Malkov Estate, Russian Countryside

His mind was still foggy from sleep, but the sharp clack of boots against the wooden floor forced him to focus. Standing at the foot of his bed was Viktor, arms crossed, an unimpressed look on his face.

"You sleep like the dead," Viktor remarked, his tone laced with disapproval. "Get up. Training starts now."

Severus groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Training?" he echoed, voice rough from sleep. "What sort of training requires waking me at—" he glanced at the clock, "—the crack of dawn?"

"The kind that determines whether you're fit to be heir," Viktor said coolly. "Get dressed. You have five minutes."

Severus clenched his jaw, already sick of hearing that word—fit. But he didn't argue. Instead, he swung his legs over the bed and stood, ignoring the slight ache in his muscles from yesterday's lessons.

Viktor watched him for a moment before turning on his heel. "Meet me outside," he ordered before striding out of the room.

Severus exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. He had a bad feeling about this.

The morning air was crisp as Severus stepped outside, dressed in fitted training clothes that had been left out for him. The training yard was empty except for Viktor, who stood beside a rack of weapons. Swords, daggers, and other brutal-looking instruments lined the stand.

Severus arched a brow. "I assume we're not discussing family history today?"

Viktor smirked. "No. Today, we see what you're made of." He tossed a wooden training sword at Severus, who caught it awkwardly. "Let's see if you can handle yourself in a fight."

Severus's grip tightened on the weapon as he eyed Viktor warily. "And if I can't?"

Viktor rolled his shoulders, drawing his own training sword with ease. "Then we'll have a problem."

Severus swallowed down his irritation, shifting into a stance he'd seen before. He knew he was at a disadvantage—he'd never trained with weapons before. Spells? Yes. But a sword?

Viktor didn't give him a moment to react.

In a swift motion, he swept Severus's legs out from under him, sending him crashing onto his back with a sharp thud. A pained groan escaped Severus as he glared up at the sky, stunned by the sudden attack.

"What the hell was that for?!" he snapped, wincing as he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

Viktor barely spared him a glance, his expression one of pure disappointment. He let out a scoff before bending down to retrieve Severus's fallen sword. "Your stance," he drawled, tapping the weapon against his palm, "is absolute rubbish."

Severus scowled, brushing dirt off his sleeve. "I was adjusting."

"You were flailing," Viktor corrected dryly. "Like some fool who learned swordplay from watching Muggle films."

Heat crept up Severus's neck. That was exactly what he'd done.

Instead, he pushed himself up, shaking off the dust clinging to his clothes. With a sharp breath, he swept his hair from his eyes and reached for his sword.

Viktor didn't hand it over.

Severus scowled. "Give it back."

Viktor twirled the blade effortlessly in his grip, inspecting its weight before letting out a sigh. "A sword is an extension of yourself," he said. "And yet, you wield it like a child swinging a stick."

Severus clenched his jaw. "Then teach me."

Viktor smirked, finally tossing the sword back. "Try to last more than a minute this time."

Severus barely had time to adjust his grip before Viktor lunged.

He raised his arms just in time to block the strike, but the force sent a sharp vibration up his arms. Gritting his teeth, he dug his heels into the dirt, trying to hold his ground.

"Better," Viktor admitted, but his next move was faster. He feinted left, then struck right, the flat of his blade smacking against Severus's side.

Severus stumbled, hissing through clenched teeth. He barely caught himself before hitting the ground again.

Viktor shook his head. "You think too much. Your body hesitates because your mind does."

Severus tightened his grip on the hilt. "Maybe my body hesitates because I was just woken up and thrown into a fight without breakfast."

Viktor's lips curled into a smirk. "Excuses don't win battles."

Severus glared, rolling his shoulders before shifting into a ready stance. "Then let's see who makes excuses when I get a hit in."

Viktor chuckled. "I'd love to see you try."

Severus didn't give Viktor the chance to strike first.

Without hesitation, he lunged low, aiming for Viktor's legs. The unorthodox move caught the older man off guard, forcing him to react on instinct. Viktor shoved Severus back, but in his quick defense, he failed to notice the boy's fingers closing around the hilt of his sword.

With a sharp tug, Severus wrenched the weapon free. The weight of it felt foreign in his grip, but he didn't let that slow him down. Stepping back swiftly, he raised both blades, his breath coming fast as he stared Viktor down.

For the first time since they started, Viktor looked genuinely surprised. Then, a slow smirk spread across his face.

