The barracks were quieter than the yard, but not kinder.
Owen sat on the edge of his cot, unwrapping the cloth around his ribs. Purple bruises bloomed beneath his skin, already darkening. He pressed his thumb into one, testing. Pain answered. Acceptable.
Across the room, the other squires talked around him, never to him.
"Did you see Cedric today?"
"He didn't even use mana."
"He could've broken him if he wanted."
Laughter. Admiration. Fear, disguised as praise.
Owen retied the cloth and stood. His movements were economical—no wasted motion, no hesitation. He slid the pendant back beneath his shirt and pulled on his tunic.
The bell rang.
Back to the yard.
Training blurred into repetition. Stances. Drills. Marching formations. Owen followed orders precisely, not eagerly. His sword moved when commanded, stopped when told. Instructors ignored him unless they had to correct him and even then, they sounded annoyed, like fixing a tool that should've been discarded already.
"Again."
Owen reset his stance.
"Wrong angle."
He adjusted by a fraction.
"Again."
The sun climbed. Sweat soaked through fabric. Hands blistered.
During paired drills, no one volunteered to face him. When forced, they struck harder than necessary, eager to prove something. Owen took the hits, responded only enough to continue. He was never impressive. Never disgraceful.
Just there.
Cedric passed by once, surrounded by squires orbiting him like moons. He didn't stop. Didn't look.
That bothered Owen more than the blows.
By midday, Owen was assigned to weapons maintenance alone... as usual. He scrubbed blades until his hands burned, methodical, focused. Steel made sense. It didn't lie. It didn't care who you were.
A shadow crossed the doorway.
Lady Landergrey stood there, hands folded, eyes soft with concern she didn't bother hiding.
"You're injured," she said.
"I'm fine," Owen replied automatically.
She frowned. "You always say that."
He didn't answer.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Cedric went too far today."
Owen shook his head. "It's training."
"That's not what training looks like." She hesitated, then sighed. "You should rest."
"I can finish."
"I know you can." Her gaze lingered on him, heavy with something unspoken. "That doesn't mean you should have to."
Footsteps echoed outside. Baron Aldric's voice carried faintly, discussing patrols, resources, matters that mattered.
Lady Landergrey straightened. "Eat something," she said softly, then turned and left.
Owen returned to the blades.
That night, long after the lamps dimmed, Owen slipped back into the yard alone. He practiced under moonlight, slow and deliberate. No drills. No audience.
Just movement.
His sword cut clean arcs through the air, precise, restrained. Not powerful. Not weak. Correct.
When he finished, he stood still, breathing steady, chest rising and falling around the dull weight of the pendant.
He felt nothing unusual.
No calling. No memory. No hunger.
Just another day survived.