Bastard Steel

Prince Rowan stood on the cold stone of his balcony, overlooking the bustling town of Dunmire. The early morning quiet was broken by the distant, rhythmic clang of the castle forge below, a welcoming sound of industry. From his vantage point, he watched the organized chaos of daily life.

Merchants hawking their wares, laborers moving with purpose on the palisade, and farmers tending their fertile fields in the valley beyond. The town, once merely a strategic outpost, was beginning to feel like a true hub under his direct control.

Beside him, SerDonal, the Steward of Dunmire, delivered his morning report. Around them, other administrative personnel gathered, their faces a mix of deference and focus. Daemon Bellgrave, as always, stood quietly to the prince's right, observing everything.

Lord Donal, impeccably dressed in the fine, dark velvets and embroidered silks befitting his station, began.

"My Prince," Donal affirmed, his voice resonating with quiet satisfaction, "the laborers have truly excelled these past two months. Iron production has seen a significant increase, thanks directly to the rise in personnel, a direct result of your generous wage increases. The people work with a renewed vigor on the palisade. I'd reckon it will be completed within the month. Furthermore, our farms are close to harvest, promising a substantial surplus of food to feed our populace through the coming winter."

Rowan nodded, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. "Good. That is very good." He turned to Daemon. "And have we heard back from Lord Valerius?"

Daemon nodded in return. "We have, My Prince. The raven he sent confirms his eagerness to join you for a feast and tournament. He states he will arrive within a fortnight." Daemon handed a crisply folded letter to Rowan, who scanned it quickly, a smirk playing on his lips. House Valerius, a pivotal loyalist, confirming their full support for a public display of unity was exactly what he needed.

"Excellent, truly excellent," Rowan murmured. "And the coffers, Master Darren?" he asked, turning to Dunmire's Master of Coin.

Darren, a stout man with shrewd eyes, beamed. "Very good, My Prince. The coffers are gaining coin by the day, ever since your arrival and the taking of the keep. The recent caravan, laden heavily with processed iron, has brought us a considerable influx of coin, enough to bolster our reserves and fund further improvements."

"Very good." Rowan turned to Dame Holland, but her gaze was fixed intently on the courtyard below, lost in thought, the rhythmic clang she was hearing clearly not from a blacksmith's forge.

"Dame?" Rowan prompted, snapping her out of her reverie.

"Oh, yes, apologies, My Prince," she said, blinking. "Our garrison is doing well. Captain Casterman is training our men and women with impressive results. The new recruits are shaping up quickly."

"And our numbers?" Rowan pressed, his focus sharpening.

Dame Holland's expression grew complicated. "Well, My Prince, while our forces are growing in quality, our numbers are still only around two thousand. This includes your original retinue that arrived with you. The keep itself only had about five hundred men manning its walls and guarding the town proper. Many young adults from the surrounding villages are indeed traveling to Dunmire to serve their Prince, eager for purpose and pay, but recruitment still needs to accelerate if we are to project true power." She finished, earning frowns from the surrounding administrative personnel, who understood the precariousness of their position.

"Yes," Rowan acknowledged, biting his finger in thought. "The alliances with the other Lake Duchies houses will be of paramount importance. Lord Reynard and Lady Blackwood have already agreed to officially banner under me, given their strategic positions and their long standing feuds with Manfree's faction. Their numbers will soon be added to ours, as will, hopefully, Lord Valerius's. If we can secure House Valerius, a house of such martial renown, we can then truly bring the necessary pressure to bear on the opposing houses."

His gaze drifted from the administrators below to the clanging sounds emanating from the courtyard, not the heavy strike of hammer on anvil, but the sharp, ringing clack! of steel on steel.

Down in the inner keep's training ground, within the courtyard of the second wall, Lucan and Kaelen were locked in a brutal sparring match. Shirtless, their bodies glistening with sweat, the fresh scars of their recent lashing a stark roadmap across their backs. Their wounds, miraculously healed by the royal surgeon's potion, now served as silent, painful reminders of their new allegiances.

