The clang of steel faded as Kaelus stood alone in the courtyard, sweat running down his brow. His sparring session had ended, but his mind wandered far from the stone walls of the castle. Above him, the sun cast long rays over the banners bearing his father's sigil—a silver wyvern wrapped around a black blade. Yet even under the weight of legacy and expectation, his thoughts drifted not to war or conquest, but to a quiet lecture hall, filled with eager faces and the scent of old paper.
A different life, he thought. A different world.
He had been a professor then—old enough to be content, sharp enough to still inspire. His lectures on empire, warfare, and the rise and fall of dynasties had filled the halls of a university he could no longer name. One moment he was standing at the head of the room, hands moving across a whiteboard, and the next—darkness. No pain. No tragedy. Just a final breath… and then, crying. A baby's first cry.
That first moment had been the hardest, he remembered, staring at his own tiny hands. To be so helpless. To know everything and do nothing.
But time had passed, and so had weakness. Born to Kaelen—the feared lord, the conqueror, the living legend—Kaelus had grown in a world that revered strength above all. Yet even as an infant, he had understood things no child should. The way soldiers stood too stiffly when his father entered a room. The looks exchanged during war councils. The unspoken threat of failure in every bow.
While others babbled and crawled, Kaelus observed and learned. When most children took years to even grasp qi, he had begun shaping his energy by the time he was eight. Now, at fourteen, he stood on the brink of becoming a 2-star warrior—a feat that made hardened soldiers uneasy around him. But his strength wasn't what frightened them. It was his eyes.
They were too knowing.
Too calm.
Too cold.
No one knew the truth. No one ever would.
"Still lingering in thought, young master?" came a voice behind him.
Kaelus turned to see Ser Hadric approaching, wiping his hands with a rag still stained from his last duel. "That last form was sloppy," the old knight continued. "You're lucky your opponent was imaginary."
Kaelus offered a faint smile. "Imaginary opponents are often more forgiving."
Hadric chuckled. "If only the real ones were. Your father's expecting a report from the southern front tonight. If he's in a good mood, you might get a seat at the council again."
"I'll be ready."
Hadric paused, eyeing the boy for a moment too long. "There's always something about you, Kaelus. As if you've already seen what comes next."
Kaelus said nothing.
The old knight shrugged and turned away. "Come. We'll sharpen your sword—and your mind—before dinner."
As they walked back into the keep, Kaelus glanced once more at the sky. The man he had once been was long dead. But the knowledge he carried—the years of study, the deep understanding of war, history, power—those remained.
And in this world of blood and steel, they would become his greatest weapons.