Morning light filtered through the open window, scattering shadows across the wood floor and stone walls. The room was small and cold. A single chair and table stood by the wall, both scarred with age. Outside, mist clung to the treetops, while a mild wind carried the sounds of a waking town.

  Edric sat up, leaving behind the warm pocket between the straw mattress and wool blanket.

  He ran a hand through his pale hair as he anticipated the day. His plans were clear: meet Maryn the carpenter, visit young Finn at the forge, train under General Rennard, and check in on the infant king. Not the future he’d imagined, but far better than Ayzelsted’s prison—or being paraded as a failure.

  As he swung his legs from the bed, yesterday’s dinner conversation surfaced—Brother Tarvish’s blessing to the Herald. It had stirred conflicting emotions: resentment toward the deity who’d summoned him, paired with the reluctant admission that such beings might actually exist. *Magic is real here. Summoning is real. Maybe their gods are too.*

  *And if that’s true… what about the gods back on Earth? Could any of them be real?*

  He had never been devout. Childhood Easter and Christmas services had faded into adulthood, leaving behind agnosticism. Sarah, though—she’d always been curious about belief. *Spiritual but not religious,* she’d said.

  *What would she think now?* he wondered, splashing his face with cold water from the basin. *Her practical gunsmith stranded in a world of magic.*

  The coarse cloth rasped against his face as he dried off. Without meaning to, his fingers brushed his pointed ears—still foreign, still wrong. His reflection in the warped glass showed a man both familiar and stranger: golden?haired, sharp?featured, marked on the chest by a glowing crest that shimmered faintly.

  *Will I ever get used to this body? This face?* Probably not.

  He dressed with care—laces tight, cloak straight. If he meant to do business in this world, he needed to look the part—even if he still felt like an impostor wearing someone else’s skin.

  A knock at the door interrupted him.

  “Enter,” he called, expecting a servant or message from General Rennard.

  Mira stepped inside instead, a pitcher of steaming water in one hand and folded linens over her arm. She stopped, surprised to see him already up and dressed.

  “You should have waited for me, Sir Edric,” she said, setting the pitcher beside the basin. “The water you used must have been freezing. I brought warm water, clean towels, and—” she lifted a small bundle “—polish for your boots.”

  “I’ve managed on my own for years, Mira. No need to fuss.” He shrugged, then nodded toward the window where the mist was thinning. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your own departure?”

  “I anticipated you’d say that,” Mira replied, a trace of satisfaction in her voice. “My preparations were completed before dawn—that’s why I wasn’t here when you woke.” She smoothed a wrinkle in his sleeve with a resigned sigh. “I may not approve of your obsession with self?sufficiency, but I’ll learned to adapt.”

  Her persistence amused him. “Well, since you’re here, you can at least show me how to fasten these properly. I doubt the castle staff will be as patient with my fumbling.”

  Mira brightened, pleased to be useful. “Of course.”

  She demonstrated a simpler arrangement for the elaborate fastenings and minor accessories. “This version is less formal but still respectable. The key is consistency in these folds—here, and here.” She guided his hands through the motions until he could repeat them himself.

  When they finished, Mira reached into a pocket hidden within her formal attire and drew out a small leather pouch that clinked with coins.

  “The remainder of the custody transfer fee,” she explained, putting it in his hands. “It was allocated for your equipment—mostly for commissioning a new bow.” She hesitated, a flicker of unease crossing her expression. “Technically, I was instructed *not* to give these funds to you directly, but given the circumstances…” She let the sentence fade with a small shrug.

  “Thank you,” Edric said, touched by the trust. He loosened the drawstring and tipped a few coins into his palm, curious. “I take it these copper ones are the least valuable?”

  “Copper bits,” Mira confirmed. “Then silver steds—one sted equals around twenty-five bits. Finally, gold ayzels—twelve steds, or about 300 copper bits.”

  Edric turned a silver sted in his fingers, tilting it to catch the light. One side bore the profile of a long?past ruler; the other shimmered with an iridescent sigil that shifted like oil on water.

