Have you any idea how… difficult it is to communicate when no one knows what you really are? There’s always this pressure to fit into whatever shape their weak, foolish minds think they can see. They don’t see you, only a silhouette, a shadow on the wall, and think they know the depths of you. Layer on top of that the challenge of being unable to explain it to them? It’s enough to drive one to madness…

  Targrin wasn’t a frequent dreamer: he was focused too deeply on the realm of the waking mind during the day to have space for flights of fancy at night. Tonight, though… he dreamed. He dreamed of a cage of stone, pressing in on him. He dreamed of the euphoria of a good stretch after a challenging exercise routine. He dreamed of a body that burned from every wound and injury he’d ever had.

  It wasn’t really a nightmare, but it was unnerving. When he awoke, sun creeping through the window, it wasn’t in a cold sweat. He didn’t feel his heart thumping viciously. He was just… suddenly awake, and felt slightly unsettled. That was all. The dream faded but did not disappear entirely, like the few times he could recall waking after a dream-filled sleep before. It lingered.

  “Hmm…” He said, frowned, then cast his eyes around for something else to think about.

  He’d seen this room briefly in his exploration yesterday, but had not known it was Eadrin’s. There was a shelf with a few books on it, a comfortable bed with far more blankets and pillows than seemed reasonable. Sitting in a chair under the window were two stuffed toys: a bird of some kind, but with a lion’s head, and a round, striped dog. There was a desk near the chair, and both windows, on the same wall, had thick, heavy curtains drawn across them. The light was coming through a slight gap. There was an iron-banded chest at the foot of the bed, and two wardrobes pressed to the wall opposite the bed.

  Targrin climbed out of the bed and winced, slightly sore from yesterday’s exercise. His impromptu library workout had stressed him a bit more than intended. This body was weak, and resolve burned at his core to remedy that as soon as he could. In fact…

  ~

  The knock at the door came about thirty minutes after Targrin had awoken, and the soft voice of one of the servants called through the door.

  “Master Eadrin, it’s Diah. May I come in?”

  “Fine!”

  Diah, a plump woman in her mid thirties with ginger hair, opened the door and stepped inside, holding a basket with some laundry piled inside it.

  She found Targrin dressed in the same clothes he’d gone to bed in: the clothes he’d worn down to dinner. She saw no nightclothes, at least. He was also working out again. He’d pulled the chair around to the center of the room, and had his palms on the seat, behind his back, feet stretched out in front on the ground. He was doing dips, lowering himself down and sweating with the exertion already.

  “Uh. Master? What are you-”

  “I’m exercising. What do you want?” Targrin’s curt response was breathless, but he managed to throw a bit of imperiousness into it all the same.

  Diah pouted, hip cocked and basket balanced on it.

  “I’m here to collect your washing, sirrah. But I don’t see it anywhere. Where are your bedclothes, and yesterday’s evening wear?”

  “I’m wearing it. Come back in half an hour and I’ll have your laundry.”

  The dismissal was a shock and she stepped back, nodded, and turned to leave.

  ~

  When she returned, Targrin had finished his workout, cleaned himself in a nearby washroom, changed into fresh clothes he’d found in one of the wardrobes, and left everything in a pile on the chair.

  Voraciously, he ate breakfast, though he’d apparently missed the morning routine of breakfast together. He ate alone (which he preferred immensely) and requested an extra helping of bacon and eggs, and less bread. He was halfway through his second helping when Wulfric barged in, sweaty and red-faced, and spouted an admonishment:

  “Cenric and I been waiting ten minutes Eadrin! Come on!”

  Targrin snarled, swept the remaining food into a cloth napkin, and hustled after Wulfric, finishing his breakfast on the way.

  ~

  Targrin and Wulfric reached the stable behind the copse of trees to the south of the manor after a minute-long jog. When they reached their, Targrin was ashamed at the stitch in his side, and tucked his forearms atop his head, breathing deep to try and assuage the agitation.

  “You’re late, Eadrin.” Cenric’s gruff voice called out from the shade of the stable itself. He stepped into the mid-morning sunlight, arms crossed.

  Targrin chose to not reply. He just breathed, eyes partially shut as the warm sun drenched his freckled face.

  Cenric frowned, and reached back behind him. He pulled two wooden swords from the barrel next to him and tossed them at the boys. Wulfric snatched his, stumbling back and curling his arms to his chest around it. Targrin, however, snapped his eyes open. He stepped back with one foot, turned his body sideways, and swung his arm. He smacked the weapon with his forearm, knocking it away and onto the ground.

