Time passed over the de Blaise estate without ceremony. Each day, servants followed fixed routines, guards completed their drills, and senior retainers maintained quiet vigilance in the corridors.

The estate, neither fully a castle nor a mere manor, combined an inherited martial legacy with the daily business of noble administration. Within its stone walls, sons and daughters of the de Blaise lineage were expected to walk and show discipline far earlier than children of lesser birth.

As a matter of course, no one remarked on Danarre's early physical development. His ability to stand and move steadily well before two years of age was simply what a direct descendant of Lord Hendric should achieve.

Danarre took advantage of these low expectations of childhood and the high expectations of lineage. He now walked confidently across the inner courtyard's side yard, a small enclosed space where a few ornamental trees grew and a spare training dummy stood in need of repair.

He reached it without stumbling, his eyes fixed on the worn target as if it were a challenge.

Aveline, assigned to oversee him, understood that the patriarch demanded strength. Danarre's steady gait and determination did not alarm her, if anything, it pleased her, assuring that no one would find fault in how she cared for him.

She made no attempt to distract him. For a child of de Blaise, they were meant for more than toys.

Instead, a simple wooden training sword rested against a low bench. Unusual for one so young, perhaps, but no one questioned its presence in a household where every child was expected to wield a weapon.

Danarre gripped the wooden sword, testing its weight. It was crude and small, but balanced enough for a beginner.

He understood that none would hand him a real blade yet, but this surrogate tool allowed him to develop technique. He recalled, through the haze of his past life's memories, basic stances and swings.

He tried them now, adjusting his posture to keep his center of gravity low and his elbows in. Early attempts were shaky.

A few swings were off-mark. Still, he did not stop. Repetition and patience would set a foundation for future mastery.

Among the guards and servants who came and went, a lesser knight-in-training, more squire than knight, named Danzing took particular notice. Danzing was assigned to minor duties, such as inspecting the practice fields or carrying messages between more prominent warriors.

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He had no great status in the household, but he was diligent, eager to prove himself, and curious by nature. He paused in mid-step when he saw the child swinging a wooden sword with unwavering focus.

Danzing approached quietly, standing at a respectful distance. He observed Danarre's stance, noting how the boy tried to compensate for a body still small and lacking full strength.

It was awkward, but not aimless. Danarre's eyes narrowed each time he re-centered his footing, as if evaluating his own technique.

This was no ordinary toddler flailing a stick around. There was intent here.

The squire felt a knot form in his throat. He had expected to serve one of Hendric's heirs one day, but imagined it would be long after their tutors and masters taught them the rudiments of swordsmanship.

Yet here stood Danarre, barely speaking, hardly more than an infant, practicing as if he understood the path of the blade already. No one had instructed him.

No formal lesson had begun. And yet, he trained.

Danzing's grip on the strap of his satchel tightened. He realized that this child, already pushing beyond normal boundaries, might one day be the lord he served.

If he lived that long.

If Danarre possessed this kind of genius at such a young age, what heights would he reach by adolescence? The squire could only imagine.

The very idea stirred a sense of loyalty in him. He would watch over this boy's progress and assist if given the chance. To help shape a future master swordsman and earn his trust, that would be a worthy goal.

As Danarre continued practicing, his legs trembled slightly from exertion, and his arms grew sore, but he did not show weakness. He only paused occasionally to adjust his stance or wipe a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

The efforts did not go unrewarded. Each night, when he rested, the system he carried within him registered incremental gains.

Day by day, he made minute progress in strength, endurance, and dexterity. He had no skill notifications yet—no grand leaps in ability—but the foundation was there.

He sensed it, a quiet accumulation of potential waiting to be unleashed.

Word of his efforts spread quietly among the household staff. Servants and lesser retainers might rumorr about the youngest de Blaise child who trained alone in the side yard.

Most kept their voices low. It was too early to form bold opinions.

Some recall Lord Hendric as a man who would appreciate such early initiative. Others simply found it curious. Danzing, for his part, told no one what he felt.

He chose to guard his impressions closely, resolving to serve faithfully and prove his own worth should the opportunity arise.

At the day's end, as dusk settled over the estate and the inner courtyard grew quiet, Danarre released the wooden sword. He flexed his fingers, feeling the strain in his arms.

Though no official accolades awaited him, he knew that each hour spent drilling brought him closer to the future he envisioned. He had no need for praise.

His growth and survival were their own rewards.

He had time. He had will. No one had to tell him his next steps, he would learn, adapt, and grow stronger.

Danarre closed his eyes to rest, while elsewhere in the estate, Danzing and others considered the future and which sons and daughters of the de Blaise line they would one day support.