The clash of steel against steel rang through the training yard as morning frost crunched beneath Edric's boots. At seven years old, his body had finally developed enough coordination to begin formal weapons training—a moment he had anticipated with both eagerness and frustration.
Two years had passed since Lord Hakon's visit. Two years of careful planning, observation, and the slow, methodical building of alliances within the household. Thorvald, now nineteen and respected among the warriors despite their father's continued dismissal, had taken a special interest in Edric's education. In return, Edric had subtly guided his eldest brother toward texts and training methods that complemented his natural fighting style.
"Wider stance," instructed Thorvald, circling Edric as he practiced basic sword forms with a wooden training blade. "Power flows from the earth through your legs, not from the arms alone."
Edric adjusted his stance, fighting against his body's instinctive movements. In his previous life, he had mastered three different combat systems and earned distinction in close-quarters combat. But this child's body had none of that muscle memory, and his reach was frustratingly limited.
"Better," Thorvald nodded. "Now the defensive sequence again. Five repetitions."
As Edric moved through the prescribed patterns, his mind drifted to a sun-scorched battlefield half a world and a lifetime away. The memory came unbidden, vivid and precise as all his recollections were.
*Flash back (edric)*
Kandahar Province, fourteen years ago.
Colonel Valerian crouched behind the bullet-pocked stone wall, dust coating his throat as he evaluated their deteriorating position. Three of his men were wounded, ammunition was running low, and hostile forces had flanked their position from the east.
"Sir, convoy reports they're still twenty minutes out," his communications specialist reported, voice tense but controlled.
Edric checked his watch. Twenty minutes might as well be twenty hours. They wouldn't last five in their current position.
"Sergeant Hayes," he called to his senior NCO. "Remember that drainage culvert we passed half a klick back?"
The grizzled sergeant nodded, understanding blooming in his eyes. "Yes, sir. Narrow approach, elevated position on the south side."
"We're going to execute a fighting withdrawal. Second squad provides covering fire while first squad falls back to the culvert. Then we reverse. Two-minute intervals."
"That'll put us in the open during the movement," the sergeant observed without judgment.
"Yes, but they'll need to expose themselves on the ridge to target us effectively." Edric motioned toward the eastern approach. "They're expecting us to hold position until reinforcements arrive. The unexpected movement will force them to readjust."
Precision timing and disciplined fire control allowed them to reach the culvert with only one additional casualty. From their new position, the team held off the attacking force for twenty-three minutes until the convoy arrived. Later, in the after-action report, his superior officer had questioned the decision to abandon a defensible position. Edric's response had been simple: "Sometimes retreat is the path to victory."
---
"Edric! Focus!" Thorvald's sharp command snapped him back to the present. He had stopped mid-form, the wooden sword hanging limply in his hand.
"I'm sorry, brother," Edric said, deliberately adding a childish inflection to his voice despite his irritation at the lapse.
Thorvald's expression softened. "Your mind wanders to far places, little raven. A warrior must be present in his body, especially in battle."
I've seen more battle than everyone in this keep combined,* Edric thought bitterly, but kept his face neutral. "I'll try harder."
Before they could resume, the training yard fell silent as Jarl Sigurd entered with Ragnar at his side. At seventeen, Ragnar had grown into an imposing warrior, already bearing a facial scar from a raid on Eastern settlements. Behind them walked a stout, red-bearded man in ornate armor that marked him as a weapons-master.
"Continue your training," Sigurd commanded the assembled youths, most of whom were sons of household warriors or nearby landholders sent to Ravensholm for martial education. His eyes passed over Thorvald and Edric with only a cursory glance before focusing on his favored son. "Master Ulfgar will observe today. Those who impress him may be considered worthy of testing for sword affinity when the spring thaw allows travel to the royal forges."
Whispers spread through the training yard. Sword affinity testing was typically reserved for the most promising warriors upon reaching their sixteenth year. That a royal weapons-master would select candidates early was unusual and spoke to the kingdom's growing need for skilled blade wielders.
