Four Years Ago

Mornings like these always seemed the worst—the dampness in the air, the fog wrapping itself around the stone walls of the estate like it wanted to smother everything. Even at that age, Kael was used to it. The endless training sessions, the demands of his father, the silent disapproval of Master Veric, whose barked orders seemed to take up more space in the air than the sound of clashing swords.

The courtyard was cold that morning, and the ground slick with dew. The dampness clung to everything—Kael’s boots, his clothes, even the blade in his hand felt heavier, weighed down by the wet air. He could smell the earth, thick and loamy, rising up from the dirt-packed floor, mixing with the metallic scent of sweat and steel. The mist curled around his ankles, reluctant to leave as the sun slowly rose behind the gray clouds.

“On your feet, boy!” Veric snapped, his voice sharp as a blade and just as unforgiving. The old swordmaster was a hulking figure, his broad shoulders and thick beard making him look more like a bear than a man. His eyes—cold and always judgmental—narrowed as they focused on Kael, standing in the middle of the courtyard, sword lowered.

Kael had already been at it for hours. His muscles ached, the sweat stinging his eyes, but he didn’t dare show it. Not in front of Veric. Not in front of anyone. Pain was part of the lesson, they said. Pain was a teacher, one that never stopped talking. And right now, Kael was listening.

He gripped the sword tighter, feeling the worn leather of the hilt slick under his fingers. His breath fogged in front of his face, rising into the damp air like smoke, and he squared his shoulders, forcing his body to keep going even though every muscle screamed for him to stop.

Two men stood across from him. Father’s men, elite guards who had seen more battles than Kael had seen winters. They weren’t going easy on him either. They’d been told not to. Kael was the heir to the Raventhorn name, and he had to earn that title, even if it meant being beaten down by grown men twice his size.

They weren’t smiling. They never did. These men weren’t here to mock him for being thirteen—they knew better. They respected his skill, even if they didn’t show it. They knew that even at this age, Kael could hold his own. But that didn’t mean they’d go easy.

Kael rolled his neck, feeling the tension there, his breath coming in steady, slow. His sword felt heavy—not from its weight, but from the expectations wrapped around it. It wasn’t that he couldn’t wield it. He was good. Too good, sometimes. But the sword had never felt like it belonged to him. It was just... there. Like a piece of clothing that fit but was never really comfortable.

“Let’s get this over with,” Kael muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He glanced at the two guards, eyeing their stances, already predicting how this fight was going to go. “If I finish fast, maybe I’ll make it to breakfast.”

The taller guard, a man with a scar running the length of his jaw, shifted his weight, his grip on his sword tightening. The shorter one—broader, built like a barrel—began to circle to Kael’s left, his eyes cold and focused. They moved like wolves, coordinated and patient, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Here we go... Kael thought.

The first attack came from the taller guard—a sweeping, powerful strike aimed straight for Kael’s shoulder. Kael stepped into it, raising his sword to meet the blow. The clash of steel rang out in the courtyard, loud and sharp, cutting through the fog like a crack of thunder. The impact jolted up Kael’s arm, but he didn’t flinch. His muscles tightened, and he pushed the blade away, pivoting to avoid the second strike coming from the shorter man.

The sound of their boots scraping against the wet stone was all Kael could hear for a moment, everything else fading into the background. His breath came faster, his focus narrowing. He blocked another blow, then another, his body moving almost on its own, a blur of parries and dodges. But no matter how good he was—no matter how fast—it all felt hollow. Empty.

He could hear Veric barking orders in the distance, but he wasn’t really listening. The words were just noise. The sword was just noise.

Another strike, this time from both guards at once. Kael ducked, his feet sliding on the wet stone as he brought his sword up in a defensive arc. The sound of steel clashing with steel echoed again, sharper this time, the reverberation rattling his bones. His muscles burned, his fingers numb from gripping the hilt for so long.

