William walked in lockstep with the rest of his squad, following the hulking officer in front. They kept a reasonable distance as they went: too close, or too far, and they'd draw his ire. They were well practiced, by now; they'd been venturing out to the edge of the encampment regularly the past few weeks at Officer Axton's orders, for one-on-one spars.

  It was the best part of their training regimen, and the only part that William enjoyed. He, like most of his squad mates, had no fondness for repetitive drills. Mindlessly swinging a sword with little to no instruction did nothing to increase their skill, whereas real fights meant real experience. Unfortunately, they also meant real injury, and Axton seemed to derive great pleasure from it. The brutish man was a sadist that often let the fights drag on for just a little too long.

  They breached the edge of the tents, and into the clearing. William couldn't help but admire the sight with a smile; it was beautiful no matter how often he'd seen it. The sun was starting to set, and the grove of oaks were casting long, intricate shadows. The deep green of the trees' leaves were set against the vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges of the sky - a contrast that only served to enhance them both. Thick, rolling clouds drifted like a blanket over parts of the sky, sunbeams shining through their apertures.

  He'd grown up further north, closer to the Elwood proper, yet even here where the Elwood was at its thinnest, William still believed it to be one of the Seraph's most marvellous creations. The thought of other parts of the world even more bewitching was intoxicating to him.

  The squad finally reached their destination, and formed a passable circle around a particularly muddy area. William was thankful for the night's rainfall - nobody wanted to hit the hard, compacted ground if they could help it. As a matter of fact, a lot of them didn't want to fight at all: some of his squad mates were conscripted into mandatory service, and they made it very clear that they did not want to be here. Officer Axton would pick them more often.

  There were some new faces opposite him in the circle - members of the first new batch of recruits, who he hadn't yet had a chance to meet. He wasn't even sure where they were from, as they'd arrived only the night prior.

  "Alright, no time for fucking around - Anne, Reynard, you're up!" Officer Axton shouted gruffly, and rather unnecessarily; there was hardly another sound to be heard, save that of the gently rustling leaves in the calm winds, and the nigh imperceptible susurrations of the fauna.

  Axton was responsible for overseeing training for a handful of squads; he was a large, antagonistic man with little patience. He towered above most of the soldiers, and was quick to throw his weight around. William had learned that lesson the hard way, through the swift application of a black eye. He'd got it healed that very day, but he could have sworn he still felt a twinge there from time to time.

  The two that had been called upon made their way into the centre of the clearing with an odd indifference, amidst wolf whistles and catcalls from the other soldiers surrounding them. William had decided it wasn't worth keeping his attention on the two fighters - as soon as he heard the names he knew it was a write-off. His friends were competent fighters, but it was obvious that they'd pull their punches: relationships in divisions were technically prohibited, but it didn't stop them from blooming. Sure enough, upon reaching the centre, they practically dove into each other and were grappling awkwardly in the mud, laughing.

  His friends had managed some improvement during their service, as had William, but it was all in spite of their teacher, not because of him: Axton was not suited to teaching. William himself had managed a respectable improvement: he'd started his military career a relative novice, having only some small-time scuffles under his belt, and he could safely say he'd wipe the floor with his previous self. He'd overcome the poor quality of Axton's teachings through sheer determination: by giving his all in every kick, punch, and swing. He was now safely at the top his squad in terms of skill, which was a testament to his hard work, though the new squad members were liable to shake things up.

  William's thoughts were interrupted by Axton's barks of frustration. "Don't know why I bother with you two - waste of bloody time!" As far as William was concerned, frustrated was Officer Axton's default state; he wasn't sure he'd ever seen so much as smile cross the man's scarred face.

  The two combatants broke apart and began making their way back to the edge of the circle, slower than Axton would have liked. Reynard slipped in a particularly wet patch of mud and landed face first, getting a substantial laugh from his audience as he picked himself back up. It had lightened the mood, as his antics usually did, but it was fleeting. Whether it was intentional or not William would never know, but it certainly fit with Reynard's typical behaviour.

  Axton let out a low growl before shouting, "You lot aren't here for a laugh, you twats! William, Henry, move your lazy arses!" The man followed up with angry muttering that few could hear.

  William began his approach toward the centre of the circle with an effortless calm. He was no stranger to a fight: you couldn't be, if you'd grown up in Wealdham. In fact, he was quite looking forward to the fight - Henry wasn't a name he was familiar with, and the experience of a new opponent would do wonders to help him improve further.

