The days after Darius's words were a blur. Aric found it hard to focus on anything, to find the strength to move forward. His mind kept returning to the same thoughts, the same fears that had always plagued him. How could he become something more when he had always been so weak? How could he stand up when the world had only ever seen him as a failure?
The courtyard had become his battleground, but not for the reasons it once had been. It was no longer just a place of humiliation; it had become a place where he forced himself to confront his limitations. Each morning, Aric would go out there, sword in hand, trying to make sense of the conflicting emotions swirling inside him. He would attempt a swing, only for the blade to feel heavier than ever, only to stumble as his grip faltered. The shaking in his hands hadn't stopped. But somehow, he kept trying.
But it wasn't enough. Every swing felt hollow. Every strike felt wrong. Aric was still stuck in that space, trapped between his past failures and the man he wished to become.
One morning, as the sun struggled to break through the overcast sky, Aric found himself once again standing in the courtyard, his sword drawn, staring at the target across from him. The wind was cold, biting into his skin, but he barely felt it. His body had become numb to everything. Numb to the constant failure, the judgment, the whispers.
His eyes traced the outline of the target. He wasn't sure what he was aiming for anymore. He wasn't sure if there was even a point. But as his breath came in shaky bursts, something inside him shifted—a small, fragile crack in the wall of self-doubt. Maybe it was the echo of Darius's words. Maybe it was the weight of the countless failures. But something told him to keep moving forward.
He swung the sword again.
The blade cut through the air with a harsh swish. He missed the target entirely, and the sword went flying from his hands, skidding across the stones.
"Pathetic."
The voice, low and mocking, cut through the air like a knife. Aric's heart stopped. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
Jorran.
The large figure of Jorran stood at the edge of the courtyard, his arms crossed, the usual sneer playing at the corners of his lips. He looked amused, like he was watching a child try and fail to do something far beyond their capabilities.
"What's wrong, Aric?" Jorran called out, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Did you forget how to swing a sword, or were you just hoping the target would come to you?"
Aric's fists clenched, his body stiffening at the insult. He wanted to fight back. He wanted to scream, to tell Jorran that he didn't need this—that he didn't need to prove himself to someone like him. But the words wouldn't come. He just stood there, frozen, humiliated all over again.
Jorran stepped closer, his heavy boots thudding against the stone as he moved toward him. "You know," Jorran continued, his voice low and mocking, "I don't know why they keep you around. Maybe it's because you're good at being a joke. Hell, you can't even fight your own battles. How are you supposed to protect anyone?"
Aric's vision blurred, the sting of Jorran's words cutting deeper than he had anticipated. He could feel the anger building inside him, but it wasn't just anger—it was despair. He wanted to prove himself, to show Jorran that he wasn't a joke. But he didn't know how.
For a moment, he thought he might break. He thought he might collapse under the weight of his own failure. But then—something flickered.
A spark.
A tiny, fragile flicker of something inside him that refused to let Jorran win. He didn't know where it came from, but it was enough. It was enough to make him take a step forward, even though his legs felt weak, even though his heart was racing in his chest.
"Shut up," Aric said, his voice shaking, but it was still a challenge. "I'm not done yet."
Jorran smirked, taking a step back. "Oh, really? I'd love to see that."
Aric's hands trembled as he reached for his sword. He wasn't sure what he was doing, or if he could even pull it off. But there was something in his chest—a burning, painful heat—that refused to let him give up. He gripped the hilt, lifting the sword slowly, forcing the trembling in his hands to settle. It was shaky, it was uncertain, but he held it. He stood there, trying to steady his breath.
Jorran's smirk faded slightly as he sized Aric up. "This is going to be good," he muttered, his hand already reaching for his own sword.
"Enough." The sharp command rang through the air, cutting through the tension.
Both Aric and Jorran froze, their attention turning toward the entrance of the courtyard. The figure that appeared in the doorway was tall, cloaked in black, with eyes that glinted like steel. It was Eldric—the captain of the keep's forces. He was a legend among the men, the one warrior who seemed to be beyond any flaws. His gaze locked on Jorran first, and the younger man faltered, stepping back.
"You want to spar with the boy, Jorran?" Eldric's voice was cold, but there was an edge to it—like the warning before a storm. "You think this is the way to teach him something? Is this the way you think you'll prove something about yourself?"
Jorran's bravado faltered slightly, but he was quick to recover, his pride flaring up once again. "I was just showing him where he belongs. He's weak, Captain. He can't even swing a sword properly. He's a disgrace."
Eldric's eyes narrowed, and then he turned his attention to Aric, his gaze softening just enough to show he wasn't about to condone this behavior.
"You," Eldric said, his voice low but not unkind, "pick up your sword. Don't listen to him. You aren't defined by his words."
Aric's hands were shaking as he bent down to retrieve the sword. He could feel the weight of it, the cold metal in his hands, but this time, something felt different. It wasn't the fear. It wasn't the shame. It was something else—something that he couldn't quite place but felt within him.
"I'm not weak," Aric whispered to himself.
And though his stance was shaky, though his sword felt heavy, he raised it again—determined. Not for Jorran, not for anyone else. For himself.