The Cursed Heir
The blade of the dagger sank into his back. He felt no pain, only coldness. The hermetic silence of the night was interrupted by his body collapsing onto the stone floor of the imperial palace. Around him, the shadows dispersed as quickly as they had arrived. Assassins. Betrayal. But none of that mattered now.
As his consciousness faded, one thought consumed him:
I was never worthy.
Chapter 1: The Life of a Failure
The imperial city of Valteria was a monument of glory. Its towering white walls gleamed under the sunlight, reflecting the power and grandeur of the empire. At the heart of this colossal city stood the imperial palace, a masterpiece of golden towers and endless halls, adorned with red banners bearing the emblem of the dragon, symbol of the Valtherion dynasty.
Darion Valtherion, heir to the throne, walked with his head bowed through the palace's vast corridors. His black hair fell messily over his forehead, his pale skin contrasting with the dark garments he wore. He lacked his father's imposing presence, the strength of the great warriors of the empire. Despite his height and strong build, his posture conveyed insecurity.
The whispers of the courtiers haunted him at every corner:
"The prince without a blade."
"He can't even wield a sword properly."
"A disgrace to his lineage."
The words hurt more than any wound from steel. It wasn't for lack of effort. Since he was five years old, he had trained under the best swordmasters. He followed every instruction, executed every move with absolute precision, and yet, his body refused to respond. In duels, he fell easily to his opponents, no matter how weak they were.
His father, Valtherion the Undefeated, made no effort to hide his disdain. He looked at him with stern eyes, and every word from his mouth was a dagger to his heart:
"You are a man without a sword. You do not deserve the name Valtherion."
But what hurt the most was his mother's coldness. Empress Lyria no longer offered him words of encouragement or warm smiles. She only looked at him with pity, as if she wished he had never been born.
That night, Darion stood in the castle's training arena. The stone floor was marked with the scars of countless battles, and the air smelled of sweat and blood. Before him, a novice soldier wielded his weapon confidently.
"Come, my lord. Strike first," the soldier said with a mocking grin.
Darion gritted his teeth and charged with his sword, feeling the overwhelming weight of the steel in his hands. His attack was slow, clumsy. With a single motion, the soldier disarmed him and sent him to his knees.
Laughter echoed around him. Even the instructor sighed in disappointment.
"Your stance is flawed. Your grip is too weak. If you cannot improve, you will never be more than a mockery."
Frustration and anger swelled in his chest. He staggered to his feet and picked up the sword again, but his hands trembled. He tried once more, only to be struck down just as easily.
Alone in his chambers that night, Darion contemplated his fate. Was this his end? A man destined for failure?
The whisper in his own mind was the answer:
"I was never worthy."