  It would be one more step towards his goal of knighthood - a dream he had been following relentlessly since his youth. It was a common enough thing, for children to dream of becoming one of the honourable knights they had idolised, but unlike them William's ambition had never waned as he aged. He became a veritable paragon of virtue in Wealdham as he grew, aiming to embody the teachings of the Seraph and live up to the high standards of a knight.

  It was his path to knighthood that led him here, to this fight: the Seraphic Order only sought recruits from the military. He didn't much like the idea of fighting for the undefined cause of Duke Barrington, but how bad could it really be, in peace time? He felt like he was finally flourishing, and making meaningful progress towards his dream. All that was left was to finally become Blessed.

  William whispered a prayer, as he waited for his opponent to approach - something that had become a little pre-fight ritual for him. "Eát-hréeig an, ic eé hálsige: l?nan me eín m?gen-spéd, ef án a bert-hwíl."

  It was an old prayer, in a tongue no longer spoken; something he'd found out in the outskirts of his village, tucked away in a place that had been long forgotten. He still wasn't sure what it meant, after all these years, but there was an undeniable power to it: he swore that he could feel a connection to the Seraph upon its recital, one that only seemed to strengthen with time. He felt a warm pulse from within his mind that seemed to radiate outwards to the rest of his body. Placebo or not, William didn't know.

  This is it, he thought, I just need to push myself. He'd been working diligently this first year of his service, and he was certain that in his last spar he'd felt something unmistakable. I will get my Blessing. I'm sure of it.

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  His opponent, Henry, approached with steps that squelched in the mud. He wobbled a little, as he came to a stop, but regained his balance quickly. The boy looked at William with a calm intensity and subdued confidence that only excited William all the more. This is going to be a good one.

  "Good luck." William offered with a smile, giving Henry a friendly nod. The other boy nodded in return, short red hair shaking slightly. He was a similar size to William, in both height and build: tall and lean. It was a fair matchup - something that didn't happen often in the spars.

  William and his opponent circled each other, and eventually converged. Henry made the opening move, swinging at his head with a swift right hook. He barely managed to shift his weight and dodge, and inadvertently moved into to the path of a far stronger left-handed strike that connected with his shoulder and sent him staggering backwards.

  A fast paced exchange of blows followed, as the two combatants ducked and weaved between blows, in a surprising display of skill that far outstripped what would be expected of them. Unfortunately, William was fooled by a feint once more. A powerful kick hit his knee and his leg buckled, unable to bear his full weight any longer, and a sharp pain travelled up through his body. He fell into the mud.

  The crowd let out various noises: some of them empathetic. They'd all been in William's position at one time or another, and knew all too well how much that must have hurt.

  Gritting his teeth in pain, William managed to escape further brutalisation from the red haired boy's follow up attacks by rolling out of the way, but he was most definitely at a disadvantage now, and covered head to toe in filth. He took advantage of a momentary reprieve to stand, and felt pain flare in his knee as he shifted his weight.

  He held his ground as the fight continued, but was undeniably taking a beating. He at least secured a few hits of his own, though nothing quite as decisive as the one he'd taken to his knee. A few laughs hidden in the noise of the crowd were beginning to make themselves more apparent to William. This wasn't a position that he was used to being in, and it looked like some of his peers were enjoying the role reversal more than he'd have liked.

  William was having difficulty reading Henry, who seemed to constantly be one step ahead of him: if he stopped to think ahead, he'd be hit; if he didn't think ahead, he'd fall victim to some ploy, and he'd be hit.

  The two grappled for a moment, before Henry managed to push William away. The red haired boy charged forward, and threw out a wild punch that would have surely knocked William out cold - had Henry not lost his footing slightly. Even still, William stumbled backwards and fell, landing awkwardly on his wrist as he tried to cushion his fall. He let out a cry of pain, and held his wrist to his chest as his head span.

  Before William could regain his composure, Henry was already upon him, refusing to give him even the slightest reprieve. It took all William had to lift his arms and protect himself, but it wasn't as effective as he would have hoped. Even the blows he managed to defend against were causing a great deal of pain, to his injured wrist particularly, and he knew it'd only make him weaker if he even got the chance to retaliate.

  Henry was relentless, and gave William no quarter.

  With a great deal of effort, William managed to push Henry off, into the mud, and took the opportunity to scramble backwards and attempt to stand. He was still dazed, and swayed noticeably, struggling to keep himself upright as pain coursed through every fibre of his being.

