The morning air at the Astraia Knight Training Grounds was thick with the smell of damp earth, rusted iron, and the sour, unmistakable stench of stale ale. Constantine stood at the edge of the courtyard, his pale skin appearing almost translucent under the weak sunlight. He watched as the men who were supposed to be the shield of the kingdom lounged against the wooden palisades. Some were half-dressed, their tunics stained with grease, while others sat in small circles, tossing bone dice into the dirt. The clatter of the dice was the loudest sound in the arena, far eclipsing the lazy, infrequent ring of steel.
"Is this truly the state of the Royal Guard, Seraphina?" Constantine asked, his voice cutting through the humid air like a chilled blade.
Seraphina stood half a step behind him, her eyes scanning the disarray with visible disgust. "It is worse than it looks, My Lord. These men are the sons of minor nobles who were too incompetent for the border garrisons. They receive their pay in exchange for their silence and their loyalty to the highest bidder."
"Silence and loyalty are expensive commodities for men who cannot even stand straight," Constantine remarked, his eyes narrowing as he watched a soldier stumble while trying to sharpen a spear. "Look at them. Their bellies are soft, their eyes are clouded, and their blades are duller than their wits. It is not a military; it is a kennel for pampered hounds."
"The instructor, Sir Kaelen, is the one in the center by the weapon rack," Seraphina pointed out. "He is known for his temper and his habit of selling the training equipment to fund his nights in the lower district."
Constantine turned his gaze toward a burly man with a thick, matted beard and a face flushed red from years of heavy drinking. Kaelen was currently leaning back in a chair, laughing loudly as he watched two young recruits clumsily swing wooden practice swords at one another. He didn't seem to notice the prince's arrival, or if he did, he considered it beneath his dignity to acknowledge a sickly boy.
"He seems quite comfortable in his negligence," Constantine said, stepping forward onto the gravel. "Let us see how he reacts when the ghost he ignores decides to speak."
"Be careful, My Lord. He is a crude man who does not respect the bloodline," Seraphina warned softly.
"Respect is not something I expect him to give freely," Constantine replied. "I intend to extract it."
He walked toward the center of the yard, his thin boots crunching loudly on the stones. As he approached, the dice games slowed, and a few of the soldiers looked up, whispering and snickering to one another. Constantine ignored them, stopping directly in front of the instructor's chair. The shadow of the prince fell over Kaelen, blocking the sun.
"The sun is warm today, is it not, Sir Kaelen?" Constantine asked, his tone deceptively mild.
Kaelen squinted up at him, wiping a hand across his sweaty brow. He didn't stand. "It was, until a shadow got in the way. What brings the sickly prince to the dirt? Lost your way back to the library, have you?"
A ripple of laughter went through the gathered soldiers. One of them leaned forward, mocking Constantine’s frail posture.
"I am looking for the Astraia military," Constantine said, his eyes scanning the surrounding men with chilling indifference. "But all I find are beggars in uniform. Tell me, Kaelen, do you train these men to fight, or do you merely teach them how to rot with style?"
The laughter stopped abruptly. Kaelen’s face darkened, the red of his cheeks deepening to a bruised purple. He stood up slowly, his heavy boots kicking the chair back. He towered over Constantine, his breath smelling of fermented grain and decay.
"You have a big mouth for someone with such thin arms, boy," Kaelen growled, his hand resting on the pommel of a heavy broadsword. "I train men to survive. Something you wouldn't know anything about, tucked away in your silk sheets."
"Survival requires discipline," Constantine countered, his voice steady and cold. "I see no discipline here. I see a man who has traded his honor for a bottle and a group of cowards who follow his example because it is easier than being a soldier."
"Cowards?" Kaelen roared, his hand tightening on his belt. "I've killed more men than you've had hot meals! You’re nothing but a mistake of the King’s youth. You don't belong on this field."
"Then prove it," Constantine said. He reached out and grabbed a blunt training sword from a nearby rack. The weapon was heavy, made of darkened iron with edges that had been rounded for practice, yet it felt like a mountain in his weak grip. "Challenge me, Kaelen. If I am as useless as you claim, then a single move from a great warrior like yourself should be enough to put me back in my bed."
Kaelen stared at him in disbelief, then let out a booming laugh that made the other soldiers join in. "You want to duel? You'll break in half if I even breathe on you. Go home before you hurt yourself, little prince."
"Are you afraid that the recruits will see their master fall to a boy who can barely carry a sword?" Constantine asked, his eyes locking onto Kaelen’s with a predatory intensity that made the older man’s laughter falter. "Is your skill as hollow as your chest?"
"Fine," Kaelen spat, pulling a similar blunt sword from the rack. The iron sang a low, discordant note as he swung it through the air. "I'll give you the lesson your father forgot to beat into you. Don't complain when you're spitting teeth."
