Honest Contempt

"He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how."

— Friedrich Nietzsche

———

The training grounds lay empty in the grey light before dawn, silent except for the distant murmur of servants beginning their duties in the academy kitchens. Rhys Blackwood stood alone at the center of the worn dirt circle, his breath forming small clouds that vanished into the cold morning air. His calloused hands worked methodically at the leather wrapping around his spear's shaft, unwinding the strips with the care of a priest handling sacred artifacts.

The wood beneath revealed itself gradually. Ash, darkened by years of sweat and grime. A network of hairline cracks scored its surface, a map of countless battles. Rhys ran his thumb along one of the deeper fractures, feeling where the wood had splintered and been painstakingly bound back together. This wasn't merely a weapon. It was his father's legacy, carried from the borderlands where nightmarish creatures stalked the shadows.

He lifted the spear, gauging its weight. The balance felt like an extension of himself, though he couldn't ignore the weapon's increasing fragility. Every training session pushed it closer to its inevitable breaking point. Much like everything else in his world.

Rhys settled into his starting position—not the textbook stance Professor Blackthorne had demonstrated, but the low, defensive posture his father had hammered into him during endless winter nights when goblin war parties threatened their village walls. Left foot forward, weight perfectly distributed, spear angled to allow for thrusting, sweeping, or blocking without telegraphing his next move.

The first form emerged from deep muscle memory. A wide lateral sweep meant to clear multiple attackers, transitioning into a lightning-fast thrust. No unnecessary flourishes, no wasted energy. Each movement served a purpose, crafted by men who understood that real combat wasn't about impressing observers—it was about staying alive.

Sweat trickled down his temples despite the morning chill. The forms demanded everything—perfect balance, impeccable timing, and body awareness that developed when a misstep meant death. When goblins swarmed the village perimeter, there were no second chances. There was only your weapon and the desperate hope that your father's harsh lessons would keep your heart beating long enough to witness another daybreak.

Yet here within the academy, these same movements appeared crude compared to the elegant swordplay favored by noble students. What kept you alive against monsters looked primitive in these civilized halls—just another mark against him in a world that already viewed him as inferior.

Rhys finished the sequence and straightened, his chest heaving. The dining hall bells would sound soon. He rewrapped his spear with meticulous care, each strip positioned exactly where it belonged. The ritual provided comfort, a connection to home and to the weathered man who'd taught him that a weapon's true worth lay in the hands that wielded it.

His walk back took him past areas where early-rising students gathered. Through windows, he glimpsed the other houses—Aurum students in gold-trimmed uniforms, Argent members huddled around books and scrolls. Even the reclusive Vermillion students commanded respect, unlike the perpetual underdogs of House Onyx.

In the dining hall, the aroma of fresh food made his empty stomach twist. Rhys scanned the menu carefully. Hot porridge with honey: fifteen copper pieces. Fresh eggs and bacon: twenty-five. A single roll with butter: eight coppers.

He felt the small leather pouch in his pocket, its meager weight a constant reminder of his situation. Seven silver pieces and some copper. Enough for basic meals for perhaps another week. After that...

"The porridge, please," he said quietly, counting out exact payment. The serving woman slopped the grey mixture into a bowl without looking at him.

Rhys found an empty corner table, where he could observe everything without drawing attention. The porridge tasted bland but filled his stomach. Around him, conversations flowed—complaints about professors, excitement about social gatherings, casual mentions of allowances exceeding his entire term's budget.

"Mind if I sit?"

Seraphina Valois stood beside his table, a massive tome under one arm and her breakfast tray in her other hand. Her dark hair was in a practical braid, and ink stains marked her fingers. He'd noticed her in Theoretical Foundations—how her eyes brightened at complex concepts, her immaculate handwriting.

Rhys didn't look up. "Table's full."

Seraphina glanced at the empty chairs, then back at him. Understanding replaced hope in her expression. "Right. Of course."

She moved away, finding a seat elsewhere. Rhys caught himself watching as she opened her book—Advanced Mana Theory and Practical Applications. Third-year material.

He forced himself to look away. Friendship was a luxury he couldn't afford. People who got close discovered how precarious his situation was, and pity was worse than contempt.

At least contempt was honest.

The day passed in familiar patterns. Combat training under Professor Blackthorne's watchful glare, where Rhys's techniques earned grudging approval mixed with criticism. Theoretical Foundations with the ethereally beautiful Professor Delacroix, where he kept his head down despite knowing many answers. Then History and Politics, where Professor Aldwin droned about treaties and agreements that felt meaningless when you'd watched your father count crossbow bolts to survive goblin raids.

Evening found him in his tiny dormitory room. Through thin walls, he heard Thomlin Ashworth practicing with his masterwork sword that had probably cost more than Rhys's entire village earned in a season. Rhys's spear merely creaked, protesting even gentle handling.

He pulled out the small locket containing his sister's portrait. Elara's face looked back at him—twelve years old, her pale skin marked by mana-degenerative sickness. Blue veins visible beneath translucent skin, shadows under eyes too old for her young face. The artist had captured her smile, but not how her hands shook when she thought no one was looking.

"Still here," he whispered. "Still fighting."

Letters from home brought news both encouraging and terrifying. The treatments were working, but each cost more than his family had seen in a year before his scholarship. The potions, specialized crystals from southern provinces, the rising healer's fees. The academy stipend helped, but wasn't enough. Nothing was ever enough.

He closed the locket and examined his spear in the candlelight. A binding had worked loose during training, and a new crack was forming. Soon he'd need to replace the leather entirely, and eventually the spear would break. The academy wouldn't issue a replacement—commoner scholarship students provided their own equipment or did without.

Ten days at Solamere, and already he felt the walls closing in. His funds dwindling, equipment failing, isolation complete. Nobles looked through him like furniture, other commoners kept their distance, recognizing his desperation.

Rhys blew out his candle and listened to Thomlin's contented breathing through the wall—someone who had never known true hunger or fear. He tried not to think about the calculations that kept him awake—how many meals he could skip, how long his equipment would last, what would happen when the next letter arrived with news he couldn't bear.

Tomorrow would bring another day of pretending he belonged in this place where even servants wore clothes finer than his best. Another day fighting a battle against opponents given every advantage from birth.

But he'd fight anyway. Because surrender meant going home empty-handed. Not while Elara needed him. Not while his father's spear still held together, however precariously.

Not while there was still hope.