  He was outmatched. He knew it. He'd never lost so decisively, neither in nor out of a spar. His mind raced, as he watched his opponent rise: could he really still win? There was wisdom in knowing when to cut one's losses - if he carried on and his injuries accumulated, he'd be out of commission for a lot longer overall. There would be no dishonour in forfeit, and no derision from his peers. It was the logical, obvious choice.

  Yet he chose to continue, in defiance of all reason: fighting for each breath, aching with every movement, and desperate to prove himself one of those rare Blessed few. He was out of options, to be sure, but not out of the fight. He'd keep going until his body betrayed him, just as he'd always done. William closed his eyes and took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders and wincing at the twinge in his wrist. His resolve would not falter. No matter the cost, he would see it through to the end. A knight would never give in.

  He opened his eyes, and panic consumed him in an instant. All sound had come to an abrupt end, and he found himself facing an oppressive, overwhelming darkness that stretched on endlessly. His body was not responding to him: all of his attempts to thrash, to scream, even to blink, failed miserably. He was trapped in an infinite void, with nothing but pain for company.

  He floated alone, for an unknowable and imperceptible amount of time: a boundless moment of isolation and terror.

  A distant, thunderous rumble broke the otherworldly silence, emanating from nowhere and everywhere, accompanied by a lone point of light far off into the void. Small as it was, it seared itself into William's eyes, and he was unable to stop himself from weeping at the sight. There was something within it: some beautiful, dreadful thing that marched ever closer as the rumble grew louder. There was an excruciating pop in his ears, as the sound reached its crescendo, and streams of blood trickled down his cheeks.

  The entity, whatever it was, was before him in all its unspeakable glory: undulating and stretching unnaturally, shifting constantly through unknown shapes and colours that overloaded his senses. No mere human could perceive this ethereal being. William tried desperately to avert his gaze, to no avail, and strained to keep his mind together as it began to fracture. A lone appendage reached out from the writhing mass, and slowly crept towards him. It made contact with his cheek, and his vision grew dark.

  Just as suddenly as it had come on, it was over - his eyes opened, and he was once again where he should be, as though nothing at all had happened. All memory of the event was gone, save for one undeniable truth: he had been touched by the Seraph. He had finally received his Blessing. It was a rather mundane experience, compared to the fantastical stories he'd heard as a child, but still quite jarring. Perhaps the stories were exaggerated, he mused.

  William observed Henry rising to his feet, and noticed him wobble as his feet settled on the awkward, muddy terrain. How have I not noticed that before? His mind jumped to previous moments - the red haired boy was clearly unsure of his footing. It was such an obvious opening, but he had been too preoccupied to notice it.

  Taking advantage of his new insight, William rushed towards Henry. Even as he ran, he could fully understand how the other boy was moving, and felt like he could predict how he might move next. It was as though there was more room in his mind - more space to dedicate to analysing the fight as it unfolded without limiting his ability to act. He felt incredibly and effortlessly focused, his unconscious mind filtering out any unnecessary distractions: all he could hear was the steady breaths of his opponent.

  William threw a punch as he got into range, simultaneously anticipating some sort of counter-attack from the other boy and planning his own next move. As soon as his fist was blocked, before Henry could retaliate, William hooked a foot behind Henry's leg and pulled it forwards. Henry was destabilised, and caught completely off guard. This was the opening that William needed to finally land a solid hit to Henry's jaw, and it knocked him onto the floor, though he wasn't out of the fight just yet.

  William took a page from Henry's book and climbed on top of him - perhaps the other boy would not perform so well when he was the one being pummelled into the mud. William hammered the boy anywhere he could, until Henry finally seemed incapable of defending.

  Time to end it, he thought reluctantly, and gathered all the remaining strength he could muster. William's fist made contact with Henry's face, and a sickening crack echoed throughout the clearing. Henry lost consciousness.

  William, panting, noticed that the usual mixture of cheering and booing that coincided with the end of a fight was now audible to him, and his vision was blurring. A sharp pain in his wrist made its presence known, and quickly blossomed into something overwhelming. He found himself letting out a blood-curdling scream as he tried to move his arm. There was a jagged white protrusion on his wrist, and his arm was drenched in blood - neither of which he had noticed in the heat of battle. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and he fell into the mud.

  "Fuck sake, I said that's enough! Where's the bastard healer?" Officer Axton yelled as he moved forward over to the two boys. The man peered down at William's limp body as he got close, and his expression twisted into outright disgust as he laid eyes on William's face.