Oakhaven was a distant memory, a quiet whisper in the life of the lean, hardened youth who now rose before dawn each day. The training yard behind their Atherian house echoed with the rhythm of steel, Mori's movements growing sharper, more precise, with every sunrise.
His mother, Liana, oversaw his training with a demanding eye, her approval a rare and precious thing, a constant, unspoken goad. Elara, the head maid, would often leave silent offerings – a plate of food, a warm cloth – her concern a tangible presence. "Even the strongest steel needs tempering," she'd murmured once, catching Mori as he swayed with exhaustion. But rest was a luxury he couldn't afford. This was his chance to silence the whispers, to prove he was more than a shadow in the noble houses.
An invitation arrived one afternoon, summoning him to his half-brothers' twelfth birthday celebration at the Valkoria Palace. Mori stared at the elegant script, a knot of apprehension tightening in his stomach.
"You will go," Liana said, her voice brooking no argument. "Dress appropriately. Be polite. And remember who you are."
On the day of the party, Mori felt like a stranger in his own skin, the fine clothes stiff and unfamiliar. He longed for the weight of his sword, the comfort of his worn training leathers. The palace loomed, an imposing fortress of stone and glass. Inside, a cacophony of sound and movement engulfed him, a whirlwind of silk and laughter.
He spotted Caelen and Rhys across the room, surrounded by a throng of their peers. They seemed to exist in a different sphere, a world of privilege and ease that felt miles away.
As he hesitated, a boy his age approached, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You look like you're about to bolt," the boy said. "Not a fan of parties?"
"I've never been to one before," Mori admitted.
"Never? Not even your own?" The boy's eyebrows shot up, then he softened slightly as Mori explained, "Training takes up most of my time." He tilted his head. "Training for what?"
Mori met his gaze. "Swordsmanship. My father is Lord Darius Valkoria."
The boy's eyes widened. "Lord Darius's son? Wow, I had no idea! Caelen and Rhys have never mentioned having another brother."
Mori nodded. "My mother is Lady Liana. We just moved here from Oakhaven. I've only met Caelen and Rhys once before."
"Ah." Understanding dawned on the boy's face. He clapped Mori on the shoulder. "Well, Mori, since you're new to the scene, let me be your guide. I'm Alaric."
"The prince?" Mori blurted out, incredulous.
Alaric laughed, a bright, infectious sound. "Don't worry, I don't bite. Unless you're a particularly tasty pastry." He gestured toward a table overflowing with delicacies. "Come on, let's grab something to eat. You must be starving."
Alaric navigated the crowd with effortless charm, drawing Mori into conversations about training, palace life, the world beyond the high walls. The ease of their interaction was a balm to Mori's nerves. As they approached a group of familiar figures, Alaric nudged him. "There they are, the birthday boys. Go say hi."
Mori took a deep breath and approached his brothers. "Hello," he said, keeping his voice steady. "Happy birthday."
Caelen and Rhys turned, surprise flitting across their faces.
"Thank you," Caelen said after a moment. "You are…?"
"Mori," he replied, meeting their gazes unflinchingly. "Your brother."
Rhys stepped forward, his expression thawing slightly. "I see. Well, Mori, welcome. We haven't had a chance to get to know each other yet."
"Hey, cousins," Alaric interjected, his grin widening. "Why don't we liven things up? There's a sparring match happening in the training yard."
A chorus of excited agreement erupted from the nearby children. Caelen hesitated, his gaze assessing Mori. "Sparring? Are you any good?" Rhys added, a challenge lacing his voice.
Mori met their eyes. "Yes," he said, the single word holding a wealth of unspoken determination.
The training yard was transformed. Torches cast dancing shadows, illuminating a makeshift stage surrounded by a buzzing crowd. The rules were simple: blunted swords, mana allowed, last one standing on the stage wins. Mori watched the initial matches, the noble children showcasing impressive speed and skill, their movements enhanced by the shimmering aura of mana. Caelen and Rhys fought with a fluid, practiced grace; Alaric with a raw, exuberant energy.
Finally, it was Mori's turn. He faced a tall, arrogant boy who sneered, "Prepare to lose, peasant."