  “You’re supposed to catch it, Ed!” Wulfric laughed.

  “I didn’t want to,” Targrin snapped back, before he bent to pick up the practice weapon. He gave it a few easy swings, reflexively moving it about. It was long, thin, and a little flexible. It wasn’t a longsword, nor meant to approximate one. The handle was too short. He then noticed both Cenric and Wulfric were staring at him.

  “What?”

  “Are you having a laugh, Eadrin?” Cenric said, stepping forward a bit. “You’re late, and now you’re playing about with your off-hand?”

  “Hm?” Targrin looked at his right hand, curled around the handle of the wooden sword. “My off-hand? What-”

  Lucian’s furrowed brows as he set to work on his test. Elva’s eyes, staring at his hands as he ate at dinner last night. Wulfric’s confused lip quirk and Cenric’s keen, inquisitive stare.

  Crap, Eadrin was left-handed!

  Sweat beaded along Targrin’s brow. Awkwardly, he switched hands, squeezed the grip of the sword, and mentally kicked himself again. Of course, Eadrin had more callous than blister on his left hand: he’d been using it more often in training! He shifted into a fighting stance, duplicating Wulfric’s: left foot forward instead of his right, left hand and his sword held out in front, right hand hovering around the center of his chest.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Better. Now, we’ll start with some basic point-accuracy drills. One step in, thrust. Begin.”

  ~

  Targrin only made it about two minutes before he switched back to his right hand. Cenric started to admonish him, but Targrin ignored him, and let his more sure steps and sharp jabs speak for himself. Cenric settled, watched, and waited.

  For about five minutes, they ran through this drill. Step, thrust, reset. Step, thrust, reset. Then they shifted to different strike angles, added in blocks, over and over. After a half dozen drills like this, ramping up in complexity, they took a break for some water, and Cenric had them drag out the training dummy. The wooden approximation of a grown man held a shield and a lengthy stick to serve as a weapon of some sort. They practiced on that, making actual contact with the drills they’d been training for about half an hour more.

  Then, they practiced the drills with each other. It was a simple exercise: Wulfric would strike, Targrin would move through the appropriate defense and strike combo, making light contact against the older boy’s body. Then Wulfric would practice the technique with Cenric.

  It was repetitive, consistent, and strained Eadrin’s body to its limits. Targrin was out of breath quickly, and struggled to push through it. His limbs shook with exhaustion after almost two hours of continuous, constant movement. His workout in the morning had also left him a bit drained going into this…

  It felt so good to train, though. To feel that burn, that strain. It was humiliating knowing how much more he could have been doing if he had his old body. He’d have buried Cenric in an instant. The man was dangerous, Targrin could tell with the easy way he maneuvered when serving as Wulfric’s target, but Targrin had faced far worse foes before. Still, it was exhilarating, and when Wulfric dropped down next to Targrin, elbowed him, and said “you’re pushing it hard, little brother,” Targrin didn’t shove himself away. Instead, Targrin grinned, swept some of his hair off his forehead, and flopped backwards onto the ground.

  “Just… trying to… catch up.”

  “Ha! I’ve been at this for three years, Ed. Cenric says I’ve got the makings of a proper Vanguard.”

  “Hm... Give me a month, Wulfric… you’ll see… what I… can do…”

  “Why wait, Eadrin?” Cenric called. “Up, both of you. We’ll finish with a run around the grounds.”

  Wulfric groaned, stood, and turned to hold a hand out to Targrin. Targrin stared, shrugged, and reached up, clasping forearms with his older brother. Wuflric hauled the boy up to his feet, and the two set off. Cenric followed, watching them carefully…

  ~

  Targrin threw up. He refused to slow down, matching Wulfric step for step, and he got a little too into it. His extra breakfast, his exertion, it was too much, and he pushed too far. Wulfric and Cenric, however, didn’t mock him. Instead, Cenric’s mouth quirked almost a degree into a smile, and Wulfric offered him a handkerchief to wipe his face with.

  “Usually you give up and cry,” Wulfric said. “You’re growing up, Ed.” There was pride there. Pride because Targrin had been willing to push himself until he felt sick. What weak, frustrating people were these?

  And why didn’t he hate it?

