"Thief!" The word came spilling out the boy's mouth as a bellowed accusation. It cut across the crowd faster than an arrow, silencing the echoing praises being heaped upon the new Hero. Every eye turned towards the source, towards the boy as he stomped angrily forward.

"That is not your sword!" The crowd parted for the boy, out of shock more than anything. He approached the stone platform upon which the hero stood; a large square that acted as a fighting ring.

The new Hero had the audacity to look more confused than insulted by the accusation levied against him. His hand ran along the silver pommel of his stolen weapon, and he asked, "What is your name, warrior?"

The boy took no pleasure in the Hero's mistaken assumption. He had grown quickly for his age, and his size had always been a blessing. It let him meet his enemy's eyes as he declared, "I am the son of the Hero of Farathun, and that is my father's sword!"

The new Hero frowned, his brow furrowing. "The traitor's son?"

That simmering anger in the boy's belly turned to boil, and fury tore its way out of his chest with claws forged from grief. He snarled at the false Hero, and declared, "Better a traitor's son than a thief!"

His words did not achieve the reaction he had desired. Rather than being shamed, the false Hero merely shook his head.

"You are mistaken, boy," the man said. He unsheathed the blade in question. "This is the sword of the Hero. It was once your father's. It is now mine."

"Stolen," the boy hissed. "Taken from his corpse, unearned! Do you claim to have bested my father, false Hero!?"

The crowd was silent, drinking in the drama. The Hero had to answer. He met the boy's eyes, and said, "I have never faced your father in combat, boy. Nor did I need to. This sword was bequeathed to me by the All-King himself."

It should have been an end to things. Invoking the All-King was the quickest way to close an argument. No citizen of Farathun would lie in His name. None would dare. It was blasphemy, heresy, the height of horror and shame. The mere thought that the Hero, hand-picked by the All-King Himself, could invoke His name in vain, was ludicrous. The crowd knew it. The boy knew it.

He could not accept it. That black pit of accumulated hatred in his chest pounded like a drum, driving him forward, demanding action. So, he took the only course left to him. In the end, only the strongest mattered.

In a single, smooth motion, he hurled his identity token at the feet of the Hero. The bronze plate pierced the stone, digging in deep and jutting out at an angle. The hero stared blankly down at it, as the boy declared his challenge.

"To death or surrender," the boy spat out, his hatred an almost physical force. It would be clash worthy of legend. His plan was irrelevant. His task could wait. He would kill this man, here, and now, and reclaim his family's legacy. He'd forever stain his enemy's Memory as the Hero who lost to a nameless boy. He'd take up his father's place at the All King's side, and earn redemption for his crimes. He was ready. He was practiced. He was willing to kill.

He was completely unprepared for the laughter.

It started somewhere in the crowd, but quickly picked up steam, cascading outwards like a wave. Within moments, it had seized every person present, save the two individuals facing off against each other on the elevated platform. Humiliation burned at the boy, sending heat across his body.

The false Hero stared at him with what looked like pity. "You are a nameless boy. By what rights do you challenge me? What deeds have you completed in the All King's name, that you would stand upon this stage and demand a duel like it is your right?"

"I am the son of the Hero!" the boy exclaimed once more. "For six generations my line has defended Farathun! You are—"

"No," the false Hero interrupted sharply. "I do not care about the accolades of your ancestors. The Hero is the arm of the All-King, and the protector of Farathun! When our enemies are at the gate, you cannot go looking to the dead for assistance!"

The boy's mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged. His mind worked fruitlessly to find an answer.

"Go home, boy," the Hero advised solemnly. "Grow into something more than a traitor's legacy, and perhaps I will entertain your challenge."

The boy's eyes closed, fighting off a wave of shame and grief. A traitor's legacy? Is that what he was, in the end? The actions of his forebears could not benefit him, only condemn him?

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He could leave. He'd already broken his word, but staying here would only make things worse. He could continue up the path, to the All-King. Gain his pilgrimage token, should He be willing. Train. Grow strong.

But his heart howled for blood. Here, before him, was a worthy target. Someone to unleash his woes upon. His anger and his sorrow and his bitterness.

His helplessness.

Each day that passed, the Memory of his father grew weaker. Each day, the people of Farathun thought a little less about the man they once saw as a protector. Each day, his legend faded.

The false Hero. The forgotten. The traitor.

Soon, that's all he would be. His deeds would pass out of Memory, and be lost to time. The boy would weaken, his lineage cast into disarray. His blade art, tainted by the loss, would flag and falter. His family's legacy would remain broken, never to be reforged.

It was the truth he could not accept. The inevitability he chose to deny. The impossible task that he refused to fail.

