Max strode through the corridors of the citadel, fingers trailing along stone walls that still stood unbroken. Servants nodded as he passed. Guards saluted. Each face struck him anew. People who had died in his memories, now alive again. The weight of their futures pressed down on his shoulders.
The training yard opened before him, bathed in morning light. Several young nobles practiced in pairs, their instructors calling corrections. In his previous life, Max would have joined them, eager to impress. Now he walked past without acknowledgment, toward the empty section at the far end.
He selected a practice sword from the rack. The wooden blade felt light in his grip, too light. His muscle memory sought a heavier weapon, one forged for true combat rather than training. This would have to do.
Max positioned himself, feet shoulder-width apart, and began the most basic drill. Swing right. Return to center. Swing left. Return to center. The movements felt clumsy in this untrained body.
"One thousand swings," he whispered to himself. "Then another thousand."
The sun climbed higher as he worked. Sweat soaked through his tunic, plastering the fabric against his skin as rivulets traced paths down his spine and forehead.
His arms burned with effort, muscles trembling with the kind of deep fatigue that promised growth even as it threatened collapse. In his first life, he'd found these drills tedious, pointless repetition imposed by instructors he'd secretly believed were beneath his natural talent. Now he understood their purpose with painful clarity, each swing a brick in the foundation of survival he would need to build.
Weak blades break when tested against the unyielding edge of true combat. They shatter at the critical moment, leaving their wielders defenseless. Max would not break again, not when lives depended on his strength.
By midday, blisters had formed on his palms. Max ignored them. Pain was temporary but death was permanent. He knew that better than anyone in this citadel.
A familiar presence registered at the edge of his awareness. Violet stood watching him from the shade of the western archway, her Dawn Gryphon Astra perched on the stones above. Even at this distance, Max could read the confusion on his sister's face.
He turned away, continuing his swings with mechanical precision. The fewer questions he answered now, the better. Time spent explaining was time not spent preparing.
His thoughts remained coldly analytical as his arms moved in rhythm. The demons would attack from the east at sunset, using scouts to distract the northern guard posts. The assassination teams would infiltrate through the southern water gate while the main battle raged elsewhere.
In his former life, he'd been caught unprepared, his arrogance costing precious minutes when the attack began. This time, he'd be ready.
Swing right. Return to center. Swing left. Return to center.
"You've been at this for hours," a voice cut through his concentration.
Violet had crossed the yard. Her eyes is intelligent and concerned, she studied him with the attention she normally reserved for military reports.
"Just practicing," Max replied, continuing his swings without breaking rhythm.
"You've never practiced basics for more than twenty minutes without complaining," she observed. "And now you're approaching four hours."
Max calculated quickly. Four hours meant he still had eight before the attack. Not enough time.
"I realized my weakness, my foundation needs work."
Violet folded her arms. "Did something happen, Max?"
Max look at her in silence before picking the right answer. 'Yes. You died. I watched demons tear through the citadel. I failed everyone.'
"Nothing happened," he said instead. "I just need to improve."
He shifted to a more complex series of swings, still basic but requiring more precision. His young body protested, muscles trembling. But his mind remembered the forms with perfect clarity.
Violet moved closer. "Your form has changed."
Max maintained his focus. "How so?"
"It's..." she hesitated. "Efficient. Precise. Little bit like Father's."
Their father had been a master swordsman whose style emphasized efficiency over showmanship. Max had never managed to replicate it before, not until years of desperate warfare had stripped away all unnecessary movement.
"I've been studying his old manuals," Max lied, the words bitter on his tongue. He hated deceiving Violet, but the truth would sound like madness.
Violet reached out, stopping his next swing with a gentle hand on his wrist. "Look at me, Max."
He did. Her face was unmarked by the scar that would have crossed her right cheek by evening. Her eyes held none of the haunted weariness he remembered from their final days.
"Whatever's bothering you," she said, "you can tell me."
The temptation to confess everything nearly overwhelmed him. Violet had always been his strongest ally, his most trusted confidante. But even she would struggle to believe what he'd experienced.
"I had a dream," Max said carefully. "A bad one. About the citadel falling."
Not a complete lie. Perhaps close enough to the truth.
Violet's expression softened. "Dreams aren't prophecies, little brother."
If only she knew.
"This one felt real," he insisted. "I just want to be prepared."
"For what?"
"For anything in the future."
He pulled his wrist free and resumed his practice. After a moment, Violet sighed.
"The council meets at the fourth bell," she said. "Father would want you there."
Max nodded without stopping. "I'll be there."
"With cleaned hands, I hope." She gestured to his blistered palms. "The healers won't thank you for working yourself to injury."
When she left, Max allowed himself a moment's pause, watching her retreating form. In his memories, he'd never made it to that council meeting. The attack had begun minutes before, catching them scattered throughout the citadel.
This time would be different.
He returned to his drills with renewed purpose. Basic movements slowly gave way to more complex forms as his body remembered what his mind already knew. Each swing carried the weight of future battles, each stance informed by wounds not yet received.
Other nobles came and went. Some watched curiously as the youngest Drakhalis, known for his impatience with training, worked through form after form without rest. He ignored their stares.
By mid-afternoon, Max's tunic clung to him, soaked through. His movements had gained some of their old fluidity, though his stamina remained frustratingly limited. He sheathed the practice sword and moved to the archery range.
Draw. Aim. Release. The arrows flew true more often than not, better than a typical fifteen-year-old, but far from his peak skill. Still, it would have to be enough.
"Planning to impress someone?"
Max turned to find Lord Tiberius's son watching him. Gaius, a friend in his previous life, now looked at him with the casual disdain of youth.
"Just practicing," Max replied, nocking another arrow.
"You've changed overnight," Gaius observed. "Finally decided to take your duties seriously?"
Max released the arrow. It struck just left of center. "Something like that."
"Well, don't expect special treatment at the tournament next month," Gaius grinned. "I'll still beat you like always."
If we survive tonight, Max thought grimly, there won't be a tournament.
"Yeah, we'll see," he said aloud.
When Gaius left, Max set aside the bow. His arms ached from hours of continuous training, but he forced himself to move to the throwing knives next. In the coming battle, ranged weapons might make the difference between life and death.
The balanced knives felt right in his grip, an extension of his arm rather than separate tools. Muscle memory returned more quickly here, the body might be young, but the mind remembered.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Three knives embedded themselves in the target's center. Not perfect, but better than he'd hoped. Max retrieved them and repeated the exercise, methodically working through variations of distance and angle.
From across the yard, he felt Violet's eyes on him again. She stood with two of their commanders, gesturing toward the eastern wall while discussing something. But her attention kept drifting back to her youngest brother.
Max turned away, focusing on his targets. The fewer questions he faced before sunset, the better. He would have preferred to speak with her immediately, to warn her of what was coming, but experience had taught him caution. Warnings without proof would be dismissed. He needed to act, not just warn.
As the sun began its descent toward the western mountains, Max finally allowed himself to stop. His body throbbed with exertion. Blisters had burst and reformed on his palms. But beneath the pain lay satisfaction. He had relearned more in one day than he'd expected.
Not enough to change everything, perhaps. But enough to start with.
He cleaned and stored his practice weapons with careful precision. The fourth bell would sound soon. The council would gather. And after that...
Max looked toward the eastern horizon. Somewhere beyond those distant hills, demons prepared for an attack that had succeeded once before.
"Not this time," he whispered. His hand rested on the hilt of the practice sword, freshly returned to its rack. "This time, I know what's coming."
Weak blades break. Trained blades endure. And he would endure, no matter what price he paid.