Silius stood in the training yard of his father's sprawling estate, sweat dripping down his young, determined face. With grey hair that belied his youth and sharp brown eyes shadowed by sorrow, he gripped his practice sword like it was the last thing keeping him from falling apart. The rhythmic clanging of steel echoed off the stone walls, each blow a reminder that this was no simple training—it was survival.
He fought with purpose, but not confidence. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, a whisper echoed:What if I'm not enough?
Not enough to earn his father's approval. Not enough to live up to the legacy of the woman whose absence haunted the halls more than her presence ever did. His mother had been a warrior too—graceful, fierce, and beloved. He had only fragments of her memory now, and the ache of her loss often seeped into his footwork, his form, his fire.
Watching from the sidelines, arms folded tightly, Gladus said nothing at first. The once-mythic warrior who slew a dragon and carved his name into history bore the air of a statue—stern, still, and impossibly hard to impress. He had trained legions of knights, forged an elite order, and now he poured all of that precision into the shaping of one boy.
But he'd buried one heart already. He wouldn't bury another because of mercy mistaken for love.
His expectations for Silius, his only heir, were as heavy as steel—especially with the Day of Battle Competition swiftly approaching.
The Day of Battle was no ordinary contest. Open to all under the age of twenty—noble or common, trained or untrained—it was held once a generation in the great coliseum at the heart of the capital. Hundreds of thousands gathered to witness it, and entire cities fell silent in observance. More than just a test of strength, it was seen as a sacred rite—a stage where future leaders might first reveal themselves. Entry was free, but the stakes were everything: glory, honor, and the weight of potential laid bare beneath the sun.
"Your stance is sloppy," Gladus barked finally, his voice sharp as a drawn blade. "Again."
Gritting his teeth, Silius attacked the senior knight before him—an older man with a weathered face, a greying beard, and movements honed by years of battle. The older knight parried with ease, forcing Silius backward.
"You're tiring," the knight growled. "In battle, that means death."
"Your mother fought with grace under pressure," Gladus snapped from the edge of the yard. "Where is your grace, Silius?"
The words struck deeper than the sword ever could. His arms shook, but he kept going, driven by anger more than form. The knight swept his legs out from under him, and Silius hit the ground hard. Cold steel kissed his throat.
"Yield."
Silius nodded, ashamed.
"Get up," Gladus commanded, already walking forward. "Your mother would have found a way to turn that to her advantage. She wouldn't have allowed herself to be caught so easily."
Silius staggered to his feet. His pride was in tatters, but he kept his chin high. That, at least, was something he could control.
Gladus stepped closer, eyes hard. "A knight who yields so easily is no knight at all. Your mother would have disarmed him. Where is that cunning?"
Without warning, Gladus unsheathed his own sword. The morning light danced along its edge.
"Show me what you've learned."