Chapitre 2: "The Squire's Gambit"(Revised)
My sword clashed with another squire's, the metallic ring echoing across the training grounds. He was a couple of years older, but even at thirteen, I was in better shape than most boys my age. Years of calisthenics had carved out a lean strength that gave me an edge.
We were sparring in the shadow of the Darke Keep, the dark stone walls looming behind us like silent witnesses. A few men-at-arms stood nearby, their sharp eyes assessing every move.
Clang.
The squire aimed a strike at my side, his moves as predictable as the rising sun. His swordsmanship lacked subtlety; each telegraphed attack told me exactly where he intended to strike. When he raised his blade for an overhead slash, I moved instinctively.
Tilting my sword, I caught the sunlight and reflected it into his eyes. He squinted, momentarily blinded.
That was all the opening I needed.
I sidestepped his clumsy slash and closed the distance between us. With a quick, calculated strike, I used the blunt edge of my sword to hit the hand gripping his blade.
"Ouch!" he yelped, his sword clattering to the ground.
Not wasting a moment, I drove my fist into his chin. The squire crumpled like a sack of potatoes, hitting the dirt with a grunt. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he groaned, clutching his jaw.
"Well done, Damien," came the booming voice of Ser Merywn, the master-at-arms. His tone was rich with approval as he clapped his hands. "That is the best swordplay I have ever seen."
My eyes met his. Ser Merywn—Merywn the Swift, as he was called—had eyes as dark as mine, a common trait among the men of House Darke. We shared a brief smile.
Truth be told, most of our soldiers were poorly trained. Years of decline had left our house with a reputation for mediocrity. Our men-at-arms were marginally better than levies, but not by much. Sparring with squires like this was easy sport—most were either too drunk or too tired to put up a decent fight.
Still, I chose my words carefully. "Well, I had a good teacher."
Ser Merywn's smile widened. "Your swordplay is perfect, my lord. But you need more than skill. You need experience."
He stepped closer, his voice lowering slightly. "A group of us are preparing to clear out some bandits who've been causing trouble. They've been raiding caravans and stirring up unrest. Would you like to accompany us, my lord?"
Now that was interesting.
I kept my expression neutral, though my smile never faltered. "Of course, I will come. Just give me some time to prepare."
Ser Merywn nodded, his satisfaction evident.
There was no deception in his voice or body language, but this was Westeros—a medieval world where trust was a fleeting concept. His invitation, though convenient, wasn't without risk. He could be plotting an "accident" for me during the raid.
If he tries anything, he'll be the one to have an accident, I thought grimly. Preparation was key, and I wouldn't leave anything to chance.
I turned away, already planning my next move.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone