the training yard with crisp precision. The morning sun was still low, casting long shadows across the palace grounds, but already the air was thick with the grunts and shouts of men at work. Lucien watched his new company—his company—move through their drills, sweat gleaming on their brows, muscles straining beneath padded gambesons and chain. He felt a surge of pride, tempered by the weight of what he'd asked of them and what he was building.
The king had granted his request, but not without warning. "Such power comes with a price. You will be watched. You will be tested. And if you fail—if you become what you fear—then I will be the one to stop you." Those words echoed in Lucien's mind each dawn as he assembled his men, each one handpicked for loyalty, potential, and a willingness to embrace something new.
He'd spent days in careful selection, drawing from the squires who showed initiative, the younger sons of minor nobles who hungered for glory, and even a few seasoned guards who'd proven themselves in quiet moments of crisis. Each man had sworn an oath—not to the king, not to the realm, but to Lucien himself. It was a dangerous precedent, but Lucien knew the dangers that lay ahead would demand a force bound by something deeper than tradition.
Their training was relentless, modeled after the ancient manuals Lucien had studied in the library and the hard lessons of his previous life. He remembered the words of Vegetius, the Roman whose treatise on military discipline had shaped generations of knights: "The recruits should be capable to march near 25 km in five hours. They should also run and jump regularly, and practice swimming when possible." Lucien adapted these principles, pushing his men to their limits.
Each morning began with a forced march around the palace walls, full armor and packs laden with stones. They ran obstacle courses, leaping over ditches, crawling beneath ropes, vaulting low walls. Lucien led from the front, never asking more than he would do himself. By the end of the first week, blisters and bruises were badges of honor.
Hand-to-hand combat followed. They practiced with wooden swords and shields, the weapons heavier than the real thing to build strength and endurance. Lucien drilled them twice daily—morning and evening—insisting on proper footwork, guard positions, and the discipline to strike and recover in unison. They learned to fight in pairs, then in squads, covering each other's flanks and moving as a single, living machine.
Ranged combat was not neglected. Lucien brought in an old bowyer to teach archery, and the men spent hours loosing arrows at straw targets and running javelin drills. On rainy days, they trained indoors with slings and throwing axes, their laughter echoing through the stone halls as they competed for accuracy.
Horsework was reserved for the afternoons. Those with their own mounts drilled in the outer paddock, practicing mounting and dismounting in full armor, riding at the gallop, and aiming spear thrusts at posts while maintaining balance. For those without horses, Lucien improvised—wooden frames served as practice mounts, and the men learned to vault and balance, to grip with their knees and control a steed with only their legs and voice.
Physical labor was woven into every day: chopping wood, carrying water, building and dismantling makeshift fortifications. Lucien had them dig trenches and fill them again, haul stones for new walls, and even dance in armor to improve their footwork and stamina. There was grumbling at first, but camaraderie grew. They were not just training—they were transforming, forging bonds that would hold when the world turned to chaos.
Lucien watched his men with a critical eye. He saw who tired quickly, who pushed through pain, who encouraged his fellows and who sulked at the back of the line. He rotated the squads, making sure no cliques formed, and rewarded initiative with small privileges—a better cut of meat, a night off duty, a word of praise in front of the others.
He also brought in tutors: a grizzled knight to teach wrestling and close combat, a retired scout to instruct in stealth and reconnaissance, and even a scholar to drill them in tactics and the history of great battles. Lucien insisted that every man learn not just to fight, but to think—to anticipate, to adapt, to act as more than just a sword arm.
The men responded. By the second week, they moved with a new confidence. Their formations were tighter, their strikes more precise. They learned to trust Lucien's judgment, to look to him for orders, to rely on each other. The palace staff began to whisper about the prince's company—the "Shadow Guard," some called them, for how they moved in unison, silent and swift.
Yet Lucien knew that training alone would not be enough. The danger he had spoken of—the reason he had begged his father for this unprecedented command—was no mere rumor. Reports had reached the palace of monsters gathering in the wilds, of villages razed in the night, of strange, dark magic at work on the borders. The Demon King's forces were stirring, and the old alliances were fraying.
One evening, after a day of drills and study, Lucien gathered his men in the great hall. The firelight flickered over their tired faces as he spoke.
"You have done well. You are stronger, faster, and more disciplined than when you began. But the true test is yet to come. There are threats in this world that do not care for our laws or our traditions. There are enemies who will not show mercy, who will not be swayed by titles or banners. When that day comes, you must be ready—not just to fight, but to endure, to protect, to lead."
He looked each man in the eye, letting the silence stretch.
"We are not just a company. We are a brotherhood. We are the shield that stands between the kingdom and the darkness. I chose you because I believe you can be more than knights—you can be legends."
The men cheered, their voices echoing off the stone. Lucien felt a surge of hope, tempered by the knowledge of what was coming.
That night, as he walked the empty corridors, Lucien's thoughts returned to the warnings he had received. Scouts had reported strange tracks near the northern border—massive clawed footprints, scorch marks in the earth, and the remains of livestock drained of blood. Merchants spoke of travelers vanishing on the roads, their wagons found days later, goods untouched but the people gone. There were rumors of dark figures seen in the woods, eyes glowing with unnatural light.
Lucien knew these were not mere stories. He remembered the night his world had ended—the roar of monsters, the crash of the palace gates, the betrayal that had shattered his family. He remembered the vow he had made, kneeling in the ashes: Never again.
Now, as he watched his men sleep, Lucien felt the weight of that promise. He would train them harder, push them further, make them ready for whatever came. He would not let the darkness win.
But as the moon rose over the palace, a horn sounded from the northern wall—a warning, sharp and urgent.
Lucien was already moving, sword in hand, his men rousing at his call. The danger he had feared was no longer a distant threat. It was here.