An hour before the sun rises, Oleksandr wakes up. He carefully extracts himself from her embrace, a stab of regret in his chest at the feel of her body leaving his arms. He watches her for a moment, her body curled up in the bed, her face soft and peaceful in sleep. He pulls the covers up, tucking her in and making sure she's warm and comfortable. Oleksandr makes his way quietly out of the room, moving with the swift and silent grace of a shadow. He slips through the castle corridors, avoiding the patrolling guards and servants. He soon reaches the guard barracks and slips inside, resuming his duties as if nothing unusual had happened.
The image of their passionate encounter floods his mind, chasing away the lingering shame and fear from his episode. He focuses on the feeling of her body under his, the taste of her lips, the sounds that she made... The finality of her maidenhead. The thought makes his body respond, heat and desire stirring within him. Despite the lack of sleep and the earlier turmoil, he can't help but feel a bit more alive, energized and rejuvenated. He enters the barracks with a new spring in his step, his thoughts and emotions settled for now, his mind focused on his duties.
He bangs a sword against a chestplate. "Rise and shine, ladies!" The guards and squires in the barracks startle out of their sleep, some of them falling to the ground as they stumble out of their bunks. Some curse, while others just grumble. They all look at him with bleary eyes and grumpy expressions. "You have five minutes to get your sleepy asses to the training field!" The guards and squires scramble to get their bearings. A few start arguing amongst themselves, but Oleksandr's stern gaze shuts them up quickly. They know better than to cross him. Within five minutes they are all lined up in the training field, some of them still rubbing sleep from their eyes and yawning.
"Ten laps around the castle. First to finish gets to leave early." The guards exchange glances, some of them looking a bit mutinous. But the promise of getting to skip that morning’s training and have time to themselves is enough to keep them moving. As Oleksandr starts the countdown, they start running. The first lap is chaotic, everyone trying to elbow each other off the track or tripping each other up. He watches them with scrutiny and amusement as he runs alongside them. As the laps progress, the faster runners start to pull ahead, leaving the slower ones behind.
The top few runners start getting closer to the finish line, pushing themselves to the limit to be the first to get out of this hellish round of laps. At the end of the last lap, it's a close call, but a young squire named Lukas finally crosses the finish line, clearly exhausted but with a hint of gloating pride. Oleksandr grins and smacks his shoulder. "Good work, lad. Go clean up and relax before your shift." Lukas, still breathing hard and drenched in sweat, grins back at him, visibly puffing at the praise.
"Thanks, Captain," he gasps, before staggering off towards the barracks to get cleaned up. After the rest of the guards finish their laps, they gather in the training field.
"Alright, boys. Gather your shields and your spears." The clatter of arms and the low murmur of voices filled the training field as the guards assembled, their eyes fixed on Oleksandr. Today, he was not just their captain; he was their teacher. He stood before them, the hilt of his sword resting against his hip.
"Listen well," he began, his voice steady and firm. "Today, I will show you a formation that has saved my life more times than I can count. It's a technique I learned as a Varangian Guard. A shield-wall that can turn the tide of battle." The guards exchanged glances, their curiosity piqued. Oleksandr motioned for them to take up their shields and form a line.
"Stand shoulder to shoulder," he instructs, moving among them to adjust their stances. "Your shield is not just for you; it’s for the man next to you. When you raise it, you protect your brother as much as yourself. Together, you become an impenetrable wall." The men shuffle into position, their shields raised and overlapping. Oleksandr walks the line, eyeing each man with the critical gaze of a seasoned warrior. He notices a few gaps and stepped in to correct them, pushing the men closer together.
"Lock your shields," he commands. "Feel the weight of it against your forearm. It’s solid, unyielding. Now, brace your feet. Bend your knees. You are not just holding a line—you are the line. The enemy will come at you with everything they have, but they will break upon you like waves against the rocks." He steppes back, surveying the formation. The guards stood rigid, their shields a seamless barrier of iron and wood. "Good," he nods with approval. "Now, hold the line."
He motions to a group of more experienced guards, who have been waiting with practice swords at the ready. "Attack!" He orders, his voice ringing out across the courtyard. The attacking group charges forward, swords clashing against the shields with a forceful impact. The guards in the shield-wall grunted under the pressure, but they held firm, their formation barely wavering.
"Steady!" Oleksandr shouts. "Do not yield!"
The attackers press harder, trying to find a weakness, but the formation remains strong. After several intense moments, he raises his hand, signaling the end of the exercise. The attackers fell back, breathing heavily, and the guards in the shield-wall slowly lower their shields, sweat trickling down their faces.
