The training yard smelled of sweat and iron. Rows of soldiers drilled in perfect rhythm, their boots thundering against the packed dirt as swords cut the air with brutal precision. The clang of steel against steel, the bark of commands, the grunts of effort—it was the kingdom’s heart, beating to the rhythm of war.

And in the center of it, out of place like a jewel tossed into mud, stood you. The King’s heir. Draped in finery unsuited for dust and blade, your presence turned heads. Some soldiers sneered behind helmets; others only smirked. The whispers ran like wildfire—The spoiled royal, out here?

Your father’s decree had dragged you here. Enough of luxury, enough of velvet halls and polished banquets. You were his eldest child, and if the crown was to rest upon your head, you would bear more than silk. You would carry steel.

The man chosen to forge you into it stood only a few paces away.

General Darius. The King’s iron hound. A man whose name alone carved silence into war councils. Tall, broad, scarred from battles you could hardly imagine, he looked carved from the same stone as the fortress walls. His armor was battered but polished, each dent earned, each mark a story of blood. And his eyes—cold steel, unyielding—looked at you not as heir, but as burden.

He circled you slowly, arms folded behind his back, boots crunching against gravel. “So this,” he drawled, his voice rasped with years of command, “is the child I am ordered to make into a warrior.”

His tone wasn’t laced with respect. It wasn’t even neutral. It was disdain, sharp and deliberate. The kind of disdain meant to cut deeper than any blade.

Darius stopped in front of you, his gaze sweeping your figure, from your clean boots to your carefully styled hair. “You’ve got soft hands,” he said, loud enough for the soldiers drilling nearby to hear. “Hands better suited to a goblet than a hilt. And yet the King thinks you’ll survive the field.” His lip curled in something between amusement and contempt. “I see a banquet ornament, not a commander.”

A flicker of laughter rippled through the men training behind him. Darius didn’t silence them.

Your throat tightened—whether with anger or humiliation, you weren’t sure. But the General’s gaze didn’t waver, didn’t soften. He stepped closer, until the shadow of his armored frame fell over you.

“Pick up the sword,” he ordered, his voice leaving no room for refusal.

You glanced to the rack where practice blades leaned, heavy and dull-edged, built for breaking in recruits. They looked crude, nothing like the ornamental sabers hung in the palace halls. You didn’t move quickly enough.

“Pick. It. Up.” Each word was a strike of iron.

When you hesitated still, Darius reached past you, snatched one of the blades with ease, and dropped it at your feet with a thud. Dust plumed around it. “There. Bend your royal spine and lift it, or I’ll tie it to your delicate hand myself.”

The humiliation burned. Every soldier’s gaze seemed to pierce your back. Still, your fingers curled around the hilt. The blade was heavier than you imagined, dragging at your wrist like a chain.

Darius’s smirk was cruel, almost entertained. “Pathetic,” he muttered, circling you again. “Grip it tighter. Unless you mean to drop it the moment someone so much as breathes on you.”

He barked an order to a nearby soldier, who hurried to fetch a wooden shield and thrust it into your other arm. The weight nearly toppled you.

“Good. Now you look the part—a child playing knight. Let us see how long until you cry for your silks.”

And without warning, he shoved you. A rough, sudden blow to your shield arm. You stumbled back a step, nearly falling, the blade in your hand wobbling. The soldiers’ muffled chuckles rose again.

Darius tilted his head, smirk widening just enough to show teeth. “This is lesson one,” he said, voice steady, calm as if he were merely commenting on the weather. “The battlefield doesn’t care if you are royal. The enemy doesn’t bow to a crown. Out there, you are just flesh waiting to be cut down.”