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Anbarth Castle, Northumberland, 1300

Why did it feel as if his entire body had been beaten and bruised?

Galien picked up his sword, again, and waited for his father to make a move. Instead, Toren Kerr, chief of their clan and the only man alive more stubborn than he, got back into position. But he did not move.

“What are you about?” he asked his father. “Why do you not fight me?”

Even to his ten-year-old ears, the question sounded childlike. But he was no child any longer. He’d told his father as much that morn when he insisted on training with a real sword. Not a wooden one. Not a blunted weapon. But the kind of sword his father and the other men used. The one he’d been given at birth that had sat in his chamber, unused. Until today.

“I wait for you to strike,” his father said, his voice thick with an accent so familiar to him Galien hadn’t thought it unusual until the day before, when a man from London had paid them a visit. He’d told his parents the man sounded different, even from his English cousins across the border. Of course, he had not said it to the man directly. That would have been rude.

Something his mother would never, ever tolerate.

When he did strike, his father blocked him easily. Galien’s movements were slow, on account of the sword. How many times had he picked it up, swung it, waiting for this day? No longer in his bedchamber but in the middle of their training yard, the sword felt heavier in his hands than usual.

“I did what you told me,” he complained, unsure why he could not move as quickly as normal.

“Your balance is off,” his father said. “As is your confidence. Lose either, you will struggle. Lose both,” he said, thrusting forward and easily disengaging the weapon from his hands with one swipe, “and you could lose your life along with it.”

Suddenly, the most mortifying of things happened. A tightening in his chest was followed by what felt as if it might be a tear forming. But Galien would not cry. Not in a training yard. And not in front of his father.

He swallowed and leaned down to pick up the sword again. As it had all morn, the cool hilt felt comfortable around his hand, but as he lifted it, it was as if Galien had never wielded a sword before. But he had. His whole life. What was wrong with him today?

He was about to rise when a hand on his shoulder stopped him. As he’d done so many times before, his father knelt on one knee, patting his leg to prompt Galien to sit. Dropping his weapon to the ground, Galien sat on the human chair, his hand resting on his father’s shoulder instinctively.

“This,” he pointed to Galien’s temple, “is the problem, son.”

“I was ready,” he told him. “I am ready.”

“Physically, aye. As are they.” He nodded toward the training yard. “Every one of them is strong.”

“I am a warrior,” Galien said. “I am, Da.”

“You are,” his father agreed. “But a true warrior is focused.” He pointed to his temple again, and Galien knew that meant he needed to think of nothing but his opponent. And he’d failed in that. “Disciplined,” his father continued. In that, Galien did not waver. He spent more time in the yard than any other boy his age. “But not for himself.”

He drew his brows together. This was a new lesson for him. “I do not understand?”

Just as his father began to speak, Galien’s little sister ran up to them. She tossed her arms around their father’s neck. Unlike other girls her age, who donned dresses, Oriana wore leggings and a long tunic with sword in hand.

“Little one.” Their father reached his free hand around Galien’s sister. “I was telling your brother that in order to be a true warrior—”

“Like me, Da. Girls can be warriors too.”

This was a common refrain from his sister. “Let him speak, Ori.” In response, she stuck her tongue out at him.

“Indeed, they can. Man or woman, the true heart of a warrior is to be skilled, and strong, and disciplined for others. If you fight for your own ambitions alone, you will lose every time.”

Galien bowed his head. Somehow, his father knew. His pride, wanting to show everyone he could wield the sword, had been Galien’s cause.

“Who do you fight for?” his sister asked.

But Galien already knew the answer. For them. For their family. For their clan. For some reason, though, his father didn’t answer. Or maybe he did but Galien couldn’t hear him. Neither could he feel his father’s leg under him. Instead, his arse was cold and wet. Something was not right. And then pain. It radiated through every part of his body. His shoulders and back. Galien’s head. But he’d never been struck.

It made no sense.

“Eat, or don’t eat. It matters naught to me.”