The clang of wooden swords echoed through the orphanage yard, followed by laughter and the occasional shout of a name. It didn’t matter whose name it was; to him, every name was a placeholder for a legend, a future knight whose deeds would be sung in ballads and whispered in taverns. Maybe even his own name one day, though that seemed far off now.

"Huff Huff"

He adjusted his grip on the crude sword—a stick, really—and swung it with an exaggerated flair, cutting through an imaginary foe. “Sir Andrew the Bold,” he muttered under his breath. That sounded right, didn’t it? A name worthy of glory.

“Andrew! You're doing it wrong again!”

The voice jolted him from his fantasy. It belonged to a girl who always seemed to know how to ruin his most heroic moments. Lyra.

She stood by the edge of the yard, arms crossed, her long blue hair flowing like a silken wave, catching the sunlight just so, making her look almost ethereal. Her beauty was both a blessing and a curse—at least to him. She was the girl every other boy in the orphanage adored, the one everyone admired from a distance, but only Andrew ever really knew the quiet moments between them.

Andrew wasn’t much to look at, at least not yet. Stocky, a little ugly in a way that made him blend into the background, with messy black hair and a face that hadn’t quite come into its own. His cheeks were round and his nose too large, but there was a potential hidden beneath the rough edges. He could grow into something more—a tall, striking figure with sharp features, if he trained his body and honed his spirit. His broad shoulders and strong arms suggested that his future might hold something handsome, if only he had the right direction.

But for now, he was just Andrew—another orphan with grand dreams.

“I’m not doing it wrong!” he shot back, planting the stick in the ground like a sword in stone glaring with his red eyes.

“Yes, you are.” Lyra walked closer, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and pity. “You’re supposed to keep your feet steady, not... flail like a drunk chicken.”

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He shouted. “I don’t flail!”

She just smiled, and it was infuriating. Not because she was wrong, but because her smile was like sunlight—it disarmed him, made him forget whatever point he was trying to prove. He hated that.

Their bickering was interrupted by a loud snort from behind them. Andrew didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Look at the knight and his little princess,” sneered Markus, the biggest bully in the orphanage and, as far as Andrew was concerned, the biggest idiot as well.

Markus wasn’t clever, but he didn’t need to be. His size did the talking for him. And like all bullies, he had a habit of picking on the prettiest girl in the room—probably because he didn’t know how to talk to her like a normal person.

Andrew stepped in front of Lyra without thinking. It was automatic by now, a reflex honed over years of dealing with Markus.

“Go away, Markus,” he said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.

“What are you gonna do, Andrew?” Markus smirked, cracking his knuckles. “Wave that stick around and pretend you’re a knight?”

Something inside Andrew snapped. Maybe it was the way Markus looked at Lyra, like she was a prize to be won. Maybe it was the way he said “pretend,” like Andrew’s dreams were nothing more than a child’s fantasy. Whatever it was, it pushed him past his usual cautiousness.

He swung the stick.

It wasn’t a graceful swing, not the kind he imagined knights making in the stories. It was wild and unrefined, driven more by anger than technique. Markus dodged easily, laughing as he stepped back.

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” Markus said, grabbing a stick of his own. “But guts won’t help you now.”

The fight that followed wasn’t much of a fight. It was messy and clumsy, more a flurry of awkward movements than anything resembling combat. But for all his size, Markus wasn’t as fast as Andrew, and that gave him an edge.

Their clash drew a crowd. The other orphans gathered in a loose circle, cheering and jeering as the two boys traded blows although it was more of Markus tormenting the short andrew . Andrew could feel their eyes on him, their expectations weighing heavy on his shoulders. He wanted to win—not just for himself, but for Lyra.

He didn’t notice the rock until it was too late.

Markus, ever the cheater, had scooped it up in his free hand and hurled it with surprising accuracy. It caught Andrew in the side of the head, and he stumbled, the world tilting as pain blossomed behind his eyes.

He hit the ground hard, the stick slipping from his grasp.

“Andrew!” Lyra’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and urgent.

Markus loomed over him, his shadow long and menacing. “Guess you’re not much of a knight after all,” he said, raising his stick for the final blow.

But it never came.