The training field was lively. Messy, just as Skyre liked. The castle was dim and cheerless during the day, out here he could enjoy the sun. Today, the sky was grey but bright, and the air brisk. It pinched his skin, waking him from the somberness of his council. His muscles unknotted as his boots reacquainted with the packed dirt. Men were scattered about the yard. There was the smell of work, of sweat, and it sent his heart racing.
“Come out to play?” Greyv called from the fence.
Skyre pushed up a smile. “I’ve got to get some proper breath. That place is full of must.”
“It’s full of something, alright,” said his friend with a laugh. He nodded towards the pitch. Two men stood opposite one another. The younger man Skyre had never met, but he recognized the elder at once.
Rask, Laird of Óinmír, son of a celebrated line of war hollers. He was the eldest of the old Féin that fought still, and was sharp as he’d been nigh fifty years before. Even as his hair greyed and the flesh beneath his stone eyes sagged, he was strong, tough as tusk, and even more boar-like with a blade.
And the Vaich loved him.
“Dinnae do him in, Rask,” called Skyre. “I still need good boys for my army.”
The older man didn’t turn from his opponent. “Oh, I’ll make sure he lives long enough for that.”
Greyv hummed. “Be careful what you wish for.”
“Why’s that?” asked Skyre.
The clash of blades rang sharp through the courtyard, iron glinting in the grey light. The younger man moved fast; each strike driven and determined. But his opponent—older and broader—weathered each blow with ease. Deflecting, redirecting, waiting.
Skyre knew the old man’s method well. Still remembered the first timehe’dfought him. It had been the first time since the teat he’d wept.
Boots scraped soil as the younger man pressed forwards. His form was practiced, but there was impatience in his footwork, a hunger that left him open. The older warrior caught his blade in a parry, twisting his wrist to throw him off balance before stepping in. A shift of weight, a slam of the shoulder, and the younger man hit the ground hard, dust rising around him.
Skyre laughed. He recognized the look—a flicker of frustration and wounded pride. “I’ve been on the receiving end of that turn too many times. Keep fighting him and you’ll get used to getting knocked on your ass.”
The man pushed himself up, dusting off his tunic. “Laird Rask is a tough opponent. Suppose I might try on someone my own size.” He leveled his blade towards the Vaich, who went still at the challenge.
Greyv chuckled. “I told you.”
Skyre settled into a smirk. “And who challenges me?”
“My name is Jor. Son of Lach’Dun, Prince of Cúil Cullach. And I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Skyre’s jaw worked a moment, and he nodded. “So we haven’t. Then, no better way to introduce ourselves.” He hung his mantle over the fence and hopped the beam, landing firmly in the sand. Jor’s golden eyes followed him—without doubt a gift from his father. Still, they lacked the lustre of the sun’s wild gaze.
The two men positioned opposite each other, daylight bathing their blades.
Jor’s grip was steady, shoulders coiled; a cat waiting to lunge. They circled each other. Slow. Measured. But there was heat in the prince’s eyes.
Jor struck first.
It wasn’t a probing attack—not a test of reflex. It was real and sharp and cutting. Skyre caught the blow, the impact shuddering down his arm as he turned the edge aside. Sparks hissed as iron ground against iron, and before he could recover, Jor was pressing forwards with a vicious thrust.
The air thickened with heat and breath.
Skyre countered a third strike, then a fourth. Jor’s sword darted downwards like a diving hawk. A sharp feint—realized a moment too late. Jor’s blade flicked out and caught his arm, slicing a thin, burning line across his skin. A shallow cut, but enough to bleed.
From the sidelines came Greyv’s sharp inhale, but Rask remained still, watching.
Skyre ran his tongue along his teeth. “HowpleasedI am to make your acquaintance.”
Jor offered an empty grin.
Their blades met again.
The rhythm shifted. Faster. Harder. This time, Skyre set the pace. He drove him to the courtyard wall. Jor’s eyes were sharp, jaw tight, but Skyre saw it—that edge of impatience. Swords locked, neither yielding. Breaths ragged and muscles working.
