Sky Claw Kingdom
The clang of metal on metal, the grunts of effort, and the heavy breathing of men and women filled the air as swords clashed under the sun. The training grounds of the Sky Claw Kingdom were alive with the brutal rhythm of sparring soldiers and guards, their movements fast and unrelenting. Dust swirled in the warm breeze, catching the golden light, creating an almost ethereal haze around the figures engaged in combat. Each strike echoed not just with sound but with the weight of their shared histories.
Carl sat among them, drenched in sweat, his muscles aching but his mind as sharp as the sword resting between his legs. He had been watching for a while now, his eyes scanning every fighter’s movements, every strike, every defense, as if trying to imprint each technique into his brain. The air was thick with the scent of iron and effort, a tangible reminder of the sacrifices made on this very ground. His body may have been resting, but his mind never stopped working—always learning, always observing. He had to. There was no room for complacency, no space for failure.
His gaze flitted to a pair of fighters, both larger and more experienced than him, their swords clashing with the kind of precision and strength that only years of training could build. Each strike was a conversation, a statement of intent, and he drank in their techniques like a parched traveler in the desert. Carl’s focus was intense, the world outside the sparring ground fading into a blur. The shouts of encouragement and the occasional thud of a body hitting the ground faded into the background as he immersed himself in the choreography of battle. His long, sweat-soaked hair clung to his forehead, his chest rising and falling with the exertion of his earlier bout.
At thirteen, Carl was no longer the boy who had fled his kingdom five years ago. His baby fat had long since melted away, replaced with lean muscle, his arms and legs toned from years of relentless training. His skin was tanned from countless hours under the sun, his face more angular, reflecting the harsh realities he had faced. His light brown eyes, once filled with innocence and pureness of childhood, were now harder and more intense than they had ever been, like the steel of his sword—a testament to the fire that forged him. The boy who had lost everything to a dragon’s fire was gone, replaced by someone who had trained and fought every day since, driven by a singular purpose—revenge.Someone who had turned pain into power.
Despite his impressive physique, Carl had learned the hard way that strength was not everything, he had learned to rest when needed. It was one of the ‘Sisters of the Following’ who had taught him the value of balance, the necessity of rest amidst the grind of training.
“Train too hard without breaks, and you’ll burn out,” shehad told him, her eyes filled with a knowing kindness and understanding that had initially irked him. He hadn’t believed her at first. For the first few months, he had pushed himself to the brink every day, refusing to stop even when his body screamed in protest, driven by a desperate need to become stronger. He trained like a madman, ignoring his body’s warnings until he collapsed, panting and defeated, on the training grounds. Each fall felt like a failure, a reminder of the boy he once was—weak and afraid. But after after collapsing in the training grounds more than once and experiencing the crushing weight of exhaustion and the accompanying despair, he had come to appreciate her wisdom. Rest was necessary if he was going to be strong enough to face the future he was preparing for.
But even now, sitting on the ground with his sword propped across his legs, Carl's mind was far from restful. His thoughts always returned to the same place, to the same moment. That day, five years ago, when the dragon had come and taken everything from him. The memory was etched into his mind with a clarity that was both a blessing and a curse. He didn’t allow himself to forget it, not like the others.
There were other children at the orphanage with him,who had also lost their families that day, but they had moved on. They laughed, they played, they found new lives among the survivors. They had let go of the pain, had accepted their fate.
Carl despised them for it.
He clenched his fists, his knuckles white. ‘How could they forget? How could they just… move on?’
His father’s charred, lifeless body still haunted his dreams, a grotesque specter that refused to leave him alone. The smell of smoke and burning flesh lingered in his nostrils long after he woke, his hands trembling, clutching the sword he slept beside. No, he couldn’t forget. He wouldn’t let himself.
Those children were weak, and Carl despised weakness—detested it even. He had watched like a silent observer as they moved on—smiling, living, forgetting. They just accepted their new lives, grateful to have survived. The thought disgusted him. He would have rather died with his family than live in a world that let him forget.
But he wasn’t like them. He couldn’t accept a world where the dragon that had destroyed his home, his family, was allowed to live, or worse—die before he could face it himself. He had to find it, had to kill it with his own hands, or his soul would never rest, the soul of his father, his aunt and Keith would never rest otherwise. It was a weight that pressed down on him, heavier than any sword he had ever lifted.
