Marcus

The soft patter of rain against the window greeted me as I stirred awake. William’s breathing was steady beside me now, his form relaxed against the mattress. His head was no longer cradled in my lap, but somehow, the warmth of his presence still lingered. I hadn’t slept much, but I felt calm in a way I hadn’t in weeks. Watching him sleep had given me a strange sense of purpose. I couldn’t keep him from his nightmares, but I could stand by him, protect him from the darkness in his mind.

The morning light trickled through the cracks in the shutters, casting long, pale lines across the room. I rose quietly, careful not to wake him, and busied myself by the fire, feeding it to life once more.

I had just started preparing for another day of scouting when William’s voice, steady but quiet, broke the silence behind me.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “We can’t wait forever for news of them.”

I turned to face him, eyebrows raised. “I agree,” I said carefully. “But we don’t have a lot of options. The castle is too well-guarded.”

William nodded slowly, his expression unusually thoughtful. “I know. But there’s something else we could do—something to help, even while we wait for a way to rescue the others.”

There was a pause as he stood up and crossed the room to where his cloak hung by the door, reaching for it as if he were about to leave. “The king’s supply lines. We know the routes they take to get food and weapons into the castle. We could hit one of those caravans. Disrupt them, weaken them.”

I blinked at him, caught off guard. “You want to sabotage a supply line?”

William’s blue eyes met mine, no hesitation in them. “If we can’t get into the castle, we’ll weaken it from the outside.”

I stared at him, my mind racing. This was the same William who had once flinched at the mere mention of anything related to the king’s soldiers. I’d assumed, after everything he’d endured, that the last thing he’d want was to be anywhere near a real fight.

“You really want to do this?” I asked, studying his face.

He didn’t waver. “I do. They took me, tortured me, and left scars that will never fully heal. But you and the others—you saved me. You gave me a chance to fight back, and I won’t waste it. I can’t just sit here and wait, Marcus. I need to do something.”

His voice was steady, his gaze unwavering. There was a fierce loyalty in his eyes—a loyalty to the rebellion, to me, to all of us who had risked our lives to pull him from the dungeons. He wasn’t driven by vengeance, though; it was deeper than that. He wanted to repay the debt he felt he owed us, to prove that he could stand alongside us in the fight for freedom.

Something stirred within me, a mixture of pride and something more—something that made my chest tighten and my heart beat just a little faster.

I exhaled, nodding slowly. “Alright. We’ll do it. But if we’re going to take on one of the king’s supply lines, you need to be ready. We’ll start training today.”

That afternoon, William stood before me in the training yard, sleeves rolled up to reveal the strong, muscular arms of a man who had spent years hefting heavy sacks of flour and kneading dough with unyielding determination. Still, fighting was something entirely different.

“You know,” I started, breaking the silence, “I’m not exactly the best with weapons myself.”

William shot me a surprised look, raising an eyebrow. “Really? I figured you were the best fighter we had, after Caleb.”

I let out a chuckle, shaking my head. “Not even close. I picked up a few things from him over the years, but I was never as skilled or natural as he is. I was always better at scouting, sneaking, making quick decisions under pressure.”

William gave a small nod, as if understanding that feeling of needing to survive, needing to learn for the sake of survival rather than passion.

“But,” I continued, “I’ve spent so much time with Caleb—watching him, learning from him—that I picked up more than a thing or two. I might not be the best fighter, but I know how to teach, how to spot someone’s strengths and work with them. And you’ve got a lot of strength, Will. More than you give yourself credit for.”

His gaze shifted to the weapon in my hands, then back to me. “I don’t know if I’ll ever feel like a real fighter. I mean, you’ve been at this for a long time. I’m still trying to figure out where I fit in with all this.”

“You fit in because you’re loyal, and because you care. That’s what makes you valuable to us. The skills? They’ll come. You’re already learning faster than I did. And you’ve got something a lot of people don’t have.”

“What’s that?”

I stopped walking for a moment, looking him square in the eye. “You’ve got heart. You’ve been through hell and come out the other side, and you’re still standing. That means something. Strength can be taught, but loyalty, that kind of grit? That’s rare.”

He looked down, processing my words, and then gave a small, thoughtful smile. “I guess surviving the dungeon wasn’t for nothing, huh?”

I laughed. “Exactly. Caleb would have been impressed watching you train today. He’d know exactly how to push you further.”

William’s smile widened at that. “I’ll have to show him what I’ve learned when we get him back.”

My chest tightened at the mention of Caleb, and a familiar wave of worry crept in. But I quickly swallowed it down, keeping my focus on William and the progress he was making. Caleb would want me to keep the team together, to keep training and preparing for whatever lay ahead.

“Yeah,” I said quietly, “you’ll get that chance.”

