By the age of five, Zork's mind started to show.
Most boys his age ran after dogs or drew with chalk on the walls. But Zork remembered things. He remembered the guards' shifts he overheard. He repeated whole stories Mira read to him, word for word, after hearing them only once.
One evening, the King found him in the council chamber. Zork had dragged a stool to the big map of the kingdom. Little wooden soldiers were all over the table.
"And this one moves here," Zork said to himself, pushing a figure, "so he can surround this side."
The King crossed his arms, smiling a little.
"And what then?"
Zork jumped, but then he grinned.
"Then the battle's over. You've already won."
The King raised an eyebrow.
"You've never seen a battle."
"No," Zork said, still smiling. "But I heard you talk."
The King laughed — a low laugh. He picked his son up and looked at him in the eyes. "Your tongue is too sharp for your years."
The Queen was there too. She spoke softly.
"A sharp tongue does not move an army. Only a spark of power will."
The King gave her a look, then looked back at Zork.
"And yet… sometimes a sharp mind wins before swords are drawn."
Zork's chest filled with pride. But when he looked at his mother, her smile was not real.
Later that week, the Queen called him to her room. The sunlight shone through the glass windows, making colors on the floor. She sat in her tall chair with papers in front of her. But when Zork came in, she pushed them aside.
"Come here, my son," she said.
Zork climbed onto the bench beside her. She opened a small box with white ivory pieces inside. It was a strategy game the ministers liked.
"Do you know this game?" she asked.
Zork nodded. "I watched the generals. They put the towers in the corners. But they forget the knights in the middle."
Her eyebrows rose.
"And what would you do?"
Zork moved the pieces fast, setting a trap.
"This one here. Then this one moves. And then you take both."
The Queen leaned back, looking at the board, then at her son. For once, her eyes softened. "You are clever," she whispered. "So clever."
Zork smiled, waiting for more.
She touched his hair and held her hand there longer than normal.
"Maybe… maybe that will be enough."
"Enough for what, Mother?"
Her smile faded, her eyes far away again. She kissed his forehead instead of answering. "Enough to make the King proud."
The words made Zork happy then. But later, they would hurt.
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By the age of six, the wooden sticks were gone.
Now he held steel.
The first time, the small practice sword shook in his hands, but he didn't drop it. He swung again and again until blisters opened on his palms. Still, he didn't stop.
Calren, the scarred knight, laughed.
"The boy doesn't know when to quit. That will kill him one day — or make him a legend."
Zork grinned, sweat on his small face.
"Then teach me until I'm a legend."
Calren raised an eyebrow but smiled.
"Fine then, lad. Let's see how far you go."
From that day, Zork trained harder than any boy his age. He woke before the sun. He copied the knights' stances, fixed his mistakes quickly, and never forgot what he saw.
When he fought the older squires, he guessed their moves before they made them. He was not stronger yet, but he was faster. His hits landed where it hurt most.
"Too young to be breaking bones," Mira muttered when Zork came into her kitchen every night, sore and starving. She gave him a big bowl of stew.
"Too young to be this clever," Calren said, sitting beside him. "The boy learns quicker than steel bends."
One afternoon, Calren gave Zork a real steel blade. Short, but sharp.
"Hold it," Calren said.
The sword was heavy, but Zork lifted it with both arms. His jaw was tight.
"Good," Calren said. "Now move."
Zork swung. Then again. Then again. Sweat covered him, but his eyes stayed sharp.
"Lower the elbow. Grip tighter. Yes! Again!" Calren shouted.
Zork obeyed. Every swing got better. By the end, his shirt was soaked, his arms shaking, but his strikes were true.
Calren grinned.
"Storm take me. You're not just stubborn. You're dangerous."
Zork smiled, chest proud.
"Good. Then I'll be ready." Days later, Calren gave him a true spar. He held a steel blade himself. They circled.
"Ready, lad?"
"Always," Zork said.
Steel hit steel. Sparks flew. Calren struck hard, but Zork held on. His arms shook, but he didn't fall back. He ducked, swung, made Calren step back.
