Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Ch 14: A young lad named Gray

THESE ARE POV CHANGE CHAPTERS FROM GRAYSON'S PERSPECTIVE!

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Grayson stumbled on his knees, palms scratching against the rough dirt floor.

Sweat dripped down his temples, as he heaved roughly, pressing a grimy hand on his dampened chest, where his heart almost burst against his ribs. A looming shadow fell over him, and he turned, shielding his face with a hand.

"Please, no more," he choked. "I can't take it."

A noise of dissent, before a large hand roughly hauled Grayson up.

"Oh, get up. I made you run ten laps, not wrestle a bear."

Cedric tossed Grayson a water flask, which he fumbled to catch. He took deep gulps, desperate for the soothing coolness in his raspy throat.

"Same bloody thing, you absolute maniac," he wheezed, leaning heavily against an old tree, his knees too weak to hold him up.

"How is he so out of shape? He's thin as a shoelace."

Grayson looked up through his mop of dishevelled hair at William. Marquess Hereford. He leaned against another tree, stretching his legs. He was sweaty, and his blond hair a mess, but he wasn't coughing up a lung like Grayson was. If he hadn't already been berry-red from the exertion, he would have pinkened in embarrassment.

"Being thin doesn't amount to health. Just look at this one," Hart said, jabbing a thumb in Grayson's direction.

Grayson wanted to say something snarky, but he wasn't able to. He contented himself with glaring at him, as he sunk to his feet in front of the tree. It wasn't very effective. Hart didn't even flinch. He simply tossed a sheathed sword at his feet.

"Now that we've warmed up, we can get onto the actual main event." He grinned gleefully and rubbed his hands.

That absolute sadist. Grayson could have cried. Not that crying helped. For the past weeks, Cedric had been training Grayson, and he had learned that Cedric Hart was not nearly as laid-back as he made out to be. Grayson had learned that the first day, when Cedric woke him up at the crack of dawn, before the bloody sun even came up, barking at him to get up and shower, because they had a long day ahead.

And what a long day it was. Even now, weeks later, he still wasn't completely used to the ruthless regime. It was wake up, train, do paperwork, meet with nobles, hold audiences, do more work and then train. Again. Hart insisted a minimum of four hours were necessary, the madman.

"Hold. Hold, Blackwell," Cedric barked, as Grayson scrambled to parry against Will's precise jabs.

His lungs ached and his thighs stung, but he gritted his teeth and kept going, ceaselessly clashing his sword against Will's, sidestepping his thrusts. He desperately tried to keep his guard up, attempting to strike a blow.

Will was too good. He advanced on Grayson until he had nowhere to go, and with a small wince, he thrust his dull tip and jabbed Grayson's covered chest. Grayson misstepped and tumbled, falling flat on his back. Again.

He breathed roughly and relished the cool ground against his body, as he closed his eyes and wiped the sweat from his brow. Grayson didn't mind losing. He wasn't particularly competitive. Especially if losing meant he could lay down and rest.

Let Hart have all the glory, all Grayson wanted was a bath and an eight hour nap.

When he looked up, Will peered down at him apologetically, extending a gloved hand.

"Sorry," he muttered tentatively, helping Grayson up. He scratched the back of his neck and winced as if resisting the urge to tack on more apologies.