Since their punishment and subsequent relocation to a chamber within the inner keep, with the freedom to roam its grounds but not leave the castle walls. Lucan had shown a keen interest in Kaelen's unique dual wielding style, asking for lessons.

And now, both men wielded two longswords, the steel singing as they moved with a deadly grace that captivated anyone who witnessed it. This wasn't merely practice, it was evidence to years of fighting for survival, of countless life or death encounters. 

The two fought like animals, like the spar was to the death. The way they fought was full of trust, and they knew when to lesson blows that actually connected.

Kaelen moved like a whirlwind, his two blades a blur of motion, one high, one low, always searching for an opening, always pressing the attack. His movements were direct, powerful, honed for efficiency and brutal effectiveness. "Higher, Lucan!" Kaelen barked, his voice tight with exertion, cutting through the clang of steel.

"Your off hand is dragging! It's a second threat, not a damn anchor!" He spun, his left blade a sudden flash that forced Lucan to awkwardly parry high, exposing his ribs. Kaelen's right longsword slammed flat against Lucan's side with a jarring thump. "Too slow! You're thinking about the weight. Feel it, don't fight it!"

Lucan grunted, breathing hard. He knew Kaelen was right. While his mother had taught him the grounded, two handed longsword style, the transition to dual wielding felt like trying to write with his off hand.

The second blade felt cumbersome, heavy, constantly throwing off his balance. "Easy for you to say, you've been doing this since you could walk!" Lucan retorted, adjusting his grip, his brow furrowed in concentration. His arms ached, the unfamiliar strain burning in his shoulders and wrists.

Kaelen pressed the attack, a relentless flurry of strikes that danced around Lucan's guard. "It's not about strength, lad, it's about flow!" He feigned a high left thrust, drawing Lucan's desperate parry, then seamlessly dropped his blade low, slipping inside Lucan's guard with his other sword.

"See? Predictable! You telegraph that high block like a beacon!" Kaelen's training blade came to rest an inch from Lucan's throat. "Your eyes follow the first blade, but you're blind to the second. That's how they get you."

Lucan pushed Kaelen back, resetting his stance, frustration etched on his face. "This is harder than it looks."

"It's supposed to be," Kaelen said, his eyes sharp, reflecting the sunlight glinting off their blades. "You're trying to use two longswords like two daggers. They're not. They're extensions of your reach, a net to tangle them in. Keep your off hand high, ready to deflect or deliver a snap cut. Don't commit both arms to one block." He demonstrated, his left arm moving independently, a fluid counterpoint to his right, a subtle, almost effortless motion that betrayed years of mastery. 

They resumed sparring, the rhythmic ring of steel echoing across the courtyard. Kaelen, with the effortless grace of an expert, seemed to weave his two blades, one always threatening, the other probing for an opening. His style wasn't just dual wielding, it was a symphony of coordinated aggression and defense, each blade complementing the other in a deadly dance.

Lucan focused, trying to emulate Kaelen's fluidity, to let his instinct guide the second blade rather than fighting its weight. He stumbled, recovered, and parried a rapid thrust from Kaelen's left. His own right blade came up, pushing Kaelen's away, and for a fleeting moment, his left blade found an opening, a quick, low thrust that Kaelen barely deflected with a subtle shift of his guard.

"Better!" Kaelen grunted, a flash of approval in his eyes. "You're getting there. Keep the weight out of your mind, and let your body remember the rhythm."

Each clang of their blades echoed with a quiet ferocity, a testament to their shared past and their uncertain future under the prince's banner.

It was a rigorous, punishing display, and Prince Rowan knew as he watched, with a certainty that settled deep in his gut, that these two men, once his enemies, were precisely the kind of force he needed to secure his hold on the Lake Duchies.