He’d spent the better part of an hour trying and failing to block Lance’s blows, and he knew his friend was going easy on him. Arthur could hold his own with a foil, since fencing was more strategy than muscle, but he absolutely despised the broadsword. And it was almost like the weapon could tell.

Still, these practice sessions were helping. Even if they did mean sneaking into the armory before the rest of the castle was awake.

Arthur crossed to a table, where he’d set out a carafe and two glasses of water. He poured a glass for Lance and bolted down the other, trying to catch his breath.

“You should come train with the guard,” Lance suggested, draining his in one long gulp. “That’ll whip you into shape.”

“I can’t.” Arthur sighed. “They’ll stare.”

“No, why would they do that?” Lance protested, and then he grinned. “Oh, right, you did pull a sword from a stone.”

“Which is why everyone expects me to be able to swing one. The weapons master thinks I’m hopeless.”

“What did you expect? Until this year, the heaviest thing I saw you lift was a book.”

Lance absently hefted his sword, executing a complicated pass with ease.

“At least I never hung around the stables just to watch Master Raymond take his shirt off,” Arthur retorted.

Lance turned briefly scarlet, but then he shrugged. “Beauty is beauty. I admire it where I find it.”

“You find it too often. And in the worst places.”

“And you request two glasses of water at night with no one to warm your bed,” Lance returned. “Not that I’m complaining about staying hydrated. But everyone is wondering who you’re bedding.”

Now it was Arthur who turned red. He didn’t want anyone knowing about their early morning practice sessions. It was bad enough disappointing Lionel, the castle’s weapons master, but getting caught practicing extra and still being so terrible at it? The thought was too depressing. He’d rather suffer the court gossip.

Especially since he knew how badly he needed the practice. News from the north was getting grimmer by the day. And now that everyone thought he was this prophesied hero, he had to live up to their expectations. Somehow.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked hopefully.

“Fine, but you have to disarm me one more time before we’re through.”

Lance rammed his helmet back on and hefted his sword.

Arthur groaned. He was beyond exhausted. And yet he somehow managed to raise his own blade and square his stance.

Lance’s blow came too quickly, and he wasn’t ready for it. He stumbled backward, the blade narrowly missing his exposed side.

“Sard,” Lance swore, raising his visor. “I could have killed you!”