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My hands were red from the punishnt, and I was in a foul mood. Just when I thought this shitty day was finally over, the last surprise appeared: I still had to train.
The first steps to becoming a knight, they said.So we headed to the fortress training yard. A bunch of n-at-arms, pages, and squires were already gathered there — all of them sweaty, covered in mud, repeating movents like trained beasts. The master-at-arms was already waiting for us.
"Alright, sa as always. Everyone, find a partner and start with the basics... ah, yes, the young lord from House Reinsfeld... I assu you've never held a sword. Grab a wooden one from over there and start swinging it through the air — get used to the weight," the instructor said, barely giving a glance.
I picked one of the swords, and it was heavier than I expected. Much heavier.I started mimicking the others, warming up, trying not to make a fool of myself.
The instructor ca over and began barking corrections — adjusting my stance, how I held it, the angle of the swing.
Apparently, all those years watching n-at-arms beat each other in training hadn't been a waste: I rembered the positions, the steps, even common mistakes.
I spent nearly an hour without rest, swinging the wooden sword side to side, alternating between one hand, the other, or both.
"Reinsfeld, co here," the instructor called suddenly, pointing at .
I stepped forward, breathless.
"Young Joachim, take this opportunity to teach the new page the basics of sword technique," said the instructor, looking at one of the Margrave's sons — the eldest.Though he was older, we weren't so different in size.
Joachim gave that barely-suppressed smile.
"Nothing personal, but we all have to learn sohow," he said, raising his wooden sword.
I just nodded. Took a long breath.
As expected, I didn't stand a chance. I could barely block or deflect his blows.His attacks were precise, strong, direct. Every ti I managed to parry, I took a hit to the hands, and sotis one to the face.
The sword vibrated like a poorly-handled whip in my aching fingers.
The heat of frustration climbed up my neck. Seeing that smug smile in every damn exchange was unbearable.
After another hit to my hand, I decided that was enough.
The next ti he thrust, I blocked it and slapped his sword away with force.Without thinking, I kicked him — a sharp whip-like strike straight to the thigh.He fell like a sack, losing balance.
And without hesitation, I spun on the sa leg and kicked him again — a spinning heel to the face.
The impact was sharp. He hit the ground flat on his back, and the yard went silent.
When I saw him start crying, nose bleeding, lip split, I didn't hesitate for a second.
I threw myself on top of the bastard, ready to keep hitting him until soone stopped .I barely had ti to raise my fist before I felt hands grabbing my clothes and dragging back.
"What the hell was that!? This is fencing, not a tavern brawl or peasant brawl!" the instructor shouted, eyes wide, gripping by the collar of my tunic.
"What if a sword's no good when we're wearing armor!? Then you use a dagger! You fight on the ground if you have to!" I shouted back, struggling as my blood boiled.
The instructor stared at , lips tight, like he was fighting the urge to scream sothing worse. He breathed deep, swallowing the rage.
"Get out of here, damn it..." he muttered through clenched teeth.
And without another word, he struck three tis with his training sword.Once on the ribs, once on the leg, and the last on my back.I doubled over from the pain, nearly falling to my knees, gasping for air.
The instructor picked up the Margrave's son from the ground and carried him off without saying another word.Training was over then and there.
I wished that had been the end of it.
But no. I had to go wash up as best I could, quickly, without ti to complain.My hands were swollen, my face ached, one eye was throbbing — but I still had to go back to serving dinner.That was the routine.
Set the cutlery.Bring out the trays.Wait for the Margrave's family to sit before the al began.
But this ti, it wasn't as quiet as before.You couldn't ignore the large bruise on the face and split lip of the Margrave's eldest son.
While we ate, the Margrave finally decided to address the elephant in the room.
"Joachim, what happened to your face?" asked the Margrave, locking eyes with his son.
"Nothing… I… I fell, Father. That's all," Joachim replied nervously.Lying clearly wasn't one of his talents.
"Sigismund, is that true?" the Margrave asked, turning to his younger son.
"No…" the boy answered, lowering his head.
"Then what happened?" he asked, raising his voice slightly.
There was a mont of silence.Then, all eyes fell on Sigismund again.
"The… the new page… hit him during training," the younger one finally said, still not looking up.