Mori drew his sword, ignoring the taunt. The boy lunged, mana crackling around his blade, but Mori parried, his years of relentless training evident in every movement. He was fast, agile, his guard sword style a stark contrast to the more flamboyant techniques of the nobles. A murmur rippled through the crowd, surprise mingling with curiosity. The noble, frustrated by Mori's defense, pressed his attack, but Mori met him blow for blow, his sword a blur of motion. He waited, patient, observant, and then, seeing a flicker of hesitation, a moment of imbalance, he struck. His attack was swift, precise, decisive.
The noble boy cried out as he stumbled off the stage, landing heavily on the packed earth. The yard erupted in cheers.
Mori stood on the stage, chest heaving, and scanned the crowd. His father stood near the back, his face a mask of astonishment, and something else… pride? Beside Lord Darius, the king watched, his expression thoughtful.
"That boy is quite talented," the king remarked, his voice carrying through the sudden hush. "Who is he?"
Darius cleared his throat. "That is my son, Your Majesty. Mori. He… has not yet had the opportunity to learn."
The cheers for Mori's victory hadn't yet faded when Alaric bounded onto the stage, his eyes alight with excitement. "Alright, who's next?" he called out, brandishing his blunted wooden sword. "Let's make this interesting. A four-way free-for-all! Caelen, Rhys, Mori – any takers?"
The twins exchanged a look, a flicker of competitiveness passing between them. They accepted the challenge with confident nods, stepping onto the stage alongside Mori and Alaric. The crowd roared its approval, sensing a spectacular finale.
The four boys circled each other, weapons raised. The first clash was a whirlwind of wood and flashing movement. Alaric, fueled by enthusiasm, attacked with a flurry of blows, his mana enhancing his speed, leaving shimmering trails in the torchlight. Caelen and Rhys, more measured in their approach, moved with practiced elegance, their mana-infused strikes precise and powerful.
Mori, sword held in a defensive stance, found himself on the back foot immediately. He parried a blow from Rhys, ducked under a wild swing from Alaric, and then met Caelen's attack head-on. The impact jarred his arm, the difference in strength starkly apparent. He knew he couldn't match their mana-enhanced power directly. He had to rely on speed, agility, and the defensive principles of the guard sword style.
For a time, his strategy worked. He weaved through their attacks, using their momentum against them, deflecting blows and creating openings for swift counters. He landed a glancing blow on Alaric's arm, forcing the prince to stumble back. He parried a strike from Rhys so hard the wooden sword nearly flew from the twin's grasp. But the relentless assault began to take its toll. His inferior sword style, effective in one-on-one combat, was struggling to keep up with the combined onslaught. The lack of mana, a burning absence in his muscles, made every parry, every dodge, a test of his physical limits.
He saw an opening and lunged forward, aiming a swift strike at Caelen's exposed flank. But Rhys, anticipating the move, intercepted the blow, the force of the impact sending vibrations up Mori's arm. He staggered back, off balance, just as Alaric charged in, mana blazing. Mori barely managed to raise his sword in defense, but the prince's blow, amplified by mana, knocked the wooden blade from his grip. He stumbled back, defenseless, and a swift kick from Caelen sent him tumbling off the stage. The crowd gasped.
Mori landed hard, the breath knocked out of him. He lay there for a moment, dazed, the cheers of the crowd a distant roar. He watched as the fight continued, now a three-way duel. Rhys, energized by Mori's defeat, pressed the attack against Caelen, a fierce exchange of blows that showcased their near-equal skill. Alaric, though tiring, remained a formidable opponent, his unpredictable style and enthusiastic bursts of mana keeping the twins on their toes.
The fight reached its climax when, in a daring maneuver, Caelen managed to disarm Rhys, sending his brother's wooden sword flying. Rhys, momentarily vulnerable, was caught by a powerful mana-infused blow from Caelen that sent him sprawling off the stage. The crowd roared, a mixture of cheers and groans for the fallen twin.
Now it was down to Caelen and Alaric. Both were exhausted, their movements slower, less precise. But Alaric, drawing on a seemingly inexhaustible reserve of energy, unleashed a final, furious flurry of attacks, his mana flaring brightly. Caelen, unable to fully defend against the onslaught, was driven back step by step until he finally lost his footing and tumbled off the stage, landing with a thud beside his brother.
Alaric, panting, stood alone on the stage, the victor. The crowd erupted in cheers, their enthusiasm amplified by the thrilling spectacle. Alaric, grinning from ear to ear, raised his arms in triumph, basking in the adulation.