dangerous edge of his own rapidly unfolding talent.

Returning to his modest chamber, Eadrin settled by the window where the nascent sun broke through lingering clouds. His gaze fell upon the open book Elva had given him. With a deep, steadying breath, he turned the page. Eadrin was ready to embark on a voyage of understanding, come what may, and to bear the cost of a destiny that was already whispering of both promise and peril.