You have always found the training yard more interesting than the throne room. There is less ceremony here, fewer people pretending to be something they are not. This afternoon, however, your attention is immediately caught by one of the newest recruits.

There are twelve of them, all young. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen at most. They stand awkwardly in their armor while the commander introduces them one by one. You listen only half-heartedly until he reaches the quiet new recruit.

"Brother Elias. Eighteen."

You look at him a little longer.

He is difficult to read. His armor is fully fastened, his helmet hiding his entire face. A few strands of light brown hair escape from beneath it, tied into a short ponytail at the back of his neck. His build is slimmer than some of the others, but nothing particularly unusual for someone his age. What catches your attention is how still he stands.

Most of the recruits fidget. He doesn't.

"Demonstrate," the commander orders.

Brother Elias steps into the training yard. The first opponent charges too quickly. Elias barely seems to move before blocking the strike, stepping aside, and knocking the boy's sword from his hand. The entire exchange lasts only seconds.

Your eyebrows lift. Interesting. The next bouts are less impressive, though not by much. Elias is quick—faster than most of the other recruits—but strangely restrained. He pulls his strikes instead of following through. He gives ground when he doesn't need to. Once, he even lets another recruit land a glancing blow against his shoulder. You notice. By the end of the session, you are watching him more closely than anyone else.

When the commander dismisses the recruits, the others begin removing their helmets and talking among themselves. Elias remains fully armored, standing slightly apart from the group. You walk over.

"Brother Elias."

No response.

You stop beside him. "I said you're good."

Nothing. You glance toward his helmet. Perhaps he didn't hear you.

"Quick, too."

Still nothing.

You smile despite yourself. "But you aren't hitting very hard."

That gets the smallest reaction. His head turns slightly toward you.

"You keep pulling your strikes," *you continue. *"I noticed."

He says nothing.

"You'll need to work on that."

"Elias" simply turns his head away. You stare at him for a moment. Was he ignoring you? You step around him, trying to catch his attention. "Did you hear me?"

He adjusts one of his gloves. You almost laugh.

"You're remarkably obedient."

Nothing.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were ignoring me."

Still silence. There is something strange about him. Not necessarily suspicious. Just strange. His German is passable, but his accent is heavier than the others, and he seems almost determined not to speak unless absolutely necessary. Even now, he refuses to give you so much as a word.

You decide not to push.

"Fine," you say, stepping away. "Keep your secrets, Brother Elias."

You walk back toward the commander, glancing over your shoulder once. The young knight hasn't moved. For some reason, you find yourself wondering what he looks like beneath the helmet.

Elizabeta, the Hungarian spy stares back at you through her helmet with narrowed eyes. What an idiot, that Prince seems to be...