"Clever," Viktor admitted, rolling his shoulders as he assessed Severus with sharp, calculating eyes. "But now what?"

He watched every shift in Severus's stance, every twitch of his fingers around the hilt.

"One thing you should always determine before stepping into a fight," Viktor continued, his voice even, "is whether you intend to kill your opponent—" his gaze flicked down to the wooden blades in Severus's grip "—or merely frighten them."

Severus's breaths came sharp and fast as he locked eyes with Viktor. His grip tightened around the wooden swords, his fingers flexing instinctively. He shifted his stance, his mind racing. What do I do?

Viktor tilted his head slightly, watching him with measured patience. "Well?" he prompted, taking a slow step forward. "What's your choice, kid?"

Severus's grip tightened. His instinct screamed at him to act, but hesitation clouded his thoughts. He wasn't a killer. He wasn't a fighter. He was a strategist—a survivor.

So instead of striking, Severus took a step back. Then another. His eyes never left Viktor's, gauging his reaction.

A smirk tugged at the older man's lips. "Interesting," he murmured. "You retreat, yet you do not surrender."

Severus's jaw clenched. "You said to know my intent before fighting," he countered. "I'm simply assessing my options."

Viktor let out a low chuckle. "And what have you concluded?"

Severus feinted left, twisting sharply as he aimed a precise strike at Viktor's exposed side. But before his blade could land, a sudden force slammed into him, shoving him back several feet.

His boots skidded against the dirt as he fought for balance, wind whipping his hair into his face. That was no ordinary gust.

Severus's gaze snapped to Viktor, his breath coming fast. Then, he saw it—the wand casually resting in the older man's hand.

"Magic?" Severus spat, hurling his wooden sword into the grass. "You used magic against me?" His voice was sharp with frustration.

Viktor didn't look the least bit remorseful. He twirled his wand between his fingers, watching Severus with that same unreadable expression. "And what will you do about it?" he asked coolly.

Severus stood frozen, his mind racing.

This is bloody ridiculous. I didn't sign up for this. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to grab his discarded sword. This was supposed to be training—actual training—not some humiliating exercise where I get tossed around like a rag doll!

His jaw clenched as his eyes darted back to Viktor, who was still watching him with that infuriatingly calm expression. Smug bastard.

Grinding his teeth, Severus forced himself to straighten. "This isn't training," he bit out, his voice sharp. "It's you showing off."

Viktor sighed, tucking his wand back up his sleeve. "You're mad," he stated.

Severus scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Brilliant observation," he drawled. "What gave it away? The part where you flung me halfway across the field?"

Viktor only raised a brow. "You're mad because you lost."

Severus bristled, his fingers curling into fists. "I'm mad because you cheated."

At that, Viktor let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Cheated? Magic is a weapon, just like that sword in your hand. If you don't know how to fight against it, you'll lose every time."

Severus opened his mouth to argue, but Viktor cut him off. "Tell me, what would you have done if that was a real fight? If I were your enemy and not your teacher?"

Severus faltered. He knew the answer, but he didn't want to say it.

Viktor smirked at his silence. "Exactly. You'd be dead." He took a step closer, his voice lowering. "Lesson one, Severus: never expect a fair fight. Your opponent will do whatever it takes to win. And if you're not willing to do the same, you might as well lie down and let them kill you now."

Severus couldn't move as he maintained eye contact with Viktor, his breath shallow, his jaw trembling. He knew Viktor was right. The world didn't fight fair, and if he wasn't prepared, he'd end up just another casualty. But the thought of admitting that—of accepting just how outmatched he was—made his stomach twist. He wasn't weak. He refused to be.

Straightening his spine, he forced steel into his voice. "How about you teach me to win instead of lying here, awaiting my death?" he challenged.

Viktor studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he stepped forward, gripping Severus's collar and yanking him up onto his feet.

"You want to win?" Viktor said, his voice low but firm. "Then stop acting like a petulant child and start listening." He released Severus with a slight shove. "Pick up your sword."

Severus clenched his fists, swallowing back the sharp retort on his tongue. Petulant child? He wanted to lash out, to prove Viktor wrong, but deep down, he knew that wouldn't get him anywhere.

Biting back his pride, he bent down, grasping the wooden sword once more. He adjusted his grip, forcing himself to focus. "Fine," he muttered. "Teach me properly."

Viktor smirked.

"Ok."