I felt my stomach twist.Only then did the weight of the consequences hit .
'Shit… they're going to whip … if I'm lucky,' I thought, closing my eyes.
"Albrecht! Here, imdiately!" thundered the Margrave's voice, shaking the table.
I stood and walked toward him. He looked at with a deep frown.
"Is it true? You did that to my son?" he asked, barely moving his head.
"Yes, my lord. It was , during today's training," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Joachim! How can you be so useless that a seven-year-old leaves you in that state!? By blessed Sigmar! This is what I get for letting you ride horses instead of doing your damned training. Look at you… a child four years younger than you made you look like this…" the Margrave exploded in rage, unleashing his fury on his own son.
"But… but Father… he kicked … it wasn't even…" Joachim tried to defend himself.
"But nothing! That makes it worse!" the margrave shouted, then turned to . "Where did you kick him?"
"In the leg. His stance was weak, and I took advantage," I said briefly, hoping his fury wouldn't shift in my direction.
"See? That's because you neglect your training. I didn't mind you riding around for fun, but if you're going to embarrass yourself in front of the pages… you're forbidden from leaving the castle. From dawn to dusk, you'll train. I don't want this happening again."
Then he looked at .
"And you… well, you didn't co out of it any better," he said, noting my bruised hands and swollen face. "This is training, not a damned death match. Still… I'll admit you exposed how poor my son's form really is. I guess I'll forget about taking him on the next campaign against the orcs…"
He motioned for to leave.
"But father, you promised!" Joachim protested as I walked back to my seat.
"Yes, I did. But I'm not going to bury you when one of those green-skinned bastards breaks through our lines and skewers you with a spear."
I sat down silently and let it all pass. After cleaning up, I finally dragged myself to my room. It had been a shitty day… and worse ones were coming.
The next day wasn't any better.
Cutting food. Setting the table. This ti I was assigned to stand through the whole al, ready to refill the family's wine cups. I ate in a rush. Then they sent to empty the fortress's latrines.
I nearly vomited from the stench. It was unbearable — a mix of rancid piss, old feces, and sothing else I couldn't define but was just as revolting. Every shovel load was torture. Sotis I had to breathe through my mouth and look at the sky just to avoid passing out. But I managed to keep my stomach's contents where they belonged. Barely.
At least after that I was allowed a quick wash. Cold water, a bucket, and my own hands. I scrubbed myself hard to get the stench off, but I still felt it clinging to my skin. Still, I got dressed in clean clothes and went back to work.
This ti, I only had to serve food. Nothing more. I was thankful for that.
Sword training was worse than the day before. The instructor never took his eyes off . His face serious, still, like he asured every move with the precision of an executioner. Every mistake, every misplaced step — he noted them all with his gaze.
When they made practice with other pages, I noticed sothing odd. None of them wanted to get too close. They all seed more focused on my feet than the sword I held. Even the experienced ones. They were more worried about getting kicked than landing a clean blow. And that made them drop their guard. I wasn't skilled with the wooden sword, not yet. But I could defend myself. At least they weren't knocking down like the first day.
The truth is… I loved seeing that fear in their eyes.
They were all around my age, so four to six years older. All of them had been training longer than . You could see it in their movents, in their confidence. But it was also clear they were used to having soone weaker around, soone they could hit without consequences. Soone like .
But I wasn't a punching bag. And I wasn't going to beco one.
Unlike them, I was far more dangerous without a weapon. Not just because of my fists, but my body. Even though I was the youngest, I was average in height. Strong, broad-shouldered, with the hardened muscles earned from stirrupless training and years of physical labor. My father's genes were obvious. He was a massive man. With so luck, I'd reach his size. And with the years of hand-to-hand combat from the foreign legion already under my belt, that made — whether they wanted to admit it or not — the most dangerous page here.
Even so, I ended up wrecked after every training session. My back ached. My arms trembled. My legs barely responded. But I gritted my teeth and endured.
I've survived worse for a crust of bread. Now I just have to endure this for another nine or ten years. Then I'll be a knight. I'll return to father's castle, sleep in a decent bed, have servants, hunt whenever I feel like it, and eventually… when he kicks the bucket, I'll be baron.
And then, finally, I'll get to live the good life.
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