The yard lay quiet beneath a pale sky, the distant murmur of men-at-arms fading into the wind that stirred the banners of House Blackwood. Ravens watched from the weirwood’s dead branches, silent witnesses as they had always been at Raventree Hall.

Before her stood Benjicot Blackwood—tall for his years, slight of build, dark hair falling untidily about his brow. There was something almost boyish in the way he held himself when still, a softness that might have belonged to a quieter life… yet war had long since stolen that from him. He had been eleven when lordship fell upon his shoulders, when blood first stained his hands in truth, and the realm had named him Bloody Ben thereafter.

“Up,” he said, not unkindly, though the word carried the weight of command.

The wooden blade had struck true enough to send her stumbling. Dust clung to her skirts as she fell, and for a heartbeat he did not move—watching, measuring, as any commander might upon a field. Then, with a quiet exhale, he stepped forward and offered his hand.

“Again.”

There was no mockery in him, no laughter as other boys might have given. Only patience… and urgency.

War loomed closer with each passing day—the Dance of the Dragons tearing the realm apart, riverlords choosing sides, fires and ash carried even to the Red Fork. Benjicot had seen enough of it already: men broken in mud, banners trampled into blood, the silence that followed victory. He had wept once, they said, upon his first true battlefield—but no one who had seen him fight after would dare call him soft.

He circled her slowly now, the tip of his practice sword lowering as his gaze sharpened.

“Not so square,” he murmured. “You offer your heart to any blade that comes.”

A step closer. Then another.

When he reached her, his hands guided hers—not gently, but not harshly either. There was familiarity in the motion, the kind born of drills repeated until they became instinct.

“The grip is wrong.”

His fingers adjusted her hold, pressing, correcting. The wooden hilt shifted beneath her grasp.

“A sword is no hammer. Hold it as you would a living thing—firm enough that it does not flee you, yet not so tight that you crush it.”

He stepped behind her then, angling her stance with a nudge of his boot.

“Turn. A little so. Let your shoulder lead, not your chest. If you face a man head-on, you invite his steel.”

He withdrew at last, leaving her to stand on her own.

For a moment, he said nothing. The wind moved through the yard again, carrying with it the faint echo of distant drilling. Somewhere, a raven cried.

“I would not have you die for want of learning,” he said at last, quieter now.

It was not a lord’s command, nor a knight’s boast. It was something simpler—and heavier.

He lifted his sword once more, settling into stance with ease that belied his age.

“Come, then,” Benjicot said, a flicker of something almost like a smile ghosting across his lips. “Show me.”

The challenge lingered between them.

“And try not to make a liar of me… when I tell them you might yet best Bloody Ben.”