They call me the son of an Emperor, heir to one of the most powerful kingdoms in the world. But let me tell you something: none of that matters when you're too weak to even lift a practice sword.
"He'll grow into his strength, the boy just needs time." They always said that. When I was younger, those words sounded like promises of something greater, of untapped potential.
It's been fourteen years. I'm still waiting.
I sat on the stone steps outside the palace courtyard, watching the other boys train. They moved like wolves, quick and confident, the clash of steel ringing in the crisp morning air. I'd tried to join them once. Just once. The memory still stung—and not just because of the bruises.
"Your form is all wrong," Sir Vellor had said, yanking the wooden blade from my hands. He was my father's Master-at-Arms, a towering man with a voice like thunder. "If you can't hold the sword steady, you'll never survive a real fight. Go back inside. You're wasting my time."
Go back inside. That's all anyone ever told me.
From the shaded alcove of the courtyard, Kaelion's gaze lingered on the other boys. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white, nails biting into the soft skin of his palms. He wasn't just angry. He was humiliated, a raw, choking feeling that burned hotter with every strike, every cheer, every victorious shout from the sparring circle. They didn't even look his way anymore. Why would they? He wasn't competition. He wasn't anything.
"Kaelion Tharvane, the Emperor's son," the People whispered when they thought he couldn't hear. "More like Kaelion the Frail. Even his shadow's scared of him."
And yet, despite everything, here I was. Sitting, watching, hoping. Because today was supposed to be different. Today was the day my magic would awaken—or at least, that's what the doctors claimed.
"Every child's magic manifests before their fifteenth year." he Doctors told me, their eyes flickering with pity. "Perhaps… when the time comes, yours will… compensate for your other deficiencies."
Deficiencies. That word made me want to punch something, though I doubted my fists would fare any better than the rest of me. But they weren't wrong. Magic was the one chance I had to claw my way out of this pitiful state, to prove to everyone—to my father—that I wasn't just a weakling unworthy of his name.
If I train hard enough, if I push myself just a little further, maybe…
Kaelion straightened, brushing the dust from his tunic. His breath hitched slightly from the effort—the air was sharp and cold, and his body seemed to rebel against even the simplest movements. But he ignored it. He'd spent too many days lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of his own inadequacy crush him. Not today.
The training ground loomed ahead, a wide circle of packed dirt surrounded by weathered stone pillars. It felt impossibly far, as though the universe itself had decided to test his resolve. He took a step forward, then another. By the time he reached the edge of the circle, his legs were trembling.
Sir Vellor's voice cut through the air. "What are you doing here?"
Kaelion's jaw tightened. He didn't look up. "Training."
A chorus of laughter erupted from the boys nearby. Vellor's shadow fell over him, long and imposing. "Training?" the knight repeated, his tone heavy with disbelief. "With what? Your wheezing? Go back to your books, boy. Leave the swords to those who can lift them."
"No." The word came out sharper than he intended, cutting through the mockery like a blade. Silence fell over the circle.
Kaelion lifted his head, meeting Vellor's gaze. His chest burned with the effort of standing tall, but he refused to falter. "I'm not leaving. Not this time."
For a moment, the knight said nothing. Then he snorted, shaking his head. "Suit yourself. But don't expect any favors." He gestured to a stack of wooden practice swords by the wall. "Take one. Let's see how long you last."
Kaelion's hand hovered over the blades. They were heavier than they looked, each one carved from dense oak. He finally settled on the lightest among them, though it still felt like lead in his grip. The other boys had gathered now, their curiosity outweighing their disdain.
The first swing was awkward, the sword veering wildly off course. The second wasn't much better. By the third, Kaelion could barely keep his grip. Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. Each failure was a reminder of what he lacked, a sharp, biting urge to push harder, to be better.
"Come on," he told himself, his breath ragged. "You can do this. Just one more."
He swung again, and this time, the blade connected. The dull thud against the training dummy sent a shock of satisfaction through him, fleeting but real. His arms trembled, his chest heaving, but for a brief moment, he felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: hope.
Kaelion's eyes flicked to the far side of the courtyard, where the massive shadow of Arcanum's Edge loomed. The sword stood embedded in stone, its gleaming surface catching the light like a shard of the sun itself. It was a symbol of power, of destiny, of everything he'd been told he could never have.
But as he stared at it, a thought began to take root in his mind, small and fragile but insistent. Maybe… just maybe… he could prove them wrong. Prove everyone wrong.
The Emperor's son clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. If magic was the only way to bridge the gap between what he was and what he needed to be, then he would find it. He would force his body to grow stronger, and push himself to the brink if that's what it took.
One day, he would stand before that sword, not as a frail boy, but as someone worthy of its power. And when that day came, no one—not Sir Vellor, not the Emperor, not the whole cursed world—would call him weak again.