The sun hadn't yet fully risen when the pale light of dawn began to filter through the bedroom curtains. The air was chilly, and the silence of the mansion was broken only by the rhythmic sound of Damon's breathing.

He slept soundly, his body relaxed on the bed, his face serene—a rare respite after days of exhaustion and relentless training.

But the dreams… those weren't as serene.

A slight smile formed on his lips. The blond murmured incoherent words, his body moving slightly beneath the sheets. In that distant world, the figures of Ester and Aria blended into the haze of his imagination—their smiles, their voices, the subtle touches that seemed more real than they should have been. It was a happy, warm dream, one that left him completely oblivious to the world around him.

Until paradise collapsed.

With a sharp yank, the sheets were ripped off him—and before he could even comprehend what was happening, Damon felt his body slide off the side of the bed and fall backward onto the floor with a dull thud.

"AAAAAH!" The scream was more of rage than pain. "WHAT THE—?!"

He writhed, clutching his back with one hand. The cold of the stone floor seemed to mock him. When he finally looked up, the unmistakable sound of muffled laughter hit him like a blow even crueler than the fall.

There, standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed and a wide smile on his face, was Caerth.

"Good morning, hero," the knight said, clearly enjoying himself. "Dreaming of glory… or something else?"

"I should have known…" Damon growled, struggling to his feet. "Only a wretch like you would dare enter someone's room like that!"

"Come in?" Caerth raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. "I just knocked. Several times. You were... too busy to hear."

Damon ran a hand over his face, trying to dispel the drowsiness of sleep and the embarrassment that gripped him. "You're the kind of man who has no self-respect, aren't you?"

"Self-respect?" Caerth gave a slight nasal laugh. "I do. I just don't have the patience for lazybones."

Damon snorted, still massaging his lower back. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"I do. And that's exactly why I'm here." The veteran slapped him lightly on the shoulder, hard enough to hurt. "If you want to stay alive, you need to get up before the sun. Knights don't sleep until noon."

"I didn't even see the sun rise!" the blond protested, pointing to the window.

"Then see now." Caerth turned and yanked the curtains shut, letting the gray morning light flood the room. "Get dressed. Let's train."

Damon closed his eyes and muttered something that, thankfully, the veteran couldn't quite understand.

"And dress properly this time," Caerth added with a mocking look. "Last time, I nearly froze just looking at the way you were sweating."

"You have problems," Damon replied, already dragging himself to the closet.

"No. I have plenty of time and an obligation to make you into someone worthwhile." The knight walked to the door and opened it. "Ten minutes. If you're late, I'll come back and wake you again."

"If you do, I swear—"

"Will you defeat me?" Caerth smiled, his gaze glinting with irony. "You can barely hit me awake, let alone asleep."

Damon remained silent, only taking a deep breath to suppress the urge to throw something at him. Caerth seemed to sense his frustration and gave a light, sincere chuckle this time—a rare sound, one that carried an almost… human quality.

"Hurry up, boy," he said before leaving. "Dreams won't make you stronger."

The door closed, and the room fell silent again, except for the distant sound of the veteran's laughter echoing down the hallway.

Damon ran his hands over his face and murmured,

"I'll get back at you someday."

But deep down, even though he was irritated, he couldn't help the faint smile that escaped him as he remembered Caerth's expression—that kind of genuine laugh the man only showed when he saw someone trying to get up, even after falling.

He sighed, stood, and began to prepare himself. If there was one thing he'd learned since meeting that insufferable knight… it was that too much sleep was costly.

Damon dressed in silence, still muttering curses as he buckled the light armor Elizabeth had given him. The worn leather creaked with every movement, and the familiar weight of the spear leaning against the wall seemed to watch him, like a stubborn reminder of who he was—or thought he was.

He sighed. The morning chill hit him as soon as he opened the door. The hallway was quiet, lit by a faint orange light filtering through the narrow windows. Outside, the wind sliced ​​through the air like a blade, bringing with it the metallic smell of training and damp earth.