His grip on his sword tightened, as the fantasies of vengeance played in his mind like a nightmare on repeat. His dreams had changed recently. He no longer dreamt of his father’s charred face or his aunt's cold corpse. Now, his dreams were filled with the dragon—his sword dripping with its blood, its massive body lying still at his feet. He imagined looking into its eyes, seeing the moment it realized that ‘he’ was the one who had ended it, the same one who it had killed his entire family and destroyed his home, that he was the one who had avenged his family. The image never left him—always vivid, the dragon’s eyes burning like fire, its ash-colored scales seared into his memory. Every night now, he relived that moment, the smell of smoke, the roar in the distance. It was the only thing that kept him moving forward. Without the dream, there was nothing left.
“Hey, Carl, you all right?”
The voice snapped Carl out of his thoughts, and he blinked, looking up to see Bran standing beside him, panting heavily. His beige colored hair was slick with sweat, his face flushed from their earlier sparring match. Bran was a noble, the son of a third-generation griffin rider family. His family had only recently risen to prominence, but Bran acted like he had the blood of kings running through his veins, though, he doesn’t have the same condescending and haughty air around him which Carl had noticed was prevalent in the common folk of the Sky Claw Kingdom when interacting with other people from different kingdoms, especially nobles, the few times he had seen them. He often carried himself with an easy confidence that made others gravitate toward him, while Carl felt like a shadow—a wraithclinging to the edges of this world, forever marked by the horrors of his past.
He was decent-looking, Carl supposed, though he wouldnever admit it. His features were sharp, his eyes a soft brown that contrasted with the sharp intensity of his fighting style—his family’s famed ‘Wind Sword Style,’ as he always said. Even with that, Carl had beaten him countless times, yet Bran kept coming back, as persistent as ever. Carl couldn’t understand it. He wasn’t sure why Bran had taken such an interest in him, a nobody, just some commoner orphan from a fallen kingdom, but the boy was relentless.
Bran plopped down beside Carl, groaning as he leaned back on his hands. “You should go easier on me,” he muttered, rubbing his side. “I think you cracked one of my ribs.”
Carl didn’t respond, his gaze drifting back to the training grounds, watching the sparring pairs clash, his thoughts still racing like a wild stallion. The fighters moved with a fluid grace that was almost hypnotic, each strike telling a story of years spent honing their craft. It was a brutal dance, but to Carl, it was beautiful—a symphony of sweat and determination.
“Seriously, Carl, you’re brutal in those sparring matches,” Bran continued, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “It’s like you think we’re fighting to the death every time.”
Carl finally glanced at him, his face expressionless. “We might as well be,” he replied, his voice flat. The true meaning of his words hung in the air between them.
Bran sighed dramatically, shaking his head.
“You’re impossible, you know that? Aren’t we supposed to be friends?”
Carl said nothing, his attention drawn to the archery range where a woman was practicing. She was the same woman who had found him at the northern gates of the IBEX Kingdom five years ago, the same one who had tried to help him after getting to the Sky Claw Kingdom,even though she had lost her entire family that day, just like he had, and though Carl had tried to push her away, she had persisted, checking up on him, watching over him as if she owed him something, her name was Lily.
She was probably still feeling remorseful about what had happened ‘that night.’ She shouldn’t be. Carl had told her over a hundred times, he did not hold what happened against her, and that, what had transpired that night wasn’t her fault, but she never listened and kept acting as if it was her fault. She even started coming to the training grounds after finding out he spent most of his time here, saying something like ‘someone had to keep an eye on him,’ and though Carl won’t say it or admit it, he appreciated her and her presence in his life.
She was the one who had given him the wooden necklacecarved and painted in the image of a daisy, which he wore around his neck, a trinket that had once belonged to her daughter—who bore the same name. He had refused it at first, but she had insisted, saying something about how his eyes reminded her of her daughter’s and though he had considered throwing it away, he couldn’t bring himself to do it, remembering the look in her eyes when she spoke about her family. Now, it was the only thing he had left from that day, that and his father’s knife. The bloodstain on the necklace, a remnant of her daughter's final moments, was a constant reminder of everything not only he but she had also lost. Of everything that still needed to be avenged.
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Bran watched Carl in silence for a moment, his face a little bit absent as if contemplating over something he has been wanting to mention for a while but couldn’t find the right time, before sighing and saying.
“You’re going to participate in the Ascendance Ritual in two years, right? When you come of age?”