  “What causes that effect?” he asked, fascinated. “It’s almost like a hologram.”

  Mira frowned at the term but understood the meaning. “The sigil’s applied at the Ayzelsted Mint. Said to be a blend of metallurgy and light enchantment—though the process is a state secret. No counterfeiter has ever managed to copy it.”

  *Diffraction grating? Unlikely. Maybe a chemical finish combined with magic—thin metal films layered to bend light?* He filed the puzzle away for future study.

  “The Queen’s agents were clear,” Mira said, watching him pocket the pouch. “Those funds are intended for a proper weapon befitting the Herald’s Ranger Hero. It would be… unwise to use them otherwise.”

  “I understand,” Edric replied, even as his mind calculated how he might stretch the definition of *bow* to include a crossbow. *Let’s see what I can negotiate with this Maryn fellow.*

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “General Rennard requests your presence for training this morning,” Mira continued. “He’ll be waiting in the bailey with his men.” A subtle smile curved her lips. “Breakfast will be ready when you return.”

  “Delaying my meal until after training?” Edric raised an eyebrow. “Seems General Rennard is not too fond of me.”

  “Not at all,” Mira replied sweetly. “General Rennard simply suggested that a full stomach might make the exercises more… challenging.”

  “How thoughtful of him,” Edric said dryly, though he couldn’t help returning her smile. “I’ll see you at breakfast, then. Try not to worry too much about your journey.”

  “A lady never worries,” Mira said primly, though the faint crease between her brows betrayed her. “She anticipates contingencies.”

  As Edric made his way toward the inner bailey for his first proper training session, he patted the coin pouch at his belt. It wasn’t much, but it was a start—the first tangible resource he had in this world.

  The inner bailey of Castle Larkenshire was all practicality: a rectangular courtyard boxed in by stone, its packed?earth floor beaten smooth by years of drills. Wooden dummies lined one wall, scarred and splintered. Weapon racks sagged under blunted blades, and water barrels waited in the corners for the thirsty and the bruised.

  General Rennard stood at the center, weathered and steady, watching as Edric approached. Despite being half Edric’s height, he radiated command. Six guards formed a loose semicircle behind him, their expressions ranging from friendly curiosity to skepticism.

  “Sir Edric, where is your bow?” Rennard demanded immediately.

  Edric spread his hands in a gesture of mild defeat. “I don’t have one yet.”

  Rennard’s brows lifted. “No bow for the Bow Hero. I guess you'll have to play a swordsman then,” he said dryly. “Won’t be ideal, but it’ll do for today.”

  “Thank you,” Edric said politely. “I’ll be commissioning a suitable bow soon.”

  “In the meantime, Twig and Bramble will demonstrate some basic sparring techniques. Consider it an introduction to our methods,” Rennard explained.

  Two halflings stepped forward, equipped with matching gear but opposite in build. Twig was lean and twitchy, eyes bright with mischief; Bramble was broader, patient, all blunt discipline. Each carried a wooden sword and a small round shield.

  “Rules are simple,” Rennard said, stepping back. “Light contact only. First to three hits wins. Stay within the ring; leaving it counts as a hit for your opponents. Use any technique that doesn’t cause injury.” He gave Edric a pointed look. “Given your reach advantage, I expect you to show appropriate restraint.”

  Edric nodded, taking the practice sword and shield offered. The wooden blade was short and far from the tools he knew.

  “Begin when ready,” Rennard called.

  Edric barely had time to adjust his footing before both halflings split apart, circling him from opposite sides. Classic flanking maneuver. He pivoted, trying to keep them both in sight.

  “First lesson, long-ears!” Twig called, bouncing on his toes. “We don’t fight fair!”

  Bramble engaged first. Their wooden blades clattered as Edric turned to meet him. Edric felt a sharp tap across his back a breath later.

  “Point!” Rennard barked.

  *Two on one, and he warns me about restraint?* Edric thought grimly, spinning just in time for Bramble to duck low and jab his side.

  “Point!”

  Edric backed to the edge of the ring that had been drawn into the soil, attempting to keep the halflings off his back. The duo didn't give him any time to regret that decision.

