THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

Curiosity gnawed at David as he followed the guard through twisting corridors and under imposing arches. Ternion, this strange new world, remained a mystery. He yearned to understand the power levels it held, the magic that pulsed beneath its surface.

After all, the lord of Aethelwarin commanded a fearsome army, men who spat in the face of death and wielded strength that defied his earthly understanding. Excitement thrummed through him like a live wire. Finally, they reached a bustling hub - the training grounds. But a flicker of disappointment crossed David's face.

The designated area for mages, a place where he'd hoped to witness spells crackle and arcane energies writhe, lay deserted. "Seems the estate's mages aren't here today, young master," the guard observed, his voice gruff but kind. David shrugged, feigned nonchalance masking his curiosity. "No worries. Are those…" he trailed off, pointing towards a group of men engaged in a fierce dance of steel.

Their movements were honed, their muscles taut with practised power. "That, young master," the guard replied with a hint of humor, "is the Seventh Platoon. Seems they're using the dueling section today." David felt a surge of respect. It wasn't just magic that fueled this land; a warrior spirit, a relentless drive to hone their craft, permeated the very air.

The training grounds themselves were a testament to that, a stage where various platoons sharpened their skills, a constant symphony of clashing steel and gruff shouts. "Thank you," David said, dismissing the guard with a nod. The guard bowed smartly and melted back from where he came from. David was alone now, the din of practice a rhythmic counterpoint to the pounding of his own heart.

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This detour to the training grounds might not have revealed the magical secrets he craved, but it had shown him another facet of Ternion – its warrior heart, its relentless pursuit of strength. And perhaps, David thought, a touch of that wouldn't hurt him either. With a newfound determination, he strode towards the dueling section, ready to test his own mettle.

David navigated the bustling training grounds like a lone ship in a churning sea. Men in light leather armour danced a deadly ballet with swords and spears, their movements sharp and practised. Their gazes flicked to him, some curious, some openly hostile.

Whispers followed him like phantoms: "Who's that?" "Why is the trash of the family in this place," "he shouldn't be here." David ignored them, a steely resolve hardening his jaw. He couldn't help but bristle under the scrutinizing stares. He wasn't naive; whispers of his past tenant's mistakes echoed through the castle halls, painting him as a wastrel, an embarrassment.

But even a tarnished noble was still a noble, and more importantly, the son of the Earl. A flicker of indignant pride flared within him, he wasn't the previous David. He was better than that dead guy. Yet, a niggling truth snaked its way into his thoughts. He couldn't entirely blame them.

Those "nasty habits," as they so delicately phrased it, were a stain on his reputation, a self-inflicted darkness that cast a long shadow. His eyes snagged on a group gathered in a tight circle. Two figures stood in the centre, their movements a blur of metal and sweat. One, presumably an instructor, moved with the fluid grace of a predator.

His voice, a gravelly rasp honed by years of battle, cut through the air: "Leave your rear unguarded, and you'll be singing the lullaby of the fallen before you even know it!" He punctuated his words with a swift, brutal move. His opponent caught off guard, stumbled back, his spear clattering to the ground with a metallic clang.

A well-placed kick sent him sprawling onto the dusty training grounds, a plume of brown erupting around him. David watched. The raw power, the precision, it was a glimpse into the heart of Ternion's warrior spirit, a stark contrast to the magic he'd hoped to witness. But this, too, was a lesson.

Strength came in many forms, and perhaps, in this strange, new world, the ability to survive a well-placed kick was just as valuable as a whispered fireball. The instructor barked, his voice rough as sandpaper, "That's it for now, back to your positions!" The trainee stumbled back, sweat dripping from his brow, relief painting his features. "Next!" the instructor boomed, his gaze scanning the men.

A ripple of surprise passed through the fighters as David stepped forward. Heads swivelled, jaws slackened. What was the pampered lordling doing in their midst? David, ignoring the astonished stares, announced, "I would like to spar with you." The air crackled with disbelief. A mere noble, presumably more comfortable with silken cushions than a leather jerkin, dared challenge a seasoned fighter?

The men exchanged bewildered glances. Even the instructor couldn't mask his surprise. He bowed curtly, though a hint of annoyance flickered in his eyes. "Young master, we don't play games here. Please take your business elsewhere." David held his ground, his gaze firm. "I know," he replied, his voice steady, "and I'm not here for games." The instructor's jaw clenched.

Was this boy truly so clueless, or was he running his mouth? A sigh rumbled from his chest, heavy with exasperation. Finally, he met David's gaze, a flicker of challenge igniting within.

"Very well, young master," he conceded, "consider yourself warned." Then, turning to a young, nervous recruit standing on the sidelines, he called out, "Marvin, you will spar with the young master." A tremor of fear passed through Marvin's thin frame. He was a greenhorn, barely a week into his training. David, however, stood poised, a glint of determination in his eyes.

This wasn't a mere sparring match; it was David's baptism by steel, his chance to prove his worth in this harsh new world, and Marvin, unwittingly, was his unlikely opponent. Pity flickered in the soldier's eyes as they landed on David. The knew the young recruit's name - a fresh-faced lad barely a week into the gruelling training.

Compared to the pampered lordling, he was a seasoned oak sapling to a delicate hothouse flower. The other soldiers exchanged knowing glances, a silent chorus of "this won't end well" hanging heavy in the air.