Banner of shame

The clang of steel echoed across the empty courtyard. Morning mist clung to the stone tiles, disturbed only by the dance of blades. General Darius Argryn moved with a soldier's precision, every strike sharp, every parry deliberate. Across from him, a boy barely ten years old mirrored his motions—slower, clumsier, but with burning eyes.

"Again," Darius commanded, voice as firm as his stance.

"Yes, Father," replied the boy.

This was Jyn Argryn—the general's son, heir to Valmyr's bloodline, and too young to carry the weight already pressed on his shoulders. He lunged forward, blade meeting his father's in a clash that nearly sent him stumbling.

"Center of gravity, Jyn. Don't reach—anchor," Darius snapped, circling.

Jyn corrected his footing, biting down on frustration. Each mistake was a lesson, and each scar was part of the legacy his father carved into him.

Jyn steadied himself, drawing a breath through gritted teeth. The cold air burned his lungs, but he didn't complain. Complaints had no place in the Argryn name—not in war, not in training.

He pivoted fast, bringing his blade upward in a clean arc. Darius blocked it with ease, but his sharp eyes acknowledged the improvement with the faintest nod.

"Better," the general muttered. "But better is not enough."

The boy nodded, sweat dripping down his brow. Behind them, a few guards watched in silence. This wasn't just a lesson in swordplay—it was a ritual. For the last six months, every morning began like this: steel, silence, and the shadow of a legacy Jyn was expected to surpass.

But what Darius was truly forging wasn't a swordsman. He was forging a weapon.

"You hold back," Darius barked, stepping forward with a strike that made Jyn stagger. "Out there, hesitation kills. Out there, they won't care that you're thirteen. They'll cut you down and wear your name like a trophy."

Jyn's arms trembled. His muscles burned. But he raised his sword again.

"I'm not holding back," he muttered, barely audible.

Darius's expression darkened. "Then prove it."

The next exchange was brutal. Sparks danced in the air as steel met steel. Jyn moved with raw instinct, his technique still young, but sharpened by repetition. A shallow cut landed across his shoulder—his mistake.

He hissed in pain but didn't step back.

Darius exhaled through his nose. "Good. You bled today. That means you learned."

In the far distance, the bells of Valios rang softly—reminders of the kingdom's pulse. But for Jyn, the only sound that mattered was the clang of metal and the thunder of his father's voice.

After a brief pause, Darius sheathed his sword and looked directly into Jyn's eyes.

"Listen carefully, boy. The world outside these walls is ruthless. Strength alone won't save you — nor honor. You'll need wisdom, patience, and above all, control."

Jyn swallowed hard, the weight of those words sinking deep.

"Control?" he echoed quietly.

Darius nodded. "Control of your fear, your anger… even your own strength. Without it, you'll destroy everything you fight to protect."

Jyn clenched his fists, the scar on his cheek itching as if reminding him of his mother's fate — a silent warning etched into his skin and soul.

The morning sun had begun to pierce through the mist, casting long shadows across the courtyard.

Jyn lowered his sword, exhaustion creeping into his limbs, but his mind was sharp.

"Tell me, Jyn," Darius asked, voice softer now, "what do you remember about your mother?"

Jyn's eyes flickered, a shadow crossing his usually calm face.

"She… she was strong," he said quietly, "but sick. No one could save her."

Darius placed a heavy hand on his son's shoulder.

"Her death was not your fault. But it shaped you — for better or worse."

Jyn nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. The past was a wound that still ached, but training was his way to heal.

Days blurred into weeks as the training continued relentlessly.

Jyn learned to wield not only his sword but also the unseen currents of mana flowing through the land.

Darius was a strict teacher, never allowing weakness or doubt to take root.

"You must feel the mana as an extension of yourself, not just a tool," he said, watching Jyn carefully.

At times, Jyn's frustration boiled over, but his father's stern gaze always pulled him back.

The burden of expectation weighed heavy — not just from his father, but from an entire kingdom's future resting on his young shoulders.

One evening, under the pale moonlight, Darius finally allowed Jyn a rare moment of rest.

They sat silently beside a flickering campfire outside the castle walls.

"Someday," Darius said quietly, "you'll have to lead more than battles. You'll lead people — and bear their hopes."

Jyn stared into the flames, the weight of his father's words settling deep.

"Will I be ready?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Darius smiled faintly, the warmth in his eyes contradicting the harshness of his lessons.

"You don't get ready. You become ready — through fire, blood, and sacrifice."

The days leading to the tournament grew tense.

Valios buzzed with whispers of rivalry and ambition, the air thick with anticipation.

Jyn's training intensified — every dawn greeted with drills, every dusk ended with meditation.

He felt the weight of his kingdom's legacy pressing harder on his young shoulders.

Yet, beneath the armor of discipline, doubt lingered — a quiet whisper questioning if he was truly ready to face the world beyond the courtyard.

The morning of the tournament dawned bright and clear.

Jyn stood at the edge of the great arena, heart pounding in his chest like a war drum.

Around him, the heirs of the seven kingdoms gathered—each bearing the hopes of their people, each a spark waiting to ignite a flame of glory or ruin.

His father's voice echoed in his mind: "Control your fear, your anger… your strength."

Jyn took a deep breath, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly.

Today was not just a test of skill — it was the first step toward reclaiming a fallen legacy.