  Twig snapped his wooden blade at Edric's knees, while Bramble shield slammed him. Edric was forced backwards and stepped outside the ring.

  “Point and match!” Rennard called.

  Twig bumped shoulders with Bramble, both of them grinning. There was no mockery in their laughter—just the easy pride of a *clean* win.

  “That was pretty bad even for a first attempt,” Bramble mocked with an easy smile, offering a hand.

  Rennard approached, eyes running a critical line over Edric. “You think too much like a human—or an elf, now, I suppose.”

  “Meaning?” Edric asked.

  “You fight like you expect honor and fairness,” Rennard said, with an instructional tone. “That’s a luxury halflings can’t afford.” He gestured at the men around them. “We’re smaller, slower, not built for brute fights. Against demons or raiders, ‘fighting fair’ is just a polite way to die.”

  Edric raised a brow, deciding to be intrigued more than offended.

  "We have a doctrine to make it easy to remember," Renard spoke with a firm rhythm, voice carrying the weight of years spent drilling these lessons into fresh recruits.

  “There is no honor in death,” he began. “Honor’s vanity—and vanity will kill you faster than any blade.”

  “Never fight fair. Use every advantage. Outnumber your opponent four to one, or fall back. If the enemy’s ready retreat and come back when they're not.”

  “Ensure retreat is always an option. Two ways out, minimum. Never fight without them.”

  “Aim where it hurts. And don’t miss.”

  “Fear is an order—obey it.”

  “This is why we’re still here,” Rennard said finally, gesturing toward the walls rising around them. “Not stronger. Not braver. Just alive because we’re smarter about staying that way.”

  *It fits,* Edric thought. *A system designed for their size and numbers, for avoiding the enemy’s game.*

  “Now,” Rennard said, breaking his thoughts, “let’s see what you’ve learned. Twig, Bramble—give our Hero another round.”

  The second match went better. Edric stopped trying to cover both opponents at once, forcing one to block the other’s line of approach. A feint at Twig turned into a quick spin and light tap to Bramble’s ribs—his first clean point. The victory was brief; the halflings switched angles, slipping beneath his longer reach to steal back control and victory.

  By the third match, Edric had abandoned restraint altogether. When both charged, he hurled his shield low. Twig stumbled mid?dodge, and Edric struck cleanly. Rennard gave a curt nod.

  “Unconventional,” the General said. “Good start.”

  Several more bouts followed, each ending with Edric losing—less decisively than before. Sweat darkened his collar by the time Rennard called it.

  “Running drills,” Rennard ordered. “Twenty laps around the outer wall.”

  Edric glanced toward the stretch of packed dirt and uneven flagstones. *Manageable,* he thought. *Maybe.*

  “While carrying these,” Rennard added as two guards brought out small sandbags. “One in each hand.”

  The halflings hefted two sandbags each, sized for their frames. The ones handed to Edric were much heavier—scaled to his build.

  “Another principle of halfling combat,” Rennard said, wearing a smug smile. “We don’t run faster, so we run longer. Endurance determines survival.”

  The run was merciless. By the sixth lap, Edric’s shoulders burned under the weight, and his legs throbbed with each impact on hard-packed dirt. The halflings, their shorter strides deceptively steady, kept a rhythm that pushed him to the edge.

  When they finished, circling back to the bailey, Edric’s chest heaved, and his hair clung to his forehead, soaked through with sweat. His arms trembled as he set down the sandbags—but he stayed upright.

  Meanwhile, the guards were barely winded.

  “Clean up,” Rennard ordered, turning back to his men. “Same time tomorrow. And next time, bring a real bow. I’d like to see what the Herald’s *Ranger Hero* can actually do.”

  Edric left the yard sore but alert, his thoughts turning over what he’d seen. The halflings didn’t fight for glory or honor—they fought to live. It was brutally pragmatic, built on adaptation instead of strength.

  *I can work with that,* he thought.

  After watching their struggle, his focus hardened. *They need every advantage they can get.*