Edric noted how Leif, practicing in the far corner of the yard, straightened at the announcement, his eyes narrowing as he studied Master Ulfgar. At fourteen, Leif had developed a reputation for cunning and precision rather than brute strength, favoring lighter weapons and unorthodox techniques that older warriors sometimes dismissed.
"Return to your forms," Thorvald said quietly. "Don't seek attention. Not yet."
Edric nodded, understanding his brother's strategy. At seven, he was too young for serious consideration, but appearing disciplined and dedicated would plant seeds for future recognition.
As they resumed training, Edric kept one eye on Master Ulfgar, studying the weapons-master's reactions to different fighters. The man seemed most impressed by technical precision rather than raw power—an interesting preference that contradicted Westemach's usual martial values.
After an hour of basic drills, Jarl Sigurd called for sparring matches. Pairs of trainees faced each other in the center circle while Master Ulfgar observed, occasionally making notes on a small piece of parchment.
When Ragnar stepped into the circle against the son of a prominent thegn, the entire yard grew still. Ragnar had become notorious for "training accidents" that left his opponents with broken bones or worse.
The match was brutally short. Ragnar's opponent, a capable fighter in his own right, landed one solid blow before Ragnar unleashed a flurry of strikes that culminated in a vicious pommel strike to the boy's temple. The thegn's son crumpled unconscious to the frozen ground.
"Decisive," Jarl Sigurd proclaimed proudly as healers rushed to the fallen youth. "A true warrior of Westemach doesn't hesitate when an opening appears."
Master Ulfgar merely grunted, his expression unreadable as he made another notation.
Next came Leif against a stocky boy two years his senior. Where Ragnar relied on overwhelming force, Leif fought with calculated efficiency, conserving energy while exploiting his opponent's frustration. He won by tripping the older boy and placing his training sword against his throat—a victory of cunning rather than strength.
When it was Thorvald's turn, he faced a visiting warrior's son known for his aggressive style. Edric watched with pride as his eldest brother demonstrated why the household warriors respected him despite their father's dismissal. Thorvald fought with disciplined precision, neutralizing his opponent's attacks and countering with controlled strikes that scored points without causing undue harm. His victory was thorough but honorable.
As the matches continued, Edric noticed a slender figure observing from the shadows of the stable entrance—Sigrid, now fourteen, watching the training with hungry eyes. Their gazes met briefly, and Edric gave her a small nod of acknowledgment. Though they rarely spoke, he had noticed her practicing sword forms alone in the predawn hours, using a blade she'd likely borrowed without permission.
Another strategic ally, perhaps, if properly approached.
"Young Edric," Master Ulfgar's voice brought him back to attention. "You seem distracted by the stables. Perhaps you'd prefer to train with the horses rather than warriors?"
Laughter rippled through the yard. Jarl Sigurd frowned at what he perceived as his youngest son's embarrassment.
Edric allowed himself to flush as would be expected, but met the weapons-master's eyes steadily. "I was watching everyone's footwork, Master Ulfgar. The ground is uneven where the frost has lifted the stones."
The weapons-master's bushy eyebrows rose slightly. "Is that so? And what did you observe?"
Careful,* Edric warned himself. *Don't appear too analytical. "The winners kept their back foot on flat stones," he said, simplifying his actual observation about weight distribution and pivoting techniques.
Instead of dismissing him, Ulfgar studied Edric more carefully. "Observant for one so young." He turned to Thorvald. "Let your brother demonstrate what he's learned from watching."
Thorvald hesitated, glancing at their father, who gave a curt nod of permission.
"Against whom should he spar, Master Ulfgar?" Thorvald asked. "He's only begun formal training this season."
Ulfgar pointed to a boy approximately two years older than Edric. "Halfdan there seems an appropriate match."
Edric recognized Halfdan as the son of one of his father's loyal warriors—a decent boy, but already showing signs of the same arrogance that characterized many young fighters. The boy smirked as Edric took position across from him in the circle.
This presented a dilemma. Edric's adult mind contained decades of combat experience that his child's body couldn't fully execute. If he fought poorly, it would reinforce his father's dismissive attitude. If he fought too well, it would raise uncomfortable questions.
As they squared off, wooden training swords at the ready, Edric made his decision. He would show just enough skill to be noticed, but attribute it to observation rather than experience.