“You’re hesitating!” Veric’s voice cut through the mist, sharp as always. “Keep moving!”

Hesitating? Kael thought, his teeth gritted. Maybe because I’ve been at this for hours and I’d rather not collapse. He ducked under another swing, feeling the rush of air as the blade narrowly missed his shoulder.

He twisted, bringing his sword around to deflect another blow from the shorter man, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. His chest heaved, and his arms felt like lead, but he couldn’t stop. He never stopped. Not in front of them.

“Come on then,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible over the clang of steel. “You can do better than that, can’t you? Or am I going to have to start fighting with my left hand just to make this interesting?”

The taller guard snarled, his eyes flashing with annoyance. He lunged again, his blade cutting through the air in a wide arc, aiming for Kael’s chest. Kael sidestepped, feeling the sting of sweat in his eyes as he deflected the blow, his arms trembling with the effort. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath ragged.

This is pointless.

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Every time he fought, every time he won, it was the same. He was better than most of the men on the estate. Even Veric admitted as much. But no matter how many times he bested his opponents, there was always another fight waiting. Another expectation.

The shorter man came in low, his sword slicing toward Kael’s legs. Kael twisted, barely blocking the strike, the impact sending a sharp jolt of pain up his arm. He cursed under his breath, stepping back to regain his footing. His boots slid against the slick stone, and for a moment, he thought he might lose his balance.

“You’re getting sloppy, boy,” the taller guard said, his voice low and taunting. He moved in closer, his blade raised.

Kael grinned, though there was no humor in it. “Sloppy? You sure you’re talking about me?”

The guard’s smirk faded, and he attacked again, his strikes coming faster now, more aggressive. Kael parried, his sword flashing in the misty air, but he could feel the fatigue setting in. His muscles screamed, and the hilt of his sword felt slick in his hands.

Enough of this.

Kael’s breath hitched as he saw an opening—a small gap in the taller man’s defense. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Without thinking, he lunged forward, his blade slicing toward the man’s exposed side. The guard barely had time to react, his eyes widening as Kael’s sword stopped just inches from his throat.

For a moment, everything went still. The mist hung in the air, thick and unmoving, the only sound the ragged breathing of the three men in the courtyard. The guards stepped back, lowering their swords, their expressions a mix of frustration and grudging respect.

“Well done,” Veric said, his voice devoid of any real approval. He stepped forward, his eyes hard as they raked over Kael. “But you’re still too slow. You’re relying on your speed and luck. One mistake, and you’ll be dead.”

Kael sheathed his sword, the familiar weight of it settling at his side. His arms ached, and his chest heaved, but he forced his expression to remain neutral. He wasn’t going to give Veric the satisfaction of seeing his exhaustion.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Kael muttered under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Really uplifting.”

Veric’s sharp eyes narrowed. “What was that?”

Kael raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “I said, I’ll be faster next time, Master Veric.”

“Dismissed,” Veric snapped, already turning away, his boots thudding heavily against the stone as he walked back into the fog.

Kael exhaled slowly, feeling the tension drain from his body. He didn’t wait around for the guards to say anything. Instead, he turned and made his way toward the edge of the estate, his steps slow and deliberate as the weight of the morning settled into his bones.

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The path away from the courtyard led down through a narrow trail, just beyond the estate’s stone walls. The path wound through the edge of the forest, where the towering trees loomed overhead, their branches forming a canopy that blocked out much of the sky. It was quieter here. Cooler. The smell of damp earth and pine filled the air, a welcome change from the metallic tang of sweat and steel that still lingered in his nostrils.

Kael’s boots crunched softly against the dirt and stones as he walked, his pace slow, as if dragging himself away from the weight of the world on his shoulders. His sword thumped lightly against his side, but the blade felt like a burden, not a tool.

Faster. Dead if you hesitate. Always the same. He could still hear Veric’s voice in his head, repeating the same old lines. They were drilled into him as much as any sword technique.