Carl didn’t answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the archers, his mind drifting between the past and the future. Finally, he nodded softly.
“Yes. As soon as I’m fifteen, I’ll bond with a griffin.”
His words were laced with certainty, as if there was no doubt in his mind that he would succeed. It didn’t matter to him that the chances of not only being chosen by a griffin but also successfully bonding with a one were extremely slim. Carl ‘knew’ it would happen. Deep in his worn and haunted soul, he knew. It had to. He knew with absolute confidence. His unwavering conviction and resolve burning brightly in his chest. His heart always raced at the thought, the mere idea of soaring through the skies with a creature so powerful and majestic. It felt like a step toward reclaiming the power that had been stripped from him when he lost everything.
Bran laughed, the sound light and carefree. “You’ll be the first in your family line to bond with a griffin! You’ll be able to claim a place among the nobility…” but after seeing the expression Carl was making, his eyes widened in realization.
“oh… I didn’t mean too say that, I’m sorry.” he quickly added after realizing he had mentioned Carl’s family, forgetting for a moment the reason he was here in the first place. ‘You’re so dumb, why’d you have to go and say something stupid like that,’ he admonished himself in his head.
Carl’s jaw tightened at the word ‘Family.’ But he quickly loosened it and closed his eyes, as if trying to calm himself. ‘I can’t keep getting so emotional every time someone mentions my family, this won’t help me in the long run.’ he thought. But then his mind wandered to the other thing Bran had said ‘Nobility,’ and he almost scoffed just thinking about it. It that was of no use to him. He didn’t want prestige; he didn’t care about titles or honor. No. What he wanted was revenge. He wanted to stand over the dead body of the dragon that had taken everything from him and know that he had avenged his family. He wanted to cause it as much pain as possible and make it bleed, let it’s blood flow, slowly. And watch it as it takes it’s final breaths till it dies a miserable and painful death.
Then he opened his eyes and looked towards Bran.
“Don’t be stupid,” he muttered, before glancing away back to the men sparring.
“The griffins won’t care about who my family was. They’ll see me for who I am—just another orphan.” he said matter—of—factly.
Bran frowned at the statement, his expression shifting.
“Carl, you know the griffons don’t pick just anyone, right? They see through people, right to their core. That’s why so many fail—they can’t hide what’s really inside them." He paused, watching Carl’s face for a reaction. “They’re not just beasts. They know things.”
Bran sat back, studying Carl for a moment. “You push harder than anyone else out there. Always have,” he said quietly. “But I see through it, you know. The training, the sparring—it’s not just about getting stronger, is it?” His eyes softened. “There’s more going on. And maybe that’s why you’ll get chosen. Griffons... they will see the thingsI’ve seen. The real things.”
Carl didn’t respond, his thoughts once again drifting toward the memories of that fateful day. He could almost hear the roar of the dragon, the screams of the people, and the acrid smell of smoke filling the air. Each memory was a reminder of his purpose, and the ache of loss propelled him forward. Then he said.
“It doesn’t matter either way. It won’t change what I have to do.”
Bran nodded, though his expression was more cautious. “Yeah, I figured as much. Just… be careful. The royal family has their own agenda for doing all this. My father told me the ascendance ritual isn’t as simple as it seems.I don’t want to loose my friend.”
Carl remained silent. He knew Bran’s words were meant to be a warning, but they meant little to him. Nothing could stop him. Not the royal family, not the risks, not the odds stacked against him. His path was clear, and he would walk it, no matter what.
“Thanks,” Carl said quietly, his voice barely audible.
Bran blinked in surprise, his eyes widening. “Did you just thank me? Carl, I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say that word.”
Carl just kept quiet, his face already looking back to the sparring soldiers, his thoughts consumed by the ritual, by the griffin he would one day bond with, and by the dragon he would one day kill.
No matter the cost.
Bran nudged him gently, pulling Carl focus back to him. “Hey, life is not just about revenge, you know. This place—Sky Claw, it can be your new home. You can always try and start over, meet someone, settle down and live the rest of your life peacefully.” he said, his face one of concern.
Carl responded sharply, his frustration boiling over. “Home? You think this place can ever be my home? I have no home.” he spat.
“It took everything from me! There’s nothing left for me to call home, no one left for me to call a family. My father, aunt and even my cousin who was a brother to me are all gone. They are all gone. Their spirits appear in my dreams, crying to me, begging me to avenge them, to seek retribution so they can finally rest in peace. So no, I can’t just give up my revenge, I can’t just let it go and move one with my life like the rest. it’s the only thing keeping me sane.” he said almost shouting, his jaw tight, his nose flaring.