I started with the basics—stances, balance, the proper way to hold a sword. I wasn’t expecting much; most people had to build their strength over time. But I quickly realized that William was no stranger to physical exertion.

We’d sparred before, but this felt different. Maybe it was because we weren’t just practicing to pass time. We were preparing for something real, something dangerous. And as much as I admired William’s resolve, I knew there were things he still needed to learn. The art of the fight wasn’t just about brute strength. It was about precision, timing, and control.

“Alright,” I said, stepping back and cracking my knuckles. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

William wiped sweat from his forehead and nodded, his blue eyes sharp with focus. We faced off in the middle of the clearing, the ground beneath us cool and firm, the air still thick with the scent of pine. He lunged at me, moving quicker than I anticipated. I dodged, feeling the wind of his swing pass just inches from my face.

“Good,” I muttered, already repositioning. “You’ve got power. Now try again, but focus more on your center. Keep your weight balanced.”

He came at me again, this time with more control, his movements more fluid. I blocked his strike, and we grappled, our arms locking together as we struggled for dominance. His strength surprised me—more than once, I had to quickly adjust to avoid being overpowered.

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We circled each other, both of us breathing heavily but neither ready to stop. The sparring became more intense, each of us trying to find the other’s weakness. And then, in one swift move, I managed to hook my foot behind William’s and sweep his legs out from under him. He stumbled, and I moved to pin him, but he was faster than I expected. His arm shot out, grabbing my wrist and pulling me down with him.

Suddenly, I found myself on top of him, my body pressed against his, our faces mere inches apart. His chest rose and fell rapidly beneath mine, our breath mingling in the narrow space between us. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it. I froze, unsure of what to do next.

The world around us seemed to shrink. The sounds of the forest, the distant hum of life, all of it faded as I became hyper-aware of how close we were. His fingers were still gripping my wrist, though not as tightly now. His eyes, usually so focused and determined, flickered with something softer, something I couldn’t quite place.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. I was supposed to move. I was supposed to say something, keep things professional, keep things focused on training. But I couldn’t. My mind raced, and heat flushed through my body, blooming in my cheeks.

William’s gaze held mine, and I could feel the warmth radiating from him, the rise and fall of his breath. The moment stretched impossibly long, and all I could think about was how I could feel the strength in his body beneath me, how the air between us seemed to crackle with something unspoken.

I tried to pull away, but my body didn’t want to move. My skin tingled where he touched me, and my mind kept replaying the feeling of him pulling me down, of being so close to him. I could still smell the faint traces of flour and wood smoke that clung to his clothes, a scent that was somehow comforting and distracting all at once.

Finally, I forced myself to shift, rolling off him and sitting up quickly, my back to him as I tried to compose myself. My face burned, and I knew my cheeks were red. I hoped the fading light would hide it. I could still feel the rapid beat of my heart, a rhythm I couldn’t quite control.

William sat up too, brushing the dirt from his clothes. “You alright?” he asked, his tone casual, but there was an edge to it, like maybe he’d noticed something too.

I cleared my throat, nodding a little too quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… uh, just didn’t expect that last move from you.”

He grinned, but there was something softer behind it now. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

I managed a chuckle, though the sound felt forced. “Yeah, you are.”

For a moment, neither of us said anything. The air between us was thick, like there were words hanging just beyond reach, things we weren’t saying but both knew were there. I stood up, brushing off my hands, trying to shake off the lingering sensation of being that close to him.

I cleared my throat. “Here,” I said, handing him a short sword. “Try swinging it like this. Use whole body, not just your arms.”

He nodded, mimicking the movement I had shown him. His first attempt was awkward, the blade cutting through the air with more force than precision. But after a few more tries, his motions smoothed out, and soon, he was swinging with surprising power.

I watched him closely, noting the way his muscles rippled with each movement. It was clear that he was used to physical labor. The strength he had built as a baker—hauling sacks of grain, working dough, lifting heavy trays—translated almost effortlessly into swordsmanship. His strikes were strong, deliberate, and controlled.

“Good,” I said, nodding in approval. “You’re picking this up fast.”

He gave a modest shrug, though I saw a flicker of pride in his eyes. “It’s not all that different from lifting a sack of flour. You just have to control the weight.”

I chuckled at the comparison. “A sack of flour doesn’t fight back.”

He smiled slightly. “Maybe not, but I’ve had a few tough ones in my day.”

As the training progressed, I began to push him harder. I taught him how to parry, how to anticipate an opponent’s moves, and how to recover from a stumble. We sparred with wooden practice swords, and to my surprise, William held his own. He had a natural instinct for defense—likely from years of protecting himself emotionally, if not physically—and though his attacks were still rough around the edges, his strength and determination made up for it.