The trail led toward the Elisar River, a winding, silver streak of water that cut through the landscape like a vein. Kael had come here often, seeking some form of peace. Out here, the demands of being the heir to the Raventhorn name seemed distant, almost like a bad dream. At least the trees didn’t judge him, didn’t care if he was fast enough or strong enough.

He reached the riverbank, the soft murmur of water flowing over smooth stones greeting him like an old friend. Kael knelt by the edge of the river, dipping his hands into the cold water and splashing it over his face. The shock of the cold stung, waking him up in a way the morning’s training hadn’t. His skin prickled, and the fatigue that had settled into his bones seemed to lift, if only for a moment.

The water was clear, reflecting the muted sky above. Smooth, grey stones lay beneath the surface, worn down by years of flowing currents. Kael had always liked this place. It was quiet, simple. There was no shouting, no pressure to be the best, to meet some impossible standard set by his father.

He sat back on his heels, wiping the water from his face, and closed his eyes. For just a moment, he let himself imagine a life without the sword. Without the endless drilling and lectures about responsibility. What would that even look like?

Maybe I’d be a fisherman, he thought wryly, opening his eyes to stare at the river. Or maybe I’d run away and join a troupe of minstrels. Wouldn’t that be something? Sing my way across the land instead of slicing people open. Bet Veric would love that.

The thought brought a tired smile to his face, but it was fleeting. Reality always had a way of crashing back in, like a wave smashing against the shore. Kael sighed and stood up, brushing the dirt from his trousers. He could already hear the clang of steel from the courtyard in his head, the weight of expectation pressing down on him again.

As he wandered along the riverbank, something glinted in the mud near the water’s edge, catching his eye. Frowning, Kael knelt down and brushed away the dirt and moss, revealing a small, weathered dagger. The blade was dull, chipped in places, and the leather wrapped around the hilt was frayed and worn with age.

It wasn’t much to look at—nothing special. Certainly not the kind of weapon his father would approve of. But something about it drew Kael in. He turned it over in his hands, examining the rough craftsmanship, the way the blade felt oddly balanced despite its age and wear. It wasn’t valuable, and it wasn’t particularly sharp, but it had a certain... presence.

“Not exactly a treasure,” he muttered, his voice carrying only a hint of amusement. “But I’ve found worse.”

The dagger was small, much lighter than the sword he carried, and the blade had clearly seen better days. Still, Kael liked the way it felt in his hand. There was something real about it—something grounded in the way it had been used, worn down, and forgotten.

No one had polished it or honed it to perfection. No one had whispered that it needed to be flawless to be worth something. And maybe that was what Kael liked most about it. It was a relic of a different kind—useful, but not flashy.

“Well,” Kael said to the dagger, as if it could understand him, “looks like you’re mine now.”

He slid the dagger under his belt, its weight a small but satisfying reminder that not everything in his life was predetermined by someone else.

As he stood, the wind picked up, rustling the leaves in the trees overhead. The sound of the river, steady and unchanging, filled the quiet around him. Kael took a deep breath, letting the smell of damp earth and pine ground him. For now, this was enough.

He lingered by the river for a while longer, watching the water flow past, listening to the quiet hum of the world around him. The mist had started to lift, just slightly, and the gray sky above seemed brighter than it had been when he left the courtyard.

Eventually, though, reality crept back in, as it always did. Kael could hear the distant clatter of swords from the training yard, Veric yelling something indistinguishable, the murmur of voices coming from the estate. The world was waiting for him, with all its demands and responsibilities. But as he turned back toward the estate, he kept his hand resting lightly on the hilt of the dagger, a small reminder that not everything in his life was out of his control.

Maybe the sword wasn’t his. Maybe the path ahead wasn’t one he would have chosen. But the dagger? That was something he had found for himself.

And in a world where everyone else seemed to decide his future for him, that felt like enough.

For now.