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“Ian and I have been training.”

“Playing. If I’m going to be left with a useless son, the least you could do is stay out of my hair.”

“I know I’m not the best fighter, but I can learn. And I know I have what it takes to be a strategist.”

His father looked up, eyes narrowing, inspecting him like a commander.

Fox had to stop himself from wilting under the glare.

“Every soldier needs to go through basic training and lower ranks before they start using their brain to avoid fighting. So what are you going to do until then?”

“I’ll learn to fight.”

“You’ll be killed in basic training before you learn how to hold a sword properly.”

“Which is why I need training now.” Fox knew his father wasn’t completely wrong. In the brief time Fox had trained with his brother, he’d done his best to go down as fast as possible to end the torment, rather than learning any skills. “I want you to hire Arik again.”

* * *

Despite his protestsand insistence that he didn’t believe in what Fox was doing, his father still walked by his training sessions nearly every day. Perhaps he enjoyed having himself proven correct. The first six days of training, Fox didn’t make it to the end, collapsing onto the ground in a useless heap.

On the seventh day, he finished the training just in time for his breakfast to race its way up his throat and onto the field. By the time he was done retching, Arik had disappeared. His father stood in the manor window, sneering down at where he was hunched. The heat rose in Fox’s neck and he turned away, unable to stop the dry heave that rippled through his abdomen.

Once he was able to stand, he half-walked, half-dragged himself around the back of the weapons shed and sat heavily against the rough wooden planks that made up the wall. The training yard was on the north end of the manor, walled in with the same rough stones that made up the house itself, so he was hidden between the high wall and the shed. His father wouldn’t be looking for him. His father hadn’t even spoken to him since he’d asked for Arik’s help.

Fox sat like that for longer than he should have, long enough for the bruise on his cheek from the wooden practice blade Arik had smacked him with to start swelling. When he couldn’t take the cramps in his empty stomach any longer, he stood, every muscle in his body protesting. Lunch wouldn’t be served for an hour or more yet, but he could beg some food off the cook with a smile and a wink before hiding in his room. The idea of eating lunch in the dining room while his mother looked at him with concern wasn’t appealing anyway.

“What do we have here?”

Fox, too busy focusing on his feet, looked up in time to see three boys around his age staring at him. Their clothes were dirty and ripped, their skin the dark shade of the Dragonborn who spent their days working outside. He didn’t recognize them, but it wasn’t surprising. The manor had a good number of servants, and most of those that worked on the outside of the house rarely interacted with Fox or his family. Even if they had, they all looked the same to him with their haphazardly chopped hair and mud-covered faces.

He rolled his eyes and sneered in response, too tired to do more. He just wanted some bread and water. But as he attempted to push past them, they converged, blocking his path.

“Get out of my way, dragon-filth,” he said. He injected as much venom into the words as possible given his exhaustion.

“What are you going to do, vomit on us?” The boys on either side of the leader snickered at the comment.

“You’d probably smell better.” He didn’t bother stepping forward this time. He needed them to move aside on their own.

The leader—a boy standing two inches taller than Fox and built like a wild dog—stepped forward and shoved him. Barely keeping his balance, Fox caught himself on his left leg with a wince and a bit back groan.

“Move out of my way,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Make us,” the boy said.

Fox wanted to snap back that his father could have them whipped and fired, but before he could open his mouth, he looked up to see his father striding across the yard with the chief commander by his side. They were deep in conversation, but the chief commander looked up, meeting his eyes with a small smile and a nod. He’d told the chief commander of his plans to join the king’s army the same day he told his father and he’d promised him a place in Leon’s old dorms if he passed the entry test. His father’s eyes flickered only briefly to Fox when he saw his companion’s distraction.

Straightening his shoulders as he looked back at the Dragonborn before him, Fox pulled his arm back and swung a punch at the ringleader of the group. A sharp pain reverberated through the bones of his knuckles as he made contact, but the other boy stumbled back. Fox smiled at the blood leaking from the boy’s lip.

A snarled curse was his only warning as the other boys descended on him. Fox lashed out blindly, hands smacking uselessly against the other two as he lost track of the punches and kicks against his face, his side, his back. He curled his body, trying to block the blows.

Eventually, they stopped and silence fell. He didn’t move immediately, hands still cupped over his face and legs tucked into his stomach, but when no one threw another punch, he looked up. The boys had run away, apparently bored with his non-response.

The rest of the courtyard was empty, his father and the chief commander having left through the open back gate.

That night, his mother knocked on his door with a package sent from the chief commander. He waited until she was gone to unwrap it, hand running across the small leather-bound book with its gold-embossed title:Hand-to-hand Combat: Strategies and Skills.

He began to read.