The knights watching shouted, some laughing, some whispering.
Then something strange happened.
The swords grew heavier. Not just from tiredness. It was sudden, sharp — like the steel wanted to sink into the ground.
Zork's arms sagged. Calren's swing slowed. Both looked surprised.
"What in—?" Calren muttered.
Zork's face twisted.
"It feels… heavy. Like it doesn't want to move."
Calren nodded.
"Aye. Not just you. The blades themselves feel wrong."
The yard went quiet.
But Zork clenched his jaw. "Then I'll fight it anyway."
Calren laughed loud.
"Storm-born fool. You'd fight the air itself if it tried to stop you."
Up on the balcony, the King watched. His cloak moved in the wind. "The boy does not fall," he said. "Even when steel betrays him, he stands. That's my boy."
The Queen sat beside him. She said nothing. She only watched her son wipe sweat and dirt from his face.
Behind her, a maid passed with a baby wrapped in silk — the newborn prince, Trison.
The Queen's eyes softened. Just a little.
And Zork noticed.
That night Zork couldn't sleep.
He walked through the castle halls, still sore and sweaty. He wanted to see his brother.
At the chamber door, Mira caught him.
"And where are you sneaking, lad?"
"I want to see him," Zork said, standing tall. "My brother."
Mira grinned.
"Storm take me, you're stubborn. Go on then. But quiet."
Zork slipped inside. The Queen sat in bed, pale but calm. A cradle stood beside her. The King stood next to it, hand on the wood.
"You should be resting, Zork," the King said, though his voice was warm.
"I wanted to see him," Zork whispered.
The King gave him a chair to stand on. Zork leaned over the cradle.
The baby was so small, fists moving in the silk. His eyes opened. They shone faintly — yellow, almost golden.
"He… his eyes," Zork whispered. "They're shining."
The King smiled.
"A mark of promise. Your brother is blessed by the bloodline."
Zork stared.
"He looks so small. How can someone so small be so strong?"
The Queen spoke.
"Power shows early sometimes. It does not wait."
Zork paused, but when the baby yawned, he smiled.
"His eyes are pretty. I'll protect him as his big brother."
The King's hand pressed his shoulder. "As an elder brother should." Zork's chest filled with pride. He forgot the heavy sword. He only saw those golden eyes.
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By the age of seven, Zork was stronger. He swung his sword without shaking. His hits were fast and sharp.
"The boy is too quick," Calren said often. "He learns in a week what others take years to learn."
By the age of eight, Zork sneaked into the council halls. He listened to the ministers argue about money and soldiers. He whispered their words and guessed what they would say next.
Mira once caught him listening at the door. She pulled him away by his collar.
"You've no business with old men's talk."
"But if I know their talk, I know how to win," Zork said, grinning.
Mira sighed. "You'll be the death of us cooks. Come, I've got honeyed bread."
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By the age of nine, Zork was beating older squires.
He didn't always win with strength, but with tricks. Once, a bigger boy tried to push him down with brute force. Zork ducked, kicked the boy's shin, and hit him before the boy even knew he had fallen.
The yard burst out laughing. Even Calren clapped. "He fights like he's always three steps ahead. Storm-born and storm-minded."
That evening, the King clapped Zork on the shoulder in front of the guards. "A prince must not only fight. He must think. My son does both."
The Queen gave a small smile. But then her eyes turned to Trison, now three years old, chasing a golden ball across the floor. His eyes gleamed faintly, and the Queen's smile lasted longer on him.
Zork noticed. He always noticed.
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By the age of ten, Zork ate like three soldiers. Mira said it often. One night he finished half a loaf of bread, a big bowl of stew, and three sweet buns. Then he leaned back in his chair, grinning.
"If I eat enough, I'll be taller than Calren."
From across the kitchen, Calren laughed loud.
"If you grow taller than me, boy, I'll kneel to you myself."
Zork smirked.
"I'll hold you to that."
