The night had settled like a blanket of cold silence over the royal training grounds. The stars shimmered high above, faintly blurred by thin streams of winter fog drifting in slow threads. The ground looked deceptively calm; the light frost from evening had hardened into a stubborn crust over the dirt and grass, making it cold, stiff, and uneven underfoot. The main practice ground remained cracked with frozen earth.
A faint wind whispered through the courtyard, biting against exposed skin. Most people in the palace had already retreated into warm rooms, layered with blankets and simmering fires. But Rudura, with an iron sword in hand, stood alone beneath the night sky.
His breath came out in misty puffs.
The iron sword felt cold, heavier than ever. Winter tended to steal warmth straight from the metal, turning it less into a tool and more into a challenge in itself.
He glanced at the wooden dummy across from him. It wasn't the same as it was in spring or summer. The cold air had dried it out, stiffened the fibres, and made it crack ready but unpredictable. One wrong strike could bounce off stupidly, shock his wrist, or splinter in the wrong direction.
Still, he stepped forward.
I need to get better… standing still yesterday doesn't matter if I can't adapt today. Everything feels tighter in the cold. My fingers, my shoulders, even my breathing. This stupid cold just makes everything annoying.
He placed the tip of his right foot forward, sinking slightly into the thin frost. His stance wobbled.
"Wow… great start," Rudura muttered sarcastically.
He reset.
Deep breath
He spread his stance just enough to lower his center of gravity. The bite of winter crept up his ankles, but he forced his toes to grip the hardened dirt beneath the frost. A stance was not just about placing feet. It was about rooting
And tonight, the earth did not want to be rooted.
The boy closed his eyes for a moment, letting his senses sink.
Wind brushing his ear.
The faint crackle of wood from distance braziers.
The metallic taste of winter in the air.
He exhaled, opening his eyes again.
Alright. Let's go.
He lifted the iron sword. The cold metal stung his palm, but he kept his grip tight anyway.
The first swing arced forward, a diagonal slash aimed naturally at the dummy's upper right shoulder. The blade hit.
THUD.
The wooden dummy barely flinched.
The vibrations stung up Rudura's arms.
"Ah dammit." He shook his hands. "Cold makes these swords feel like hitting rocks."
He stepped back, repositioned, and swung again.
THUD.
Still no satisfying cut.
Sweat began to form across his forehead, contrasting against the freezing temperature. He couldn't tell whether he was too hot or too cold anymore.
Another attempt.
THUD.
THUD.
THUD.
All he earned was pain shooting up into his elbow.
He hissed through his teeth.
Why does this winter have to be like this? Why does everything just hurt?
A gust of wind bit across his knuckles.
He took a moment, letting his heartbeat slow.
Wait… horizontal diagonal… I need to slice, not smash. This isn't about force. Malavatas keeps saying that. Perfect strikes, not clumsy power.
He adjusted the sword angle, lowering his shoulder slightly.
He swung again.
CRACK.
A small chunk flaked off the dummy, but it was shallow, a scratch.
Rudura groaned and leaned his forehead against the cold iron blade.
"This is annoying… can't I just hit it harder?"
But as soon as he thought that, another memory bubbled up:
Malavatas' voice (from days ago),
"Landing countless imperfect strikes only teaches your body to be imperfect.
One perfect strike teaches everything."
Rudura clenched his jaw.
Old man… but maybe he's right.
He took another stance, slower. He focused on foot placement heel slightly above the frost patch, toes gripping, chest forward. His grip loosened, allowing the sword to move more freely instead of being forced.
His arms relaxed just enough.
Another diagonal swing.
CRACK TCHK.
The dummy dented more deeply, fibres splitting.
Closer. Better.
Rudura exhaled a foggy breath.
This angle works. If the wood is brittle horizontally… maybe a clean diagonal across its grain
He lifted the sword again.
This time, no frustration. No rush.
Just breath.
SHING
The blade cut through the cold air.
CRAAAACK.
The diagonal slash split deeper than before, carving a heavy groove halfway across the dummy's torso.
Rudura's lips curled into a small grin.
"Heh. See? I'm learning…"
But his legs trembled.
The ground was slippery. His feet had been locked in stance too long. He backed up, shaking out his knees.
Winter ground was unforgiving it punished rest, punished motion, punished indecision.
Still, Rudura continued.
Strike.
Strike.
Pause. Breathe.
Adjust fingers.
Adjust shoulders.
Strike.
Fibers started peeling off the dummy like brittle ribbon.
Piece by piece.
His shoulders burned, not from heat but from cold stiffness turned to pain. The wind turned harsher. Sweat froze instantly across the back of his neck.
Hours passed like whispers.
His arms felt numb.
His knuckles turned red, then pale.
His vision blurred slightly from exhaustion. But he refused to stop.
Just one perfect diagonal cut… it has to go all the way through.
He inhaled deeply, straightened his posture, focused on his hip rotation rather than his arms, and
SHHIIING—CRRRAAAACK!!
A clean diagonal slice tore through the dummy. The upper half leaned, then fell, landing on the frost-covered ground with a soft thump.
Rudura's eyes widened in tired satisfaction.
"I… did it."
His knees softened. He stumbled backward onto the cold ground, sitting there, chest rising and falling like a drum.
I… really did it.
He lay on the ground for a moment longer, looking up at the stars through the winter haze.
Winter's annoying… but if I can cut in this cold, then who the hell will stop me when it's warm?
He stood slowly, grabbed the fallen dummy half, and moved it to the corner.
He rubbed his numb fingers together.
"Alright… that's enough for tonight."
He dragged his exhausted body through the silent palace corridors. Warm air hit him when he passed through the training entrance, but it only made his sweat sting.
His room was darker than usual. The window leaked a thin line of cold wind through tiny gaps.
He collapsed into his bed.
Muscles screamed.
Hands throbbed.
Feet ached.
But he smiled.
"I gotta become better… no matter how many nights."
His eyelids shut heavy.
Winter breathed outside.
Sleep wrapped around him like a quiet victory.
(Continued in Chapter 45)