Chapter 24—With Walls like These …

By the eleventh day, Raiden’s body no longer felt like his own.

He rose each morning with bruises already throbbing and bones aching like rusted hinges, only to submit himself to more. Tadari drove him through footwork and blade control until the world blurred. Grenald alternated in, his frost-laced strikes teaching precision in pain. Their rhythms differed—Tadari struck like hammer to iron, Grenald like ice splintering under pressure—but both left Raiden gasping, his tunic drenched, his arms trembling long before the day was done.

The courtyard bore witness to it all. A walled square of stone, roofless to the sky, benches and racks along its edge for weapons and shields, a great storeroom looming beside it to hold whatever tools the Adepts needed. Every clang of steel, every grunt of exertion echoed off the walls until the sound felt carved into the stone itself.

Randall complained endlessly from the bench. “If he doesn’t break first, I’ll break from watching.”

Ophelin, walking stick propped across her knees, never looked away. Her jaw clenched with every blow Raiden failed to deflect. Sometimes her voice snapped out, sharp with impatience. “Your center’s loose. Fix it.” “Step right, or you’ll eat steel.” It wasn’t enough, not to her, but it was all she could give.

On the thirteenth day, the pattern shifted.

The sun encroached at midday, and with it came Einfried Zoven, his amber shield glinting. Beside him strode three armored figures, knights bearing the crest of Zoven—Raiden recognized none of them, but their bearing told enough. These were not boys at training. These were soldiers sharpened by years of battle.

“Stand,” Einfried ordered, his voice carrying across the courtyard like a drumbeat.

Raiden, already soaked from the morning’s spar, straightened with difficulty. He bowed, not out of formality but because the weight of Einfried’s gaze demanded it.

“These are my best in the Academy,” Einfried said. “Soren—sword and shield. Kalden—halberd. Veyra—mace and tower shield. They will test you. Do not think of victory. Think only of survival.”

Raiden swallowed hard. His arms ached just lifting his blade again, but he nodded.

The first clash came with Soren. The knight’s shield rammed forward before Raiden could draw breath, slamming into his chest and throwing him back two paces. The sword followed, quick as lightning. Raiden barely parried, the shock numbing his wrist.

Grenald called from the sideline. “Don’t match him head-on. Angles, Raiden!”

Raiden obeyed, sidestepping, forcing his feet to move as Tadari had drilled. The next swing missed his ribs by inches. His counterstrike scraped harmlessly against the knight’s shield, but at least it landed. Progress, however small.

Then came Kalden, his halberd a blur of wood and steel. The weapon whistled through the air, its reach far beyond Raiden’s. He ducked once, twice, his breath ragged. Tadari’s drills screamed in his memory—pivot, keep inside the arc, strike at the shaft. He darted in and struck, his blade biting against the haft. The weapon shuddered, but Kalden only smiled and swept again, knocking Raiden sprawling.

Randall groaned. “He’s not a knight, he’s firewood.”

Ophelin’s stick slammed against the bench. “Shut it.”

The third bout was worse. Veyra’s mace hammered down with bone-rattling force, her tower shield pressing like a wall. Raiden couldn’t find a gap. Every strike he made glanced off the steel or was crushed beneath the mace’s weight. By the end, his arms hung limp, his chest heaving, and his legs shook like reeds in stormwind.

But when the three knights drew back, Einfried’s gaze was different. He had not expected victory. He had expected collapse. And Raiden still stood.

“Not hopeless,” Einfried said quietly. “Not yet.”

The words carried weight Raiden couldn’t name.

Two days later, the tests changed again.

The afternoon sun beat down, turning the courtyard into a furnace. Raiden arrived expecting another round with the knights. Instead, Einfried stood in the center with two wooden shields strapped thick with hemp rope, their faces battered from long use.

“Draw your blade,” Einfried ordered.

Raiden obeyed.

Einfried lifted both shields, one before the other. “Strike.”

Raiden blinked. “What—”

“Strike,” Einfried repeated.

Raiden swung, the blade smacking against the hemp with a dull thud. Einfried didn’t budge.

“Again.”

He struck again. And again. The sound echoed, wood on wood, his arms growing heavier with each blow. Sweat slicked his grip. His shoulders screamed. Still Einfried stood like a statue, unmoving behind the shields.

“Harder,” Einfried said. “If this were Garid’s flesh, he would laugh.”

Raiden gritted his teeth, forcing strength into his strikes. The thuds grew louder, but the shields absorbed all. His chest heaved. His legs trembled. Still Einfried demanded more.

“Your blade carries no weight. You cannot fell him like this. Again.”

By the time the sun dipped, Raiden could barely lift his sword. His hands bled from the grip. His lungs burned. He had struck until his vision blurred, until every swing felt like tearing sinew from bone. And still Einfried looked dissatisfied.

At last, the shields lowered. “Enough,” Einfried said. His voice was calm, but disappointment shadowed it. “You lack the strength for a decisive strike. You may have endurance, perhaps enough to drag the fight, but unless you learn patience, you’ll spend yourself long before he falls.”

Raiden sagged to his knees, the words cutting deeper than any blade.

Ophelin stepped forward, her stick tapping the stone. “He’s lasted through Tadari. Through Grenald. Through your knights. Isn’t that worth something?”

Einfried looked at her, then back at Raiden. His expression softened, if only slightly. “It is worth surviving. But survival is not enough in a Court Duel.” He turned away. “Continue as before. Learn what you can. If you cannot find strength, find endurance. Endure until the moment comes to strike. Pray you recognize it.”

With that, he left, his knights following.

The courtyard was silent in their wake, save for Raiden’s ragged breathing.

Randall finally spoke. “I hate him.”

Tadari shook his head. “No. He’s right.”

Raiden stared down at his bloodied hands, the sword lying useless across his knees. Every muscle in his body screamed to stop. But beneath the ache, beneath the exhaustion, something else stirred—something that refused to yield.

He thought of Garid’s smirk in the Assembly. Of Falden’s voice, smooth and merciless. Of the Archmagister’s decree: one month hence.

Strength or not, he would endure. He had no choice.

And as the shadows lengthened across the courtyard, he clenched his fists until the pain steadied him.