When he reached the main courtyard, Caerth was already there.

The veteran was waiting for him in the center of the grounds, where frost still covered the ground in small silvery streaks. His black cloak fluttered in the wind, and his face was… different. There was none of the mocking humor from before—just a cold, assessing expression.

Damon approached, lifting his spear over his shoulder. "I'm ready."

Caerth slowly turned his gaze to him, looking him up and down. The silence stretched for long seconds, until the man frowned.

"That thing," he said, nodding toward the weapon. "Leave it there."

Damon blinked, confused. "What?"

"The spear. Let go."

"Why?" he asked, gripping it more firmly. "I've always used spears. It's what makes me most comfortable."

Caerth took a step forward, the sound of his boots sinking into the icy earth.

"Comfortable?" he repeated, as if tasting the word in his mouth. "You think you'll survive because something is comfortable?"

Damon opened his mouth to respond, but Caerth's gaze silenced him. There was something there—an authority that didn't need to be imposed by shouting.

The veteran circled him slowly, like a predator assessing prey.

"Look at yourself," he said, his tone low, almost didactic. "Shoulders too tense. Posture slouched." He lightly touched Damon's arm. "The muscles here"—he pressed his forearm—"are stiff as stone. This is strength misused."

Damon remained still, following the man with only his eyes.

"And the worst part," Caerth continued, taking another step and touching the spear's handle, "is this. You hide behind it."

"I don't hide from anything," the blond replied irritably.

Caerth ignored the reaction. "A spear requires precision and lightness. Distance and rhythm. You have strength, but too much strength. You're heavy, brute." He gestured with his hand. "This weapon wasn't made for someone who fights like a hammer."

"Then what do you want me to do?" Damon retorted, his voice already rising. "Throw away what I've learned just because you think it's useless?"

The veteran stopped in front of him, gray eyes fixed like blades.

"I don't think so. I know." He took a step forward. "The spear is noble, elegant... but you're not." The sentence cut more than any blow. "You fight like someone who's fallen and had to get up alone. That's good. But it also means you've learned to fight the hard way: with anger." Damon clenched his fists, his jaw set.

"And that's why you're going to put down that spear," Caerth pointed to the ground, "and pick up a sword."

"Swords are slow," the blond replied. "They require closeness."

"They require control," Caerth interrupted. "And that's exactly what you don't have. When you get it with something more powerful, even spears will be more powerful. That's why it's best to start with the basics and evolve. To the point of turning the spear's weakness into an advantage, you know what I mean? It's not about abandoning it, but about letting go and learning the right way, to return with the fundamentals and perfect your own style."

Silence fell between them, heavy as the air before a storm. The wind blew, making the veteran's cape flap against his legs. Damon took a deep breath, averting his gaze to the frost-covered ground.

"Do you think you can teach me how to do that?" he murmured.

Caerth crossed his arms. "I don't think so. But I can try to break enough of you until there's something left to learn."

Damon stared at him, and for the first time, he saw no arrogance in that cold gaze—only conviction. A kind of brutal faith, the kind only someone who has lost everything could possess.

He crouched down slowly, thrust his spear into the earth, and took a step back.

"Very well," he said, his voice low and tense. "Lead the way, then."

Caerth turned, walking to the weapons rack in the corner of the courtyard. He picked up two short, single-bladed swords and tossed one to Damon.

The blond caught it with some difficulty; the weight felt strange in his hands.

"Let's begin," the veteran said, wielding his own sword with frightening ease. "And if you try to fight as if you still have a spear… you'll find out what it's like to truly fall."

Damon twisted his wrist, testing the balance of the blade. A chill ran down his spine—partly from the wind, partly from instinct.

Caerth watched him silently, with that analytical gaze that saw much more than it revealed.

On that freezing morning, the first step of a new path began.

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