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By the age of eleven, Zork was teaching younger boys.
He showed them sword moves step by step, with patience like an older man. Some of the younger pages already followed him like he was their captain.
The King, watching from the balcony, said to Calren:
"He leads without being told. That is the mark of a king."
Calren nodded.
"He's still a boy, Your Majesty. But he fights like a man, and he thinks like a general."
That night in her chambers, the Queen spoke softly:
"A general without flame cannot lead forever."
The King's voice was firm.
"A general with steel can lead longer than one who burns too fast!"
Zork of course noticed. His mother's disappointment in him started to show more out in the open.
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By the age of twelve, people started to whisper.
Zork had done many magical tests — charms, runes, spells. Nothing worked. Not even a spark. Healers shook their heads. Scholars made excuses.
Zork only worked harder. He trained more, sparred more, studied more. He pushed his body even when it hurt.
That same year, Sorella — only ten — began to glow. Candles lit brighter when she walked in. Sparks danced in her palms like playful fire. The castle was full of excitement. People called her the Phoenix of Mercy.
For the first time in years, the Queen smiled openly and held her daughter close.
Zork smiled too, proud of her… but inside, he felt something heavy.
That night, sitting on the castle wall with Elira, he spoke at last.
"She's younger than me. And already… fire listens to her."
Elira tilted her head.
"And?"
Zork looked up at the stars.
"And me? I'm the storm-born. The heir. And I have nothing."
Elira's voice was sharp but steady.
"You have everything that matters. A sword. A mind. A heart. Maybe fire ignores you because it knows you'd outshine it."
Zork blinked, then laughed.
"You always lie well."
"Who says I'm lying!" she said.
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By the age of thirteen, no one could deny Zork's skill.
He beat three guards at once. He solved riddles faster than his tutors. He memorized maps in minutes.
Calren said it best:
"He doesn't just learn fast. He learns once."
The King's pride was clear. His hand heavy on Zork's shoulder, his voice loud in the hall.
But the Queen's eyes were colder. She smiled at Sorella, whispered to Trison, but when she looked at Zork, her silence was heavy.
And though he laughed and trained, Zork felt it.
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By the age of fourteen, Zork was the storm of the yard.
The other squires admitted he was better. Guards leaned on the walls to watch him spar. Tutors whispered about his sharp mind. Even Calren, the great knight, smiled during their duels. "The boy learns faster than I can teach. He'll take my place one day."
The King laughed when he heard.
"Good. A son who passes his master is a son worth crowning."
Zork carried himself taller. He was not just a prince — he was a leader. Servants loved him for his kindness. Guards respected him. Ministers feared how easily he could break their debates.
But still — no magic.
It ate at him when he was alone.
When he lay in the grass with Elira, she caught him staring at the sky.
"You're thinking about it again."
"Always," he said.
"Then stop," she told him. "Maybe the world knows you don't need it."
He smirked, but her words stayed in his mind.
One evening, rain poured down on the yard. Zork trained anyway. His sword swung again and again.
'Faster.'
Water flying from the blade. His arms shook, his hands bled, but he didn't stop.
'Harder.'
His sword began to deteriorate, splinters of steel fill the air around him. His hands dug deeper into the sword's handle as he would strike and strike the post, strike the training dummies and strike the trees. But still, it wasn't enough.
'Why me? I'm the first born. The sky welcomed me the day of my birth and yet.. nothing.'
He swung harder. Again. Again. The rain washed his blood away.
Then he heard shouts. Cheers. A strange heat.
Zork lowered his sword and ran, water dripping from his cloak. He reached the hall and froze.
Sorella stood in the middle, arms wide. Wings of fire spread from her back, crackling and bending the air. Servants cheered. Guards shouted. The Queen cried with joy as she held her daughter close.
Zork stared, rain dripping from his hair. His chest was tight.
'She has wings.'
'She has fire.'
'She has everything.'
His hand clenched the sword until his knuckles turned white as the words echoed in his mind:
'Only steel.'