Bran’s brow widened in surprise again because this was also the first time he had ever heard Carl speak so much and with so much emotion, but he quickly overcame his surprise and said to him, sympathy and care in his voice.
“I know it’s hard, but you can’t let the past consume you.Because that’s all it is, the past, you have to let it go, you have to find peace so you can finally move on with your life. If you don’t, you’ll eventually lose yourself.”
Carl’s heart raced, the truth of Bran’s words colliding with the horrific memory always playing in his mind. A storm of emotions brewing inside him. But he couldn’t afford to lose himself. Not now. Not when vengeance was so close. He drew in a deep breath, trying to push down the turmoil that threatened to spill over. Everything he has done until now could not have been for nothing, his pain, blood and sweat cannot all be for nothing.
“Enough,” he said, the tension in his voice barely contained. “Easy for your to say, you haven’t lost someone precious to you, when you do you’ll end up just like me.” he said harshly before adding, this time a little bit more calmly with a resigned look on his face.
“I don’t think you understand. I have to do this—No, I need to do this.”
Bran’s eyes softened, empathy radiating from him. “Then train harder. Let your revenge drive you, but don’t let it define you.” he said, then he moved closer to whisper to him while watching their surroundings as if afraid someone will overhear what he is about to say.
“Killing a dragon is an impossible endeavor to take on, but I know I can’t change your mind. Also always ensure to hide your true desire from people, because Dragons are seen as sacred creatures in this Kingdom. Even after what happened to yours. Most people here believe in the teachings of ‘The Following of The Fire,’ and the Cardinals have been preaching ill about your Kingdom, how it caused and deserved its own destruction.” he said to him worry evident in his tone. He too was an avid believer, but now his otherwise strong faith in the teachings are beginning to wane, cause after seeing Carl’s suffering and the results of said righteous destruction upon the people, and no discernible cause, he started questioning his own faith. Then he finally added.
“They won’t take kindly to a boy saying he is going to kill a dragon. They’d rather sooner see you burnt alive before you can even think to trying.”
Carl's mind wandered to the teachings and preaching he has been hearing from the Sisters of The Following. He vaguely remembered it not being widely followed in his kingdom, only a small number of people were believers, because most people in his kingdom generally believed dragons were mindless beast who killed and ravaged as they please, with no intelligence to speak of. And he was of the same notion. Being a living witnessing to what happened to his kingdom, no one could tell him other wise. Because what had his father done to deserve such an ending, what had his aunt done, and what had Keith and the other children who died done.
As the vision of vengeance filled his mind, drowning out everything else. The eyes of his father forever imprintedin his mind, the flames consuming his home as the dragon soared overhead. He couldn’t afford to think of anything else.
“I can’t die yet,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Not until I find the dragon and make it pay.”
Bran placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Then I’ll try and help you as much as I can. But remember, revenge can’t be your only purpose. You need to find something worth fighting for—something beyond your pain.”
Carl stared at him, the vulnerability in Bran’s eyes shining through. Maybe he was right. Maybe there was a way to channel his anger into something greater than revenge. But how could he do that when the fire of vengeance burned so brightly inside him?
“Just promise me,” Bran said, squeezing Carl’s shoulder gently, “that you won’t shut me out. We’re friends after all.”
Carl nodded, the gesture feeling heavier than any vow he had ever made. He wasn’t sure he could promise what Bran was asking of him, because deep down, he knew he this was his fight, his battle alone to bear.
As the sun began to set, casting a warm golden hue over the training grounds, Carl eyes rested back on a pair of kids playing with wooden swords, and his mind wandered back to the time when he and Keith, used to play pretend knights, using sticks as mock swords, he always loss, Keith had always been much stronger than he was. He remembered how innocent and happy they were. Life was so peaceful back then with his dad and Keith’s mum watching over them from the distance. He had no worries, no nightmares haunting him, no pain wrecking him.
Bran was shocked again for the third time today because he could see a smile begin to form on Carl’s face, it seemed Carl was going to keep surprising him today with things he had never seen him do. But he also quickly noticed something else. The smile wasn’t a happy one but a sad one, and he had an absent look in his eye as if remembering the past. Bran just kept quiet at the sight and stayed by his said as a silent companion.