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"Well done," Oleksandr says, his tone approving. "You held. But remember, this is just practice. In battle, the stakes are life and death. You must hold the line no matter what. Trust in each other, in the strength of your brothers beside you, and you will stand against any foe." The guards nod, their expressions a mix of relief and determination. Oleksandr steps forward, clapping a hand on the shoulder of one of the men. "Again," he orders, his voice carrying the weight of a commander who had seen countless battles. "We will drill until you can do this in your sleep." The guards quickly resume their positions, a renewed sense of purpose in their eyes.
The sound of swords clashing against shields echoed across the courtyard as the guards drilled the shield wall formation over and over again, until their arms ached and their legs trembled, until they could see the formation in the backs of their eyelids, and until the command to form the wall was like a reflex etched into their very bones.
Oleksandr's eyes flicker upwards, catching a glimpse of the Princess watching from her bedroom window. For a split second, their gazes lock, and a flicker of desire passes between them. But Oleksandr quickly composes himself, forcing his attention back to his men.
"Alright, boys, let's take a break," he calls out, clapping his hands. "Ten minutes, then we're back at it." The guards, looking weary and sweaty, gladly drop their shields and swords, collapsing onto the ground in various states of exhaustion.
He makes his way over to a nearby trough, splashing cold water on his face and neck, relishing in the brief moment of refreshment, before he dries his face with a handkerchief. As he glances back up at the window, spotting the Princess still watching, he can't help but wink at her, a hint of a mischievous smile on his lips. The Princess's eyes widen slightly, her cheeks flushing with a hint of pink, but her expression quickly reverts to her usual demure shyness as she looks away with a hint of a smile, as though she was caught watching him.
Oleksandr can't help but feel a small flutter of satisfaction in his chest, knowing that he had made her bashful. A small smirk appears on his face as he looks back at his men.
"Alright, boys. Practice sparring." Oleksandr's voice cuts through the weary soldiers, and they sluggishly pick themselves up off the ground. "Come on, lads, get it together," Oleksandr barks, pacing in front of them like a commanding officer. "You're not in a tavern, drinking ale and telling tales. You're soldiers, and you have a job to do. Now, pick up your weapons and start sparring." The soldiers reluctantly pick up their shields and swords again, the energy levels in the training ground feeling rather lacking. As they line up in pairs, he walks among them, checking their stances and correcting their form if necessary. All the while, he can't help but keep one eye on the princess's bedroom window, stealing occasional glances in her direction.
Oleksandr’s eyes narrow as he watches the half-hearted sparring unfolding before him. The soldiers' movements are sluggish, their strikes weak, and their shields barely held in place. He could feel the frustration rising within him like a tide.
Suddenly, he halted in front of a pair, his expression darkening.
"You two pansies, step back," he commands, his voice resonating with authority. The soldiers immediately froze, their eyes wide with a mix of sheepishness and respect as they scrambled to obey. "Watch and learn," he barks, his gaze sweeping over the group. The others, sensing something was about to happen, quickly formed a circle around him, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Oleksandr rolls his shoulders, loosening his muscles as he gripped his sword. With a sharp flick of his wrist, the blade twirled through the air in a blur of gleaming steel. The motion was smooth, effortless—a display of skill that left the soldiers gasping.
"Pay attention!" He shouts, the command snapping the men out of their stupor. "This is how you fight!"
He steps forward, his body a whirlwind of motion. The sword twirls in his hand, a flash of silver as he spun on his heel, the blade slicing through the air in a series of complex maneuvers that would disarm any opponent. His feet moved in perfect harmony with his strikes, gliding across the ground with the grace of a dancer but the lethal precision of a master swordsman. He pivots sharply, bringing the sword down in a powerful arc that would split an opponent in two. The blade never hesitates as he transitions seamlessly into a backhand slash, followed by a rapid flurry of thrusts and spins. Each movement is executed with deadly accuracy, his body moving faster than the soldiers' eyes can follow.
Then, without warning, Oleksandr leaps into the air, his sword twirling above his head in a dizzying spiral before he lands with a thunderous impact, his blade slicing downward in a final, crushing blow.
He pauses, standing tall as he lowers his sword.
"This is what it means to master your weapon. Your sword is an extension of your will, of your very soul. It should move as you move, think as you think. There is no hesitation, no second-guessing. You fight with absolute control and deadly intent." The soldiers stand in stunned silence, their faces reflecting a mixture of awe and intimidation. Oleksandr’s display had been nothing short of mesmerizing, an exhibition of pure mastery that none of them could hope to replicate. But that wasn’t the point.
"Pair up again," Oleksandr orders, his voice like steel. "And this time, fight as if your lives depend on it, because one day, they will."
The soldiers snap into action, their earlier fatigue forgotten as they took up their positions. Oleksandr watched them, his eyes sharp, ready to correct any mistake. He had shown them what it meant to be a true warrior, and now it was their turn to rise to the challenge. In that moment, they knew that under his tutelage, they were in the presence of not just a captain, but a legend.