The valley below Rattay lay smooth and silent under a thick blanket of silver mist rising from the river.
Through the small wooden shutters of the mill, the faint, golden rays of the early morning sun cut across the room.
Henry stirred, turning on his narrow cot before slowly pushing himself upright.
From the kitchen nook came the soft crackle of wood embers and the smell of warm, simmering porridge.
For a brief second, his mind drifted to the night before—to the laughter, the promises, the shared wine, and the secret pact sealed over the oak table.
He took a deep breath.
They’re depending on me now, Henry thought, the weight of responsibility settling heavy on his chest.
I can’t afford to be careless.
I have to work harder than anyone else.
He unlatched the mill door and stepped out into the crisp, cool morning air.
Walking over to the stone basin near the well, he scooped up a handful of frigid water and splashed it liberally over his face, shaking away the last lingering cobwebs of sleep.
He scooped another splash and flicked it down at Mutt, who was stretched out under the porch overhang.
“Wake up, boy,” Henry muttered with a light chuckle as Mutt blinked up at him, let out a grand yawn, and shook his coat free of dust.
“Your day starts now.”
Henry straightened up, stretching his sore muscles and breathing in the damp morning mist.
As he turned toward the yard, he spotted a tall, weathered figure standing near the woodpile—Miller Peshek, leaning on his walking staff and watching him with cold, calculating eyes.
Henry walked over to the old miller with a slight smirk.
“Peshek.
You should have been here last night.
I splurged like a merchant prince from Venice.”
“So I heard from my niece,” Peshek grunted, his voice dry as seasoned timber.
“She even dug under the floorboards to use my secret spices.”
Henry chuckled.
“Well, those spices made it the finest meal I’ve eaten since coming to Rattay.” He glanced around the quiet yard.
“Where is Theresa?”
“Gone down to the neighbor’s to fetch some fresh goat’s milk,” Peshek replied simply.
Then, the old miller stepped closer, his heavy shadow falling across Henry.
The cynical, mocking tone Peshek usually carried was entirely gone, replaced by a dark, intense seriousness.
“Listen up, boy,” Peshek said, his voice dropping into a low rumble.
“I don’t know you well enough to say I like you.
But I know you saved my niece and brought her back to me in one piece.
She’s the only family I have left in this miserable world.
For that alone, I tolerate you.”
Peshek leaned in closer, his dark eyes locked onto Henry.
“But I know men like you, Henry.
You might have been a blacksmith’s boy back in Skalitz, following your father around the forge…
but war changes a man.
Now, when I look at you, all I see in your eyes is ambition.
A burning, ruthless ambition to never, ever be that weak again.”
Henry tilted his head, his smirk fading.
“What are you trying to say, Peshek?”
“I’m saying the boy you used to be died in the ashes of Skalitz,” Peshek spat softly.
“The man standing before me has fire in his belly and the drive to take whatever he wants.
I know those eyes, Henry.
They were the exact same eyes I had when I was young.
And those exact same eyes drove away the woman I loved more than life itself.”
Peshek looked off toward the misty river for a brief second, a bitter shadow passing over his weathered face.
“After I lost her, I kept pushing forward because ambition was the only thing I had left to hold onto.
But looking back now?
If I had the choice again, I would have chosen her over all the gold .
Theresa…
well, even if I ask her, she’d deny it out of pride.
But I see how she looks at you.
She fancies you.
And I can tell you’re fond of her too.”
Peshek shook his head slowly.
“But your ambition will change the choices you make.
You’re a squire now.
You serve Sir Radzig.
And men like us don’t die easily—we crawl through blood and filth just to survive.
But Theresa isn’t built for that kind of life.
Your ambition will pull you to places where she can’t follow.”
Henry’s brow furrowed.
“Speak plainly, Peshek.
What do you really want from me?”
“Do you really think you’ll stay a simple squire or a modest courtier your whole life?” Peshek challenged, taking a step right into Henry’s space.