Halfdan attacked immediately, clearly expecting an easy victory against the younger boy. Edric allowed the first strike to push him back, making a show of stumbling slightly before regaining his footing.
"Stand your ground, boy!" Jarl Sigurd called from the sidelines, his tone laced with disappointment.
Edric pretended not to hear, focusing instead on Halfdan's movements. The boy telegraphed his attacks clearly—a tendency that would have gotten him killed in a real battle. When Halfdan launched another overhead strike, Edric sidestepped rather than blocked, causing the older boy to overextend.
"Good movement," Thorvald called encouragingly.
For the next minute, Edric maintained a defensive stance, retreating strategically while observing Halfdan's increasingly frustrated attacks. He was mapping the boy's patterns, storing the information for future use as he would have done with any opponent in his previous life.
Then, when Halfdan committed to a particularly aggressive lunge, Edric executed a simple pivot he'd seen Thorvald use earlier, tapping the inside of Halfdan's forward knee with the flat of his training sword while simultaneously stepping to the side. The move, performed by a child, lacked the power to sweep Halfdan's leg completely, but it unbalanced him enough that he stumbled forward.
Edric brought his wooden sword up to rest lightly against the back of Halfdan's neck—a killing position in real combat.
Silence fell over the training yard.
Jarl Sigurd's expression darkened with suspicion. "Where did you learn that counter, boy?"
Careful now. "I watched Thorvald do it," Edric answered truthfully, though the actual technique had been one he'd mastered decades ago in a different body, on a different world.
Master Ulfgar stroked his beard thoughtfully. "The lad has good eyes and a quick mind. More valuable than raw strength in some circumstances."
"A lucky move," Ragnar dismissed, but Edric noted the calculating look in Leif's eyes. His third-eldest brother had just reevaluated him as a potential threat or ally.
"Perhaps," said Master Ulfgar. "But luck favors those who prepare for its arrival." He made another notation on his parchment before returning his attention to the older trainees.
As Edric stepped out of the circle, Thorvald clasped his shoulder briefly—a gesture of approval that didn't escape their father's notice. Jarl Sigurd's eyes narrowed slightly before he turned away to observe Ragnar's next demonstration.
"You held back," Thorvald murmured as they moved to the edge of the training yard.
"I'm seven," Edric reminded him with the hint of a smile.
"Even so." Thorvald's expression grew serious. "Father will watch you more closely now. Be careful, little raven."
The warning was unnecessary but appreciated. Edric had already noted the speculative glance his father had cast in his direction—a mixture of surprise and suspicion that would need to be carefully managed in the coming months.
As they returned to basic drills, Edric's mind drifted again to his previous life, to lessons learned through blood and failure. In Afghanistan, he had once lost half his squad because he'd been too obvious in his tactical genius, prompting the enemy to specifically target his unit. The memory burned, a harsh reminder that sometimes being recognized as special made you a priority target.
Patience, he reminded himself. Build strength in the shadows. Let them underestimate you until the moment it matters.
The sun climbed higher as morning turned to midday, casting long shadows across the frost-covered training yard. Edric moved through his forms methodically, appearing to struggle with just enough techniques to seem appropriately childlike while demonstrating occasional flashes of potential that could be attributed to natural talent rather than impossible experience.
It was a delicate balance—becoming visible enough to plant seeds for future advancement without revealing the truth that would mark him as either madman or threat.
For now, it was enough that three people had noticed him today: Master Ulfgar, whose evaluation could determine future opportunities; Leif, whose calculating mind might make him either ally or enemy; and Sigrid, who watched from the shadows with hunger for the training denied to her as a daughter.
Each represented a potential piece on the strategic board Edric was slowly assembling in his mind—a board where the stakes were not just survival, but the power to shape his second life according to his own design rather than the limited expectations of those around him.
As Master Ulfgar called an end to the morning's training, Edric caught a glimpse of his father's evaluating gaze lingering on him longer than usual. The jarl's expression remained inscrutable, but Edric recognized the look of a commander reassessing a previously disregarded asset.
Good, he thought. Let the games begin.