Banner of shame

The clang of steel echoed through the courtyard as young Jyn's blade met his father's with a sharp spark. Behind the castle, the training ground bathed in golden sunlight, and every inch of it had felt their battles before. General Argren, tall and imposing in full armor, didn't hold back. Jyn's arms trembled under the weight of his sword, but his crimson eyes stayed locked onto his father's. This wasn't just swordplay—this was purpose. This was legacy.

"You're too stiff," his father snapped, knocking the boy's blade away with a fluid motion. "You're thinking too much."

"I'm not afraid," Jyn muttered, adjusting his stance.

"It's not fear you're fighting—it's hesitation." General Argren circled him. "Again."

Jyn lunged. The strike was faster, cleaner. Still, his father deflected it with ease.

"You're relying on your body. Use your mana."

The general gestured to the rune-stones placed around the edges of the training field. Jyn glanced at them, then closed his eyes. He focused on his breath, drawing mana from his core like his father taught him. A faint glow shimmered along his blade—a flicker of promise.

"Good," Argren said, watching. "Now move with it. Let the mana guide your strike."

Jyn moved again, this time the sword almost floated in his grip. When it struck the general's shield, a burst of light sparked at the point of impact. He staggered back, panting—but the smile on his father's face told him he was finally learning.

They trained until dusk. Bruises formed along Jyn's arms and legs, his fingers blistered, his shoulders ached—but he didn't give in. When the stars emerged, he collapsed to his knees. The General walked over, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"You did well today."

Jyn looked up. "When will I be strong enough to protect Valmire?"

His father paused, a shadow crossing his face. "Soon. But strength means nothing if the heart is unready."

That night, Jyn sat in his room, cross-legged beneath the open window. A book of mana runes lay in his lap, its ink faded by years of use. He whispered the incantations, over and over, tracing each rune with a calloused finger. Outside, the city hummed in celebration—the Tournament of Honor was nearing. Nobles arrived from every kingdom. Sons and daughters of kings would clash in Valmire's grand arena. Jyn clenched his fists. He wouldn't just compete. He would win. He had to.

The next morning, the training moved to the Hall of Wards. Jyn stepped into a glowing mana circle as his father observed from above. He calmed his breath. Focused. The magic danced under his feet, sparked in his veins—but fizzled as quickly as it came.

"Too much emotion," his father called. "Mana obeys clarity, not command."

Jyn grit his teeth. How could he be calm with so much at stake?

After hours of failures, something finally clicked. The magic circle lit fully, his sword pulsed with steady light, and when he swung—it felt right. His father descended the stairs slowly.

"You're awakening," he said.

"It's hard."

"Everything worth holding is."

He tapped Jyn's chest. "The real battle starts in here. And yours has only just begun."

That night, Jyn climbed the watchtower alone. He stared at the stars, the weight of a worn sword resting on his knees. He wasn't ready. But he was close. And when the day of the tournament came, he would no longer fight as a shadow of his father's name—but as something greater.

"I'll be ready," he whispered.

And for the first time, he believed it.