The soldiers formed a wide circle, their faces alight with cruel anticipation. Seraphina remained at the edge, her hand gripped tightly around the hilt of her hidden blade, her eyes never leaving Constantine. The prince stood in the center, his feet planted firmly in the dust. He felt the familiar weight of the weapon, but his muscles screamed in protest. He needed the Tyrant's Breath.
"Whenever you are ready, Sir Kaelen," Constantine said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Do not keep your audience waiting."
Kaelen didn't wait. He lunged forward with a heavy, overhead strike, intending to crush Constantine’s guard through sheer strength. The move was telegraphed, clumsy, and filled with the arrogance of a man who thought his opponent was beneath him.
Constantine didn't move until the blade was inches from his head. In that heartbeat, he drew a deep, controlled breath, activating the Essence techniques that lived in his soul. His perception of time slowed. He saw the sweat flying from Kaelen’s beard, the rust on the instructor’s blade, and the exact moment the man’s weight shifted too far forward.
With a movement that looked like a blur to the spectators, Constantine stepped to the side. He didn't clash blades. Instead, he allowed Kaelen’s sword to hit the dirt with a jarring thud. As the instructor stumbled from the momentum of his missed strike, Constantine brought the flat of his blunt sword upward.
"Your balance is atrocious," Constantine said as he struck.
The iron blade connected squarely with Kaelen’s wrist, the sound of the impact echoing like a hammer on an anvil. Kaelen let out a cry of pain as his fingers involuntarily flew open, his own sword spinning away into the dust. Before the instructor could recover, Constantine moved again, pivoting on one heel and driving the hilt of his weapon into the man’s solar plexus.
Kaelen gasped, the air leaving his lungs in a wheezing rush. He collapsed to his knees, clutching his stomach, his face turning a ghostly white. Constantine stood over him, the tip of the blunt sword resting lightly against the instructor’s throat. The silence in the training grounds was absolute.
"One move," Constantine said, his voice carrying to every soldier in the yard. "Is this the pinnacle of the Astraia guard? A man who cannot even hold his weapon against a sickly boy?"
"You... you cheated..." Kaelen managed to choke out, his eyes wide with a mixture of pain and terror.
"I used what you lacked: efficiency," Constantine replied. He leaned down, his eyes boring into Kaelen’s. "You are a disgrace to the uniform you wear. You have turned these men into a mob of drunks because you are too lazy to lead them. From this day forward, you are no longer an instructor. You are a warning."
Constantine pulled the sword back and tossed it onto Kaelen’s lap. The iron clattered against the man’s armor, a final insult in front of his subordinates. The prince turned to the soldiers, who were now backing away, their mockery replaced by a sudden, sharp fear.
"Who else among you thinks I belong in the library?" Constantine asked, his voice low and dangerous. "Who else wishes to test the strength of my thin arms?"
No one spoke. Even the men who had been laughing the loudest now looked at the ground, unable to meet his gaze. The smell of the courtyard seemed to change, the scent of stale ale replaced by the cold, biting aroma of authority.
"Pick him up," Constantine ordered two nearby guards, gesturing to the groaning Kaelen. "And get him out of my sight. If I see him on these grounds again, I will not use a blunt sword."
"As you command, My Lord," one of the guards stammered, rushing forward to haul the shamed instructor away.
Seraphina approached Constantine, her expression one of grim approval. "That was a calculated risk, My Lord. You have humiliated the only authority they knew. But now they have no one to lead them."
"They never had a leader, Seraphina. They had a parasite," Constantine said, his breath hitching as the Essence faded and the fatigue of his body returned tenfold. He leaned slightly on his sword to keep from swaying. "I do not need them to love me. I need them to understand that the world they knew is over. This was not a training session; it was a harvest. I am clearing the dead wood."
"You are exhausted," she noted, stepping closer to shield him from the view of the soldiers.
"I am," he admitted, his voice a rasp. "But the message has been sent. The military is the heart of a kingdom, and this heart is nearly dead. I have much work to do before I can take this unit to the King."
He looked around the grounds one last time. The soldiers were starting to move, not toward the dice games, but toward the weapon racks. Some were looking at their own blades with newfound doubt. The seeds of fear had been planted, and in Constantine’s experience, fear was a much faster teacher than respect.
"Let us go," Constantine said, turning away from the dirt and the stench. "Tomorrow, I will speak with my father. It is time I took control of this rabble. Astraia needs a guard, and I need an army."
He walked back toward the palace, his steps slow but unwavering. Behind him, the training grounds remained silent, the broken sword of the instructor lying forgotten in the dust, a symbol of an era that Constantine was determined to end.
"Will you truly lead them yourself?" Seraphina asked as they entered the palace gates.
"I will lead the ones who survive the purging," Constantine replied. "The rest will be fuel for the fire I am about to light."
Aksara