I was born in the forge,
among sparks and the clanging of steel.
The smell of molten metal was the first thing I ever knew.
Father said it made me strong.
Mother said it made me human.
I was eight when I last saw her.
Liora Veyran-my mother-taken from this world before I even learned to speak words of sorrow.
Father, Darian Ardent, never let his grief show.
He poured himself into the forge,
into the shaping of swords,
and into shaping me.
I grew up alone,
playing with blades as if they were toys,
yet every swing was a rehearsal for something I could never name.
I learned balance before I learned laughter.
Precision before I learned joy.
When I turned twelve, Father gathered every coin he had,
every hidden gem,
to send me to the Kingdom's Academy of Knights.
"The best of the best," he whispered,
"for the son of the finest blade."
I was never just a boy there.
I was the boy with the sword,
the one forged by fire before life had a chance to shape him.
Not all welcomed me.
Some teachers-those who knew nothing of my father's skill-looked at me with disdain.
But their hatred was trivial.
I was a child born of steel,
and the world could only watch as I became sharp enough to cut it.
I learned every trick, every move, every strike,
not because I wanted to,
but because survival demanded it