King Eldred Astravane watched Mori pick himself up from the dust. Despite the fall, the boy's eyes held a spark of defiance. He'd held his own, wielding basic guard swordplay with surprising agility and strength.
"He has spirit," the King mused, turning to Lord Darius. "A pity about his… limitations."
Darius stiffened, a flicker of unease in his eyes. "He is the son of a concubine, Your Majesty. Different… advantages."
"Advantages?" The King scoffed, his gaze sweeping across the training yard where flashes of mana accompanied the noble children's sparring. "Is this kingdom so flush with strength that we can squander potential? Deny talent based on birth?"
Darius shifted uncomfortably. He knew the King's disdain for empty tradition. Eldred Astravane was a king who saw beyond the gilded cage of nobility, a man who smelled the coming storm.
"The rifts are growing more frequent, Darius. Whispers of the Demon King's return grow louder. We need every able hand, every ounce of strength, to face the darkness." The King's voice was low, but his words resonated with authority.
He gestured towards Alaric, flushed with victory. "Alaric is strong. My son is skilled. But this boy…" His gaze returned to Mori. "He fights with a hunger I haven't seen in years. A warrior's heart, but a blunt blade. Forged in fire, but left untempered."
Darius frowned. "Your Majesty, he is not of pure noble blood and cannot wield mana until the Job Class ceremony"
"You must not remind me of these outdated rules, Darius," the King's voice grew stern. "Do we cling to tradition while the world descends into chaos? Demons do not discriminate based on birthright."
He placed a hand, heavy with unspoken warning, on Darius's shoulder. "We must change. Open the doors of opportunity to all who show potential. Every sword arm, every spark of magic, will be needed if we are to survive."
Darius's gaze flickered to Mori, who was now speaking with Elara, the exhaustion of the fight forgotten. The boy's laughter echoed, a stark counterpoint to the King's grim words. He knew the King was right. He'd seen the reports from the Shadowlands, felt the chill of fear in the hearts of his men.
"The boy needs a teacher," the King continued, his voice softening slightly. "Someone to hone his raw talent. He may not wield mana yet, but he can still become a weapon worthy of the name Valkoria."
Pride flickered in Darius's chest. Despite his reluctance, he couldn't deny the boy's potential.
"I will see to it, Your Majesty."
The King nodded, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Good. The future of this kingdom may depend on it."
Elara's gentle hand on his shoulder was a welcome comfort. "You did well, Mori," she murmured.
"I was the first one out," he said, the sting of defeat still raw.
Elara smiled. "You held your own. You have a natural strength. You just need to refine your technique."
Mori watched Alaric sparring with a knight, their blades a blur. "Can I ever be as good as them?"
"Of course," Elara said firmly. "You just need practice. And perhaps, a good teacher."
A good teacher. The thought resonated. He'd trained alone, mimicking the guards at Oakhaven, but his style was crude, lacking the power of royal swordsmanship he had seen today.
"I want to be strong," Mori whispered, a fierce yearning in his voice. "I want to be… someone."
Elara's hand tightened on his shoulder. "You are someone, Mori. "
Warmth bloomed in his chest, chasing away the shadows. He smiled, his gaze returning to the sparring knights, a new resolve hardening his features. He might not wield mana yet, but he could still learn, still grow. He would become a warrior, a protector. He would make his father proud, even if it was against his mother's will. He looked at his simple, unadorned sword. It was time for a change.
The birthday feast was a suffocating display of opulence. Mori sat beside his half-brothers and Alaric, the unfamiliar silks chafing his skin. He longed for his training clothes, the familiar weight of his sword. His attempts at conversation with his siblings faltered, their attention focused on courtly gossip and displays of noble etiquette.
"Have you learned any new spells, Caelen?" Rhys asked, his voice brimming with pride.
"Working on a new fire spell," Caelen replied smugly. "Quite powerful."
Mori's heart sank. Magic. A forbidden fruit until the Job Class ceremony. Envy twisted in his gut. He pushed his food around his plate, appetite gone. He wanted to escape the gilded cage of the banquet hall, the unspoken barriers that separated him from his father's world.