Silas and Rowan strolled side by side, the energy from the breathtaking jester’s performance still buzzing between them.
“That was something else,” Silas said, his voice tinged with lingering awe. “I knew the history behind the war, but seeing it through the jester’s dance... It gave me chills.”
Rowan grinned, a touch of pride in his expression. “Aren’t you glad I got you out of bed for that?”
“Probably the best thing you’ve done all month,” Silas teased, a smirk playing on his lips.
Rowan laughed, the sound light and carefree. “Just don’t let it go to my head, alright?” His grin held a hint of embarrassment, quickly masked by his playful demeanour.
Their footsteps echoed softly as they continued toward Rowan’s home, the conversation naturally drifting back to the jester’s performance. But as they reached Rowan’s door, Silas hesitated, casting a quick, nervous glance around.
“Rowan, thanks for waking me up. But... you know my father wouldn’t be too thrilled about me watching that. He thinks I should focus more on training.”
Rowan’s smile faded slightly, his brow furrowing in understanding. “Yeah, I get it. With a war counsellor for a father, I guess you don’t get much leeway.”
Silas sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Hmm... Maybe, he just wants me to be prepared for any dangers that may come my way.”
Rowan nodded, “Well, don’t worry. You’ll figure it out. And hey, sword practice tomorrow?”
Silas’s mood lifted at the mention of training. “You bet. I’ll see you then.”
As Rowan disappeared into his house, Silas lingered momentarily, his thoughts drifting to Lonestar Manor. His eyes settled on the grand hall, a space that exuded a quiet grandeur. At its heart stood a display case, inside which rested the Starfire Blade—a symbol of his family’s storied past.
The Manor was a testament to the clan’s power and prestige, with its gleaming white marble and the stern statues of past Remingtons lining the hallways. Stained glass windows depicting battles and victories cast vibrant hues onto the polished floors, reminding Silas of the warrior spirit that ran through his veins.
The Starfire Blade, however, was more than just a weapon. Its dark, star-flecked obsidian hilt and shimmering Ashtralsteel blade held a legacy that Silas felt in his very bones. He traced the stylized star insignia on the guard—a mark of the Lonestar family—with a reverent finger, a silent vow forming in his heart. One day, he would be worthy of wielding this blade, of upholding the Lonestar name and the legacy his father so fiercely protected.
As these thoughts swirled in his mind, Silas was jolted back to reality by a familiar voice.
“Young master, dinner’s ready. Will you wait for the master, or should I serve you now?”
It was Lian Chen, his father’s loyal attendant. Uncle Chen, as Silas affectionately called him, was a man in his later years but still brimming with vitality. Despite his age, there was a spark in his eyes and a strength in his movements—a testament to a life of hard work and discipline.
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“I’ll wait for father,” Silas replied, carefully placing the Starfire Blade back in its case.
Soon after, Sullivan returned home, and the dining table was set—a four-course meal, complete with a sweet dish. Over dinner, Silas and his father discussed sword techniques. Sullivan offered tips that Silas absorbed with the same dedication he had brought to his training. The conversation was serious but not without warmth—a shared bond forged through tradition and expectation.
☪︎ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･❂
The early morning sun painted Silas’s room in a warm, golden hue, its light filtering through the windows as if to remind him of the day’s responsibilities. As the sole successor to the Lonestar line, the weight of his family’s honour rested heavily on his young shoulders—a responsibility he had always carried with quiet determination.
Strapping a wooden sword to his waist, Silas set out for his morning practice.
The training grounds lay just beyond the estate, where the mist clung to ancient trees, gradually giving way to the sun’s warm rays. The sweet scent of freshly cut grass mingled with the dewy fragrance of wildflowers, creating a peaceful backdrop for Silas’s intense focus on training.
Despite being only eleven, Silas understood the importance of self-defence in a world where peace could be fleeting. Though he couldn’t yet tap into the mystical Soul Arts like his father, he poured his heart into mastering the sword. His father’s teachings echoed in his mind, emphasising the holy trinity of weapons—sword, spear, and bow. The sword was his current focus, a weapon he had become adept with after two years of training.
As the first rays of dawn broke through the mist, Silas began his routine. The wooden sword felt like an extension of his body, each strike and parry a carefully honed dance of precision. But his dedication was more than meeting his father’s expectations; it was about preparing himself for the world’s uncertainties. Amberheart might be peaceful now, but history had shown that peace was often short-lived, and warriors like him were needed to defend their homeland.
Lost in the rhythm of his swordplay, Silas’s thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.
“You’re early again,” Rowan called out, his grin evident in his tone.
Silas smirked, not breaking his rhythm. “That’s why I’ve got more wins than you.”
Rowan rolled his eyes, stepping into the clearing with his own wooden sword. “Don’t start with that so early in the morning, or I’ll kick your butt in the morning.”
The two friends squared off, their wooden swords clashing with a satisfying thud. Rowan’s strength lay in his unpredictable movements, his attacks a flurry of feints and jabs. But Silas countered with a steady defence, his focus unwavering.
They sparred with intensity, yet their banter never ceased. “Seems like you got some extra practice in this morning,” Rowan teased, sweat beading on his forehead.
“Just upholding the family tradition of winning,” Silas retorted with a grin, his movements fluid and precise.
Rowan launched a rapid series of strikes, trying to overwhelm Silas. Still, Silas blocked each one with practised ease, his defence solid.
Finally, Rowan stopped, slightly out of breath. “Alright, alright, you win today,” he conceded, lowering his sword.
Silas laughed, sheathing his wooden blade. “Maybe you’ll catch up next time.”
Despite the playful rivalry, a strong camaraderie could be felt in the air. They sat together on a nearby log, letting the cool morning air wash over them as they caught their breath.
Rowan nudged him with his elbow. “Well, keep at it. The world needs more skilled warriors like you... even if you’re a bit uptight sometimes.”
Silas chuckled, shaking his head. “Like us, you mean? You’re not so bad yourself.”
As the sun climbed higher, casting its warm glow on the clearing, their laughter mingled with the birdsong—a testament to their strong friendship and the bond forged through countless hours of shared effort and determination.
After resting for a while, they began the walk back home. When Silas reached his house, he found his father deep in thought, frowning at a parchment he was reading.
Silas paused, sensing a shift in the air. Something was brewing, and whatever it was, it was bound to test the strength and resolve he had been carefully honing.