“I see what you want—you want to be a knight, a lord, a man of power.
Tell me, Henry…
if you become a knight, and a noble match comes along—a marriage that brings you military alliance, high status, and a massive dowry from a lord’s daughter—will you really choose my orphan niece over all that power?”
The question hung heavy in the cool morning air, thick and suffocating.
Henry opened his mouth to answer, but the words caught in his throat.
He stared at Peshek, unable to give an immediate answer.
Deep down, he knew the cold truth of the world.
History was full of ambitious men born of low blood who did whatever was necessary to cement their standing among the nobility.
If a day came where choosing a noble marriage meant securing his land, protecting his people, and ensuring he would never be helpless again…
could he truly say he would turn it down?
Could he honestly swear that his heart would win out over his ambition?
The silence between the two men stretched tight as a drawn bowstring.
“What are you two doing hovering over there?” a sweet, familiar voice broke through the tension.
Theresa came walking up the path from the riverbank, carrying a wooden bucket of fresh water, a gentle smile gracing her lips.
The morning sunlight caught the crimson silk ribbon tied in her dark hair.
“Henry, your warm wash water is ready inside,” she said cheerfully.
“You’d better hurry, or you’ll be late for your training with Captain Bernard!”
“Thanks, Theresa,” Henry said softly, tearing his eyes away from Peshek’s piercing gaze.
Inside the quiet gloom of the washhouse, Henry plunged his hands into the warm water, but his mind remained miles away, locked on the hard truth Peshek had laid bare.
Peshek wasn’t wrong.
Henry knew the flow of history—he knew what was coming.
By next year, the King of Naples would march against Hungary, forcing Sigismund to pull his army back to protect his own crown.
Bohemia would be left in chaos, a dangerous chessboard for anyone bold enough to make a move.
If Henry played his cards right during the coming war, surviving the mud and blood wouldn’t just make him a squire; it could elevate him into the nobility.
But Henry didn’t just want a modest estate—he didn’t want to end up as some petty lord holding a battered wooden keep with two impoverished villages to his name.
If he was going to climb, he wanted real power.
The kind of power held by the House of Rosenberg, lords so wealthy and formidable they could capture a king and face no consequences because no one could afford the blood tax of fighting them.
In a medieval world torn apart by war, power wasn’t just vanity—it was safety.
The higher you stood, the safer the people under your protection were.
And if that path led to a crossroads—if a powerful lord offered his daughter’s hand along with armies, land, and an alliance that secured his lineage forever—could he truly turn it down for love?
Could he honestly look Peshek in the eye and say his heart would win out over absolute security?
Henry wiped the water from his face with a rough linen towel, Peshek’s warning still ringing heavy in his ears.
He didn’t have the answer yet, but the reality of his ambition burned hotter than ever.
After washing the last traces of sleep from his face, Henry set about arming himself for the day.
He pulled on his padded gambeson, working the thick fabric over his shoulders before hauling the heavy steel chainmail shirt over his head with a metallic clatter.
Next came his kettle hat helmet, reinforced leather gloves, and riding boots.
The familiar weight of steel pressing against his frame brought a sharp sense of focus.
He stepped out into the yard, where Theresa was already waiting by the porch.
Miller Peshek was nowhere to be seen, likely busy down by the water wheel.
“Hurry up, Henry,” Theresa said, a light smile playing on her lips as she smoothed her apron.
“You don’t want to keep Captain Bernard waiting on your very first day—he’s not known for his patience.”
“Thanks, Theresa,” Henry replied with a warm grin.
“And don’t forget to get the primer and slate ready for tonight.
We start learning as soon as I get back.”
“I won’t forget.
Good luck, Henry,” she said softly.
Henry swung his leg over the saddle of Olena, gathering the leather reins into his gloved hand.
“Hiya!
Come on, Mutt!”
Olena trotted out of the mill yard with Mutt trotting briskly behind them, ears perked.
