Zak sat on the edge of his bed long after the lunch bell had faded. He hadn’t touched his stew. The smell of barley and fat still clung to him, sour in the back of his throat. The other three would be back in the yard by now, blades out, sweat running, Master Maxwell shouting about form and footwork.

  He stared at his sword—the same wooden one he’d been swinging for what felt like years. The grain had smoothed under his palms, worn by every strike that had failed to mean anything. His reflection, faint in the dull varnish, looked like a boy trying to pretend at being a man. It was getting harder to pretend.

  He’d told himself for months that being slow to learn wasn’t the same as being hopeless. That patience and humor and grit would carry him through where talent didn’t. But each time Toby or Reece brushed against that impossible current—that flash of strength, that speed born of something deeper—the pit in Zak’s stomach grew.

  He hadn’t felt it. Not once. Not even a whisper. He’d stopped joking about it aloud. The laughter had turned inward.

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and pressed his palms over his face. The room was too clean. Someone had swept the hearth earlier; the air smelled faintly of soap. His chest hurt in that way that wasn’t pain but pressure—as if something inside was demanding to be let out or left behind.

  You’re the oldest, he thought. You should be leading them. Not slowing them down.

  The words stuck, jagged and true. He sat with them until the thought turned solid: he didn’t deserve to be here. Not beside Kay. Not beside Toby, whose anger had turned to something bright. Not beside Reece, who’d finally found the spark his father died chasing.

  He’d had his chance. And if Sire Ray expected results—if the Lord needed proof—then better Zak say it first before someone else did. He rose. His legs felt hollow but moved anyway. He left the wooden sword where it leaned and stepped into the corridor.

  The hallways of the keep were quieter this hour, most of the garrison outside. The banners hung motionless, air heavy with cold. He walked them on memory, boots scuffing stone, passing servants who dipped their heads but said nothing.

  Sire Ray’s quarters were open, lamplight spilling like honey onto the floor. He was there, the Lord of Highmarsh, standing by the fire with one hand resting on a map table and the other on his hip. Even in the simple light of the chamber, he looked every bit what Zak imagined a knight should be: composed, unmovable, exact.

  Zak stopped at the threshold and hesitated. For a moment, he considered turning around, but Sire Ray’s head lifted slightly, as if sensing doubt itself.

  “Zak,” Sire Ray said. “You’ve the look of a man deciding between courage and foolishness. Best come in before you choose wrong.”

  Zak swallowed hard and stepped inside. “My lord.”

  Sire Ray turned fully toward him. His eyes were sharp, but there was no edge in them. “You’re meant to be at practice.”

  “I know, my lord.”

  “And yet you’re here.”

  “Yes.” He stood straighter. “Because I think… I think I shouldn’t be.”

  Sire Ray raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t be what?”

  “Here.” The word came out small. “In the keep. As your squire. As anyone’s squire.”

  The silence that followed was the worst kind—the thoughtful kind. Sire Ray neither frowned nor moved. He let the words hang between them like smoke that had to be endured.

  “Go on,” he said finally.

  Zak’s throat worked. “I haven’t improved. Not like the others. I’ve had longer, more chances, and I’ve got nothing to show. Toby and Reece have touched the Art, even Kay’s—” He stopped, because saying Kay’s name like that felt like disloyalty. “They’re all moving forward. I’m not. I’m just… here, eating your food, using up your air.”

  He forced himself to meet the Lord’s eyes. “You shouldn’t waste your time or coin on someone who can’t keep up.”

  Sire Ray studied him in silence—that steady, unreadable gaze that saw through excuses and pride alike.

  “You think that’s what I value?” he asked quietly.

  “I think I’ve failed to earn the place you gave me.”

  Sire Ray stepped closer, folding his arms. “And what place do you think that is?”

  Zak blinked. “A squire, my lord. A student. A sword in training.”

  Sire Ray’s mouth quirked, faint as the memory of a smile. “You mistake the steel for the man, Zak. A squire is not a blade to be forged. He’s the smith learning what temper means.”

  Zak didn’t answer. His jaw worked, but no sound came. He’d expected anger, or dismissal, not this calm dissection.

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  Sire Ray’s tone softened. “Tell me something. Why did you agree to serve here in the first place?”

  Zak’s eyes dropped to his boots. “Because… because you asked me to.”

  “Not quite. I offered you the chance. You chose it. Why?”

  The memory came unbidden—rain in the alley, dogs snarling, Kay too small to swing the stick he held. Zak had stood between him and the teeth because no one else had. He hadn’t thought, hadn’t planned. He’d just moved.

  “Because I wanted to matter,” he said quietly. “To someone. To something.”

  Sire Ray’s voice gentled even further. “And now you believe you do not.”

  He nodded, unable to say more. His eyes burned.

  The Lord turned toward the window, hands clasped behind his back. “If I relieved you of duty today,” he said, “what would you do?”