By midday, both of us were drenched in sweat, the cool autumn air doing little to stave off the heat of exertion. We paused for a moment, catching our breath, and I couldn’t help but feel impressed. William had never backed down, even when I pushed him harder than I’d planned. He was relentless, determined to get better.

“You’re a lot stronger than I thought,” I admitted, leaning on my practice sword.

William wiped the sweat from his brow and gave me a small, grateful smile. “Thanks. It’s… it’s good to feel useful. To feel like I can do something.”

I met his eyes, the weight of his words sinking in. “You’ve always been useful, William. Don’t think for a second that you weren’t. But now, you’re learning to fight in a different way.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, the intensity of the training faded, replaced by something quieter, more personal. “I just… I want to make sure I’m pulling my weight. You’ve all done so much for me. I owe it to you to give back.”

“You don’t owe us anything,” I said, my voice firm. “You’re part of this team, this rebellion. You’re not just here because we saved you. You’re here because you’re one of us.”

His expression wavered, as if he wasn’t quite ready to believe it. But I meant every word.

We stood there in the fading light of the afternoon, surrounded by the quiet rustle of the trees, the weight of unspoken emotions lingering between us. I couldn’t help but feel that, in this moment, something had shifted between us—not just as comrades, but as something more.

For days, William had been working with the sword, and while he was improving fast, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something better suited to him. That’s why I’d brought him out to the yard today, to try something new.

I glanced down at the morning star in my hand. Its weight was familiar to me, but for William, it would be something entirely different. Not that I doubted him. If anyone could adapt quickly, it was William.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said, stopping in the clearing and holding out the weapon. The spiked ball swung lightly on its chain, catching the morning light. “You’ve got natural strength. This might be a better fit for you. While swords are great for quick slashes and thrusts, the morning star has its own advantages. You can use it to strike from a distance, and it’s particularly effective against heavily armored foes. If you can land a hit, the spikes can break bones or puncture flesh, even if they’re wearing chainmail or plate armor.”

I demonstrated a few basic swings, showing him how the momentum could generate a lot of force. “You want to aim for the gaps in their armor or target areas like the head or shoulders. Plus, it can be used defensively as well—if someone gets too close, you can use the weight of it to shove them back.”

As I handed the weapon to him, I couldn’t help but notice the way his fingers wrapped around the handle, the strength evident in his grip. He gave it a few experimental swings, the ball spinning and gleaming in the sunlight. I could see the cogs turning in his mind, his innate sense of logic applying to the rhythm of the weapon.

William’s eyes narrowed as he studied the weapon. His brow furrowed in uncertainty. “You really think I can handle this thing?”

I grinned, confident in my decision. “It’s not so different from the work you’re used to. You’ve got the strength. This just takes a little practice with control and timing. Trust me, it’s a powerful weapon in the right hands.”

“Like this?” he asked and gave it another swing, looking at me for confirmation.

I nodded. “Exactly. But you’ve got to let the momentum work for you, not against you. Feel the weight, and don’t overextend your swing. If you miss or get carried away, you’ll leave yourself open.”

William adjusted his stance, grounding his feet, and swung again, this time with more confidence. The morning star whistled through the air, the chain snapping taut with a satisfying crack.

“Good,” I said, stepping beside him. “Now let’s work on control. You can’t just swing wildly. You’ve got to be precise, especially if you’re up against someone with a shield or armor. The key is using your strength, but staying balanced.”

For the next hour, I drilled him on technique, showing him how to move his body with the weapon, how to control the arc of the spiked ball and keep his stance firm. He picked it up fast. Faster than I’d expected, honestly. His movements became more fluid with every swing, and I could see the connection between his strength from baking and the way he handled the morning star.

“You’ve got this,” I encouraged as he sent the morning star swinging in a controlled arc. “You’ve already got the strength, Will. Now it’s just about learning how to direct it.”

He laughed. “Turns out baking’s good training for warfare.”

We moved into sparring, with me using a wooden sword and him wielding the morning star. At first, William was hesitant, clearly aware of how dangerous the weapon could be in close quarters, but I pushed him to trust himself, to strike with more force. And soon, he did. The spiked ball slammed into the ground with a heavy thud as he pulled back quickly for the next move, always ready, always calculating.

Each time we sparred, I felt more and more pride for the man standing across from me. He wasn’t just strong; he was smart. He learned fast and adapted even faster.

By the time the sun was high overhead, we were both panting, sweat dripping down our faces. I called for a break, but I could see the fire still burning in his eyes. He wasn’t ready to stop, not yet.

I clapped him on the shoulder. “Tomorrow, we’ll work on combat scenarios. You’ve got the hang of the weapon, but we’ll need to practice with multiple opponents, in real fight situations.”

William nodded, his expression resolute. “I’ll be ready.”

I had no doubt he would be.