  ~

  Morning workout. Breakfast. Training with Cenric and Wulfric, and a new person older than Wulfric, a soldier apprenticed to Cenric. Lunch. Bath. Lessons. Dinner. Sleep.

  It continued in this fashion for eight days. Targrin learned the names of the servants, the guards. He learned that the servants handled the estate when Eadrin’s parents were away. They were at the capital for some… counsel of some kind. Something to do with hostilities with a foreign nation?

  Each day he learned more, but each day he got more frustrated at the inability to ask more direct questions. On top of that, he felt… odd. He didn’t like how he felt. He didn’t like feeling at all, really.

  He was lonely. There was no one here that he… knew. Not really. No one knew him. The only time he felt even the slightest bit less alone was when he was training with Wulfric and Cenric. That was familiar, at least. It felt good to exercise, to push himself physically, to try and regain some of his old prowess, but above all, it was like before.

  In war, soldiers spent a lot of time traveling and training together. A war could go on for a year, and only have a few battles, months apart, that lasted an hour at most. Targrin had spent his entire life bouncing between wars. Huge swaths of his existence was spent alongside soldiers staving off boredom with exercise, gambling, and sparring.

  He missed it. He bit back comment after comment, storming off rather than shouting down anyone who frustrated him, because what he was really frustrated with was how much he just wanted one person to call him by his actual name, to clap a mug of something strong into his hand, and to ask him to talk about that campaign in the Caruvian Jungle.

  It was after one such furious retreat from a social interaction, this time with Wulfric, that he heard them. Raised voices, agitated tones.

  The name “Eadrin.”

  Targrin froze. His blood ran cold, and he tilted his head, straining to hear more, but he couldn’t. Moving quietly, he slipped against a wall and walked where the floor boards had more support. Less likely to creak there.

  He moved up, towards the sound, and found a slightly-cracked door that led to Cenric’s room.

  “It is not natural, Lucian. Something is wrong with that boy.” Cenric’s voice.

  “What do you want me to do about it, exactly?” Lucian’s voice was louder, higher, and it carried a bit more. He was used to projecting indoors, while Cenric was an out-door yeller. Inside, he was civil and reserved.

  “Find out what happened to him. I know you’ve got a touch of the arcane about you. Use it. Peer into his mind.”

  “Why? Because he talks strangely and he’s suddenly scoring better in some of his lessons?”

  “No. Because he knows things he shouldn’t.”

  “You’ve been teaching him for months, and he’s been watching Wulfric for years. His father’s shown him plenty as well. You-”

  “Not like this. He moves different. He’s not… he’s not trying things out. He… I…”

  “Cenric, relax. I can tell you’re agitated. Just… tell me what’s bothering you.”

  Cenric took a few deep breaths, and sat in a chair: Targrin could hear it shift, the leather straining.

  “He isn’t growing into it. He hasn’t practiced in secret. He… he’s relearning.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I… had this soldier. Good man. He took an axe to the back. He couldn’t control anything from here down.” Cenric gestured at his navel. “Couldn’t walk, couldn’t hold in his piss or shit. None of it. Miserable future for the old boy.”

  “We brought him with us, of course. Had to get him home, but it took us a month. Legs wasted away to nothing. Then we bumped into an herbalist troupe, and one of them had a bit of magic about her too. She reached in, stitched his spine back together, and the man could move again.”

  “But?”

  “It took time. He had to relearn how to walk. How to move. How to keep himself from pissing his pants. Once he was up on his feet, I could see how he moved. He wasn’t learning for the first time. He was relearning. Reteaching himself. Eadrin’s face… its like his. He knows what he can do, he just has to get his body to cooperate. When he can’t, he isn’t frustrated because he’s a child who lost a sparring match to his big brother. He’s frustrated because he knows he could have beat Wulfric, if his arms would cooperate properly.”

  “That sounds insane, Cenric.” Lucian’s voice, though, was low and thoughtful.

  “You don’t think it’s insane. You’ve seen how he talks. How he moves. Watching and listening. He’s always sneaking about and-”

  The door pulled shut with a click, and Targrin’s eyes snapped up to the soft, pale hand holding the knob. They traced along the arm, a shoulder, and up to a face.

  Elva. She was staring at the boy, eyes bright, burning with something strange and-

  They were glowing. Elva’s eyes were not reflecting candlelight nor sunlight from the windows, but gleaming with their own power.

  “Who are you?” She snarled, leaning down into the eavesdropping boy’s face…