  The question caught Zak off guard. “Do, my lord?”

  “Yes. If I told you to go home to your weaver’s loom and live quietly, what then?”

  Zak opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn’t have an answer. There wasn’t a home left that fit him anymore. The thought twisted in his gut.

  Sire Ray looked over his shoulder, not unkindly. “That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? You’ve outgrown where you came from, and haven’t yet grown into where you’re going. That’s not failure, Zak. That’s the middle of the climb.”

  Zak shook his head. “Feels like falling.”

  Sire Ray exhaled through his nose. “Falling only matters if you stay down.”

  Before Zak could answer, he heard a scuffle and felt a shadow raise behind him.

  “Ah!” Maxwell’s voice carried before his boots did. “I knew this is where you’d run off to.”

  Kay followed right behind, cheeks flushed from the cold, still half in his training gear. “Zak! We’ve been looking everywhere. You’re missing drills again!”

  Zak stepped back, startled. “I—”

  Kay didn’t let him finish. “Save it. You’re wrong.”

  That froze everyone, including Sire Ray. Kay strode forward, eyes fierce, voice trembling with frustration that had nowhere else to go.

  “You’re wrong,” Kay repeated, standing before him. “Loyalty isn’t about how strong your arm is or whether you can make stones crack with the Art. It’s about showing up. About staying. You’ve always been the first to laugh when we failed, the first to stand beside me when I needed it. That counts. It counts more than magic ever could.”

  Zak tried to speak, but Kay’s glare silenced him. “You don’t get to decide you’re worthless. That’s not how this works.”

  Zak swallowed, realizing he had been letting himself choose the easy kind of defeat.

  Maxwell crossed his arms, nodding slightly. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, though I’d have used fewer words.” He moved closer, boots thudding against the flagstones.

  “Listen, boy,” Maxwell said. “You think you’re the first squire to feel behind? Half the men in this keep wore wooden swords longer than they care to admit. Most of them never felt a whisper of the Art. You know where they are now? Out on the walls, keeping this place breathing. They don’t need speed or power—they need loyalty, heart, and stubbornness. And you’ve got those by the cartload.”

  Zak’s throat tightened, words caught somewhere between disbelief and wanting to believe.

  “But—”

  “No,” Maxwell said sharply. “You don’t ‘but’ me, lad. You’re doing fine. Better than fine. You show up, you help the others, and you laugh when half the castle’s too proud to. That’s worth more than you realize.”

  He paused, then softened his tone. “Failure’s part of growing into a man. Every stumble teaches you where your feet are. Quitting, though—” He tapped Zak’s chest with one gloved finger. “Quitting’s what kills the soul before it has the chance to stand tall.”

  Zak swallowed again, as the words pressed into him, uncomfortably close to the truth. Something that had been rusted shut for weeks creaked open.

  Kay stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You saved me once, remember? You were twelve, I was ten. You didn’t have a sword or training then either. You just stood between me and what scared me. That’s who you are, Zak. Don’t forget it.”

  Zak blinked hard. The world blurred. He tried to laugh it off, but it came out as a choked sound halfway to a sob. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm and failed to stop the tears anyway.

  Sire Ray said nothing, but there was a faint, approving curve to his mouth—the kind that said more than words ever could. Maxwell clapped Zak once on the shoulder, hard enough to nearly unbalance him.

  “Good. Now that you’ve had your crisis of purpose, it’s time to get back to work.”

  Zak gave a broken laugh. “Now?”

  “Now,” Maxwell said. “The yard’s waiting, and I intend to see if all that emotion improves your footwork.”

  Kay grinned, relief cracking his sternness. “You heard him.”

  Zak sniffed, wiped his face on his sleeve, and managed something like a smile. “Yes, Ser.”

  As they turned toward the door, Sire Ray’s voice followed, low but clear. “Zak.”

  He stopped. “My lord?”

  “Next time you feel unworthy,” Sire Ray said, “remember that a man’s measure isn’t what he can strike down, but what he stands for when he feels small. You stood today—that’s enough.”

  Zak bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.”

  They left together—Kay and Maxwell in front, Zak trailing half a pace behind. The air outside the lord’s chamber felt brighter, lighter somehow, like the cold had decided to spare him for a while.

  By the time they reached the yard, the afternoon light had gone silver. The wind carried the smell of hay and iron. The other squires looked up as they entered, curiosity flickering, but Zak didn’t mind. He picked up a wooden sword and felt the weight settle familiar and right in his grip.

  “Ready?” Maxwell asked.

  Zak nodded. “More than before.”

  He took his place in the line, heart thudding steady, and when Maxwell barked the first command, he moved—not faster, not stronger, but surer. The doubts were still there, somewhere deep, but they no longer owned him. And as the rhythm of practice took hold, he found something close to peace in the sound of it—wood striking wood, breath meeting breath, purpose reforged one swing at a time.