In Aethros, childhood did not last long.
The training grounds were always loud. Metal clashed against metal, boots struck dry earth, and voices barked orders without patience. Boys barely tall enough to hold wooden swords stood in lines under the open sun, sweat already running down their faces.
Pain was ignored. Falling was mocked. Crying was punished.
Kael learned that early.
He was seven the first time he was knocked to the ground. The breath left his chest in a sharp rush, and for a moment, the world spun. The boy who struck him laughed, proud of the hit.
"Get up," the instructor said. No concern. No pause.
Kael pushed himself up. His hands trembled, but he did not let it show. He raised his sword again, even though his arms burned.
That was how things worked in Aethros.
You stood. Or you were stepped over.
High above the training grounds, stone balconies overlooked the chaos. From there, the nobles and generals watched. Among them stood the king of Aethros.
King Varyon did not shout. He did not need to. His presence alone was enough to silence nearby voices. His eyes moved across the field, not lingering on faces, only on strength. A clean strike. A fast recovery. Ruthlessness.
Those were the things he noticed.
Kael did not know when his father began watching him. He only felt it—the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on his back. He fought harder, moved faster, refusing to fall again.
When the match ended, Kael stood breathing hard, dirt clinging to his clothes. He had won. The other boy lay on the ground, staring up at the sky in silence.
There was no praise.
Victories were expected.
As the boys were dismissed, Kael turned away from the field. His hands ached. His knuckles were bruised. He felt no pride, only a strange emptiness he could not name.
Someone touched his shoulder.
His mother knelt in front of him, ignoring the dirt and noise around them. Queen Seraphyne's fingers gently wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. Her movements were careful, almost out of place in a land like this.
"You did well," she said quietly.
Kael nodded, though he wasn't sure what "well" meant.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
"A little," he replied.
She smiled, but there was sadness behind it. "It will hurt more as you grow."
Kael looked back at the training grounds. Another group of boys had already taken their place, wooden blades raised, eyes sharp with fear and ambition.
"Do I have to keep doing this?" he asked.
His mother was silent for a moment. Then she stood, resting her hand on his head.
"In Aethros," she said, "this is how boys become men."
That night, Kael lay awake in his chamber, staring at the ceiling. His body was tired, but his mind would not rest. Outside, torches burned along the walls, their flames steady and unforgiving.
Somewhere beyond those walls was Nyvoria.
He had never seen it. Never been told much about it either—only that it was the enemy. That one day, he would fight there.
Kael closed his eyes.
He did not dream of victory.
He dreamed of fire.