The boy opened his eyes, and spoke, "You've used the name of the All-King to shield yourself from the crimes you've committed, and my rightful vengeance. You are not the Hero of Farathun. I name you Liar, and Coward!"

Silence fell like a stone. The laughter ended. The Liar stared at the boy, stone-faced.

The older man knelt, slowly plucking the boy's token out of the stone floor. He examined it, then slipped it in his pocket. Then, with agonizing slowness, he drew his stolen sword.

"That accusation," the false Hero said slowly, "I cannot allow to stand."

"I will not rescind it," the boy replied stubbornly, leveling his sword at his enemy.

The man shook his head, falling into his own stance. "So young," he murmured beneath his breath. "So foolish."

The boy said nothing, merely holding himself still. He kept his breathing steady, refusing to panic. He faced the first real trial of his life. And the last, should he falter. An enemy stood before him, who would show no mercy. An enemy who was well beyond him in years and skill. The boy, on the surface, stood no chance. He could feel that fact infecting him, already, as the Memory of the surrounding citizens sapped his strength and empowered his enemy. They knew the new Hero's prowess. They knew the boy was green, untested, and nameless. The battle was already decided.

The boy refused the outcome. The Liar was underestimating him. The man held his father's sword, he had surely read its Memory. He would expect the boy's strike. He would know its form, its shape, its purpose. But he would not know its power. The boy would teach him.

His grip tightened around his training blade. The Memory of his strike slept within the wooden sword. The blade art that his ancestors had developed, and each had used. They stood at his side, now. He could feel them; their skills and their strength. He drank deep of that well, sinking into their Memory. Where the boy's strength was lacking, his ancestors were not. He would have one shot, one strike, one instant. One chance to reverse fate.

With a single, unstoppable cut.

The false Hero swiftly closed the distance between them. The elevated platform upon which they fought was quite small, less than thirty paces across. Battlefield distances, and this enemy was no stranger to the battlefield. His face was cold, and focused. Despite the boy's age, he was, at least on the surface, being taken seriously as an opponent. It could be considered a gesture of respect.

The boy did not move. He maintained his stance as death approached. His Memory whispered to him with the voice of his ancestors, directing him to victory. The enemy's stolen blade fell, striking down with grim purpose. The air split before it, parting like a wave.

The boy stepped forward, his arm blurring into motion. There was no grand clash of blades, that was not his purpose. His vision narrowed on the false Hero's chest, on the breastplate that covered his heart. His sword struck unerringly forward. The blow was launched second, but arrived first. The boy could see victory, inches away.

But the false Hero had not lucked into his position. His own reaction was flawless, immediately whirling in place. His stolen sword spun in his hand, catching the boy's blow against the flat of the blade. The older man pushed, his strength overwhelming in comparison, and the unstoppable cut missed its target.

Just.

The evertree blade cut through the false Hero's armor like it was water, through the leathers beneath the steel, and the flesh beneath that. The Hero completed his twisting parry, heaving the boy's sword off course, but he couldn't prevent a thin cut being carved across his chest.

The boy's strike ended, his sword came away bloody, but the enemy had not fallen. His strength seemed to leave him all at once, the fuel sustaining him ran dry as his arm completed its arc. The Memory of ancestors ended, and faded away. He'd missed his chance. He was not his father, nor his grandfather, nor any of those Heroes who had come before. He had missed the kill.

If Memory was a mirror, then he'd just shattered his.

The boy fell to his knees, no longer able to support the weight of his failures.

The false Hero stepped back, glancing down at his chest, and the narrow streak of blood across it. His armor was ruined, a cavernous gorge splitting across its center. The Hero sighed, looking down at the boy.

"Withdraw your words," he said, "and this will be forgotten. Such talent should not be lost. You can still grow into a worthy servant of the All-King."

The boy felt... empty. The fury that had sustained him had been burnt away in an instant. Nothing was left except a vacant, hollow, sadness. His sword clattered the ground, falling from numb fingers. His eyes met that of the man across from him.

"I refuse."

The new Hero shook his head with regret, but stepped in front of the boy once more. His father's sword raised high in the air, glittering in the light of the Twins. Welcoming him onward. It would be fast. It wouldn't hurt.

"I'm sorry, father," the boy whispered, closing his eyes. He breathed slow and deep, waiting for his end.

It never came. A shadow fell over him, and he opened his eyes.

Golden eyes and slitted pupils gazed back at him in turn. Eurya had found him.

She smiled, somehow cruel and mocking and fond all at once. Sharp canines protruded just past the edge of her lips. Her voice was a soft hiss, gentle and understanding.

"Such dramatics," she observed with audible amusement. "Do not worry, little Nicos. I've come to save you from your own angst."