Tyrion Ashford stood at the edge of the training yard, watching as his older brother, Cedric, expertly clashed blades with their family's swordmaster. The sound of metal against metal echoed in the courtyard, drawing a small crowd of servants and tutors, all admiring Cedric's skill. His strikes were precise, his stance flawless, and his speed unmatched. Every movement was the mark of a prodigy.
Tyrion's hand unconsciously tightened around the hilt of his practice sword, a dull and unimpressive piece of steel that felt like a mockery of the power he should have wielded. A noble son, born into a family renowned for producing powerful warriors, yet Tyrion had been labeled "talentless" since the day of his Awakening.
The Awakening Ceremony—every child's turning point. The moment they touched the Orb of Destiny and revealed their weapon, the tool tied to their soul. For Cedric, it had been a mighty sword, radiating power from the moment it materialized. For their sister Lena, a gleaming wand, symbols of potential and future greatness. But when Tyrion's time came, only silence and an eerie shimmer had followed.
No glowing sword, no triumphant cheers from their family, just a flickering vision of a strange, rune-inscribed blade. The same day it appeared, it was sealed away by his grandfather, Count Valerius Ashford.
"You must keep this hidden, Tyrion," Valerius had whispered, his voice heavy with an emotion Tyrion couldn't yet name. "The world is not ready for your sword, and neither are you."
From then on, the path before him had been shadowed. His family believed him to be the disappointment of the Ashford lineage, a burden and a mystery. They weren't entirely wrong. Tyrion's magic sword—an incredibly rare weapon—remained locked away, hidden even from himself. Even the whispers of its presence were beyond his reach.
A sharp clang broke his thoughts. Tyrion glanced up to see Cedric standing over his defeated opponent, sweat dripping down his brow, but a proud smile on his lips. The swordmaster gave a respectful bow, and the small crowd applauded Cedric's victory.
"Tyrion!" A voice, cold and sharp, cut through the air. His mother, Lady Elara, stood at the far side of the courtyard, her gaze hard as steel. "Why are you standing idle? You should be training for your entrance exam at Noble Academy."
"I was just—" Tyrion began, but the words died in his throat.
"You are a noble of House Ashford," Elara interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. "And yet, you waste time watching when you should be preparing. We may have accepted that you're not like Cedric or Lena, but you will at least uphold the family's name at the academy."
Tyrion swallowed back the bitterness rising in his chest and nodded. "Yes, Mother."
She didn't reply, only turned and walked away, her long silks trailing behind her. Tyrion felt the sting of her words even though they weren't new. To her, he was a shadow, an afterthought. To his father, Count Alaric, he was barely even that.
"You shouldn't let it bother you." Cedric's voice broke through the silence. He approached Tyrion, sheathing his sword with a smooth motion. "Mother's hard on everyone. Just keep working on your basics, and you'll do fine."
"Basics," Tyrion muttered, barely able to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "Right."
Cedric, ever the perfect older brother, didn't seem to notice Tyrion's frustration. "We'll spar later, if you want. Keep practicing your form. You're getting better, but you still lack speed."
Tyrion gave a noncommittal nod, his mind elsewhere. Cedric meant well, but his advice always rang hollow. Tyrion wasn't getting faster or better with a dull practice sword and basic drills. His true potential was chained away, locked behind the seal placed on him at birth.
After his brother walked away, Tyrion glanced around the courtyard, making sure no one was paying attention. He slipped through the side door of the manor, heading to the one place where he didn't feel like an outcast—the underground chamber hidden beneath the estate.
His grandfather, Valerius, was waiting for him there, as he always did. Tyrion closed the door behind him, descending into the cool, dimly lit room filled with ancient scrolls, weapons, and relics. In this hidden sanctuary, Valerius trained Tyrion not just in swordsmanship, but in magic as well.
"You're late," Valerius said without looking up from a book he was studying. The old man's long white beard and sharp eyes gave him a look of eternal wisdom. "I assume Elara was displeased with your training?"
Tyrion sighed. "She thinks I'm wasting time."
"She's not wrong," Valerius said, finally looking up. "You *are* wasting time. By letting her words get to you."
Tyrion frowned, moving to stand in the middle of the room where they always trained. "It's not that simple. They all think I'm talentless."
"Because they only see what's in front of them," Valerius replied, standing up and stretching his back. "But you are not what they think, Tyrion. The sword sealed inside you is a force of unimaginable power. It was sealed for a reason."
"So you keep saying," Tyrion muttered, "but if I don't use it, then what good is it?"
Valerius walked to Tyrion and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "You're not ready for it yet. Power without control is more dangerous than you realize. For now, we focus on your magic and technique. The check-in system you have access to is your greatest advantage. Use it to strengthen yourself little by little."
Tyrion nodded, though the weight of his situation never quite left him. The check-in system, a mysterious ability carried over from his past life, had allowed him to grow incrementally stronger, rewarding him with hidden boosts and enhancements daily. But it wasn't enough. Not yet.
"Now," Valerius said, stepping back and taking a fighting stance. "Show me what you've learned since our last session."
Tyrion drew his practice sword, his mind shifting into focus. He wasn't the talentless son here. With his grandfather, he could be himself. No expectations. No disappointment. Just the quiet promise of hidden power, waiting to be unleashed.