Page 14 of The War of Four Winters

Dawnspilledthroughthefrost-etched columns, painting the practice yard in pale gold. Frozen breath hung in clouds around us as wooden practice swords clacked together, the sound sharp in the winter air. Leif's face was a mask of concentration, his small jaw clenched tight as he parried my deliberately slow attack. Though barely ten, there was something in his eyes that belonged to a much older soul.

"Better," I said as he successfully blocked a sequence we'd been practicing for days. “Trust your instincts. Your body remembers even if you don’t.”

He nodded once, that solemn little gesture that made my chest ache. When we'd first removed his collar, he'd barely spoken for weeks. Now his responses were measured, deliberate, as if testing each word before allowing it past his lips.

"Again?" he asked, wooden sword already raised in perfect form.

"First, what did you notice about my attack?"

His brow furrowed. "You favored your right side. Left a gap."

"Good. And did you exploit it?"

He shook his head, eyes dropping briefly to the packed snow beneath our boots. "I was too focused on remembering everything else."

"That's how it starts," I assured him, reaching out to ruffle his dark hair. "First, you master the forms. Then you learn to see beyond them. That part comes with time."

Torsten's whoop of excitement broke our moment as he charged across the yard, wooden sword held aloft like a conquering hero. "Master Gracin says I'm getting better at the shield block! He let me try with the metal ones today, not just the wooden practice shields!"

He skidded to a stop beside us, cheeks flushed with cold and excitement. At eight, Torsten was all exuberance and motion, a perpetual storm of energy that contrasted sharply with Leif's quiet intensity. Yet beneath his wild curls and gap-toothed grin lay the same shadows, the same scars left by the collar he'd worn half his young life.

"Did he now?" I asked, giving him a serious nod. "That's excellent progress. Perhaps you can show Leif and me after breakfast."

"Can I, Elindir? And can I try your sword? Not to swing, just to hold it. Master Gracin says a warrior should know the weight of real steel." The words tumbled out in a rush, his whole body practically vibrating with hope.

I couldn't help the smile that tugged at my lips. Torsten's admiration for Master Gracin had grown into something approaching hero worship over these past weeks. The gruff blacksmith had an unexpected gentleness with children, especially those who showed an interest in his craft. More than once, I'd found Torsten perched on a stool in the forge, watching with wide-eyed fascination as Gracin transformed metal into tools of survival and beauty.

"Master Gracin is teaching me about different metals," Torsten continued, puffing his chest out. "He says I have good hands for smithing.”

"Does he now?" It was good to see Torsten taking such an interest. "A smith is always needed, in peace or war."

"He's letting me help with the small hammers," Torsten confided, lowering his voice as if sharing a precious secret. "And someday, when I'm bigger, he says I might make a real sword like yours.”

"Well then, a future smith should indeed feel the weight of real steel. After breakfast, we'll see."

Something dark flickered in Leif's eyes at the mention of breakfast, a memory perhaps of times when food had been withheld as punishment. I pretended not to notice, knowing how fiercely he guarded his pride. Instead, I placed a hand on each boy's shoulder, guiding them toward the fortress.

"You're both improving faster than I did at your age," I told them, watching how they straightened under the praise. "My old sword master would have been impressed."

"Was he as strict as Master Gracin?" Torsten asked, skipping to keep pace with my longer strides.

"Stricter," I replied, remembering Swordmaster Halden's merciless training sessions in Ostovan's western courtyard. Another life ago, when I'd been Prince Elindir, not yet broken and remade. "But he taught me to survive."

"Is that why you're teaching us?" Leif asked quietly. "To survive?"

The question caught me off guard with its directness. I stopped at the fortress entrance, crouching to their level. Snow crunched beneath my knee as I met their gazes—Leif's guarded brown eyes, Torsten's wide, trusting blue ones.

"I'm teaching you because the world is sometimes cruel," I said carefully. "But also because there's joy in mastering your own body, in knowing what you're capable of." I touched the faint scar where my collar had once been. "And because no one will ever control either of you again."

Torsten nodded solemnly, though I suspected he understood only part of what I meant. Leif, however, held my gaze with unsettling comprehension.

"Are you going away soon?" Leif asked.

I managed not to flinch at the unexpected directness. "For a short journey," I replied, deliberately keeping my tone light. "Important business for the king."

"An adventure?" Torsten's face lit up with excitement.

"Just boring diplomatic meetings," I assured them with a smile. "Nothing as exciting as your training."

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