The morning sun burned through the remaining valley mist as Henry rode up the winding path toward the lower gate of Rattay.
Word of Sir Radzig taking a squire had already spread among the garrison, so the guards at the gate simply nodded in respect and waved him through without hindrance.
Once inside the town walls, Henry turned left, guiding Olena down the cobblestone road toward Pirkstein Castle.
Standing near the lower courtyard were two familiar Skalitz men now serving in the garrison—Jarek and Chval.
“Morning to you, Henry!” Jarek called out, leaning on his spear as Henry dismounted.
“That’s a fine horse you’ve got there.”
“Morning, Jarek, Chval,” Henry replied, patting Olena’s neck.
“Look at you, all geared up,” Chval teased with a light chuckle.
“What’s the matter, Henry?
Couldn’t sleep?
Nervous about your training with Captain Bernard?”
“A bit nervous, I won’t lie,” Henry admitted with a chuckle.
“But mostly, I’m excited.”
Jarek’s expression turned sympathetic.
“Well, we were excited too…
right up until we saw how Bernard trains his men.
My advice?
Grit your teeth and take whatever he throws at you.
If you show weakness or complain, he’ll make you suffer for it.
But if he sees you’ve got the willpower to stand your ground no matter how hard he hits, he might actually respect you.”
“Thanks for the warning, Jarek,” Henry said, taking the advice to heart.
“Is the cart ready?”
“Right over there by the shed,” Jarek pointed toward a sturdy wooden cart parked against the stone wall.
“She’s loaded and ready whenever you want to haul her back to the mill.”
“I’ll leave her here for now and haul her back this evening,” Henry said.
Jarek stepped closer, examining Olena with a critical eye.
“A squire to Sir Radzig ought to have a proper warhorse, Henry.
Olena’s a good girl, but she’s getting old.
If I were you, I’d sell her when you get the chance and buy a proper charger.”
“I appreciate the thought, Jarek,” Henry nodded.
“But for now, Olena will carry us fine enough.”
He climbed back into the saddle, settling his boots into the stirrups.
“See you later, boys.”
“See you later, Henry!
Don’t let Bernard break your ribs!” Chval called out as Henry rode back through the gates toward the outer arena beyond the town walls.
Reaching the combat grounds early, Henry dismounted and tethered Olena near a shaded wooden post.
Mutt trotted over to the shade of a nearby pavilion and flopped onto the grass with a heavy grunt.
Seeing that Captain Bernard had not yet arrived, Henry decided to use the extra time to prepare.
Unsheathing his wooden training blade, he began stretching his arms and legs, shaking off the morning stiffness.
He stepped into a solid stance, raising the wooden blade into the high Ox guard—practicing basic cuts, lunges, and parries ,his breathing keeping time with the quick, sharp whistle of his wooden blade through the air.
As the wooden tip sliced through the crisp morning air, a faint, translucent blue window flickered across his peripheral vision for a brief second before vanishing:
+——————————————————-+
| [SYSTEM NOTIFICATION] |
| Skill Progress: Sword (+15 EXP) |
| Current Rank: Level 6 |
| Stamina Drain Reduced: 2.5% |
| Note: Stance stability improved through repetition.
|
+——————————————————-+
Henry let out a steady breath as the blue box faded.
The experience gain was small, but seeing the numbers climb gave him a quiet sense of satisfaction.
Every swing and every drop of sweat was one step closer to making sure he wouldn’t be helpless when the next fight came.
“Lower those shoulders, lad!
You look like a startled heron, not a swordfighter!”
The heavy crunch of iron-shod boots echoed across the gravel pit as Captain Bernard strode into the arena, a sturdy wooden practice sword resting over his shoulder.
“The Ox is for keeping a man at bay and threatening his eyes, not for tiring out your arms before the fight even begins,” Bernard barked, his sharp gaze taking in Henry’s stance in a single glance.
“Tuck your elbows in slightly and keep your weight balanced—if I step in now and push your blade, you’ll fall flat on your arse!”