12 years later

"Asher, time for your training. Clean up the table and meet me at the arena in 10 minutes."
"Yes, Sir Ronan," Asher replied respectfully, rising to clear the dining table.

Twelve years had passed since the fateful events that shook Eryndral. After the announcement of the prince's death, a royal decree was issued forbidding any mention of that day. The punishment for disobedience was swift and merciless—beheading. At first, the people whispered their doubts in the shadows, but fear soon silenced even the boldest among them. A grim example was made of an unfortunate couple who dared to defy the decree, and their execution cemented the weight of the king's command.

Three months after that dark day, news reached the palace of a newborn bearing a mark strikingly similar to the prince’s. This child was brought before King Kaelion, confirmed as the "blessed child" foretold in the prophecy. Raised in the palace, he was named Asher and groomed as the future of the realm.

Asher had begun sword training at the age of ten under the meticulous guidance of Sir Ronan, the king’s trusted general. Now twelve, he was a striking figure—a boy of dark hair that shimmered like obsidian, ocean-blue eyes that seemed to hold the depths of the sea, and golden-toned skin that glowed with vitality. Graceful and composed, Asher carried himself with a quiet confidence befitting a prince.

Despite his youth, his skill with a sword was undeniable. Each day, he honed his craft with unwavering determination, his movements fluid and precise. He was more than just talented; he was gifted, and his dedication made him a source of pride for Ronan and hope for Eryndral.

"All right, boy, show me what you've got. The goal is still the same. Push me back, make me step over this line, and you win," Ronan said as Asher arrived at the arena.

"And what do I get in return, Sir?"

"I’ll make a recommendation to the king, and you’ll be knighted immediately."

Asher’s eyes gleamed with excitement. Becoming a knight had always been his greatest dream.

"Rea—" Before Ronan could finish asking if Asher was ready, the boy lunged. His attack was swift and precise, every swing of his sword brimming with strength and elegance. Against any other opponent his age, it might have been overwhelming. But this wasn’t just any opponent—this was Sir Ronan, the Knight Marshal of Eryndral. A name both feared and respected across the six nations, Ronan was one of only four to ever achieve such a high rank.

Ronan blocked every strike effortlessly, barely moving as he watched the boy unleash his full energy. He didn’t attack, only defended, waiting for the inevitable. Asher’s strength began to wane, his breathing grew heavier, and after one last attempt, he admitted defeat, stepping back and lowering his sword.

"Well done, lad. Another day of you failing to become a knight," Ronan teased with a sly grin, his tone playful. Asher glared at him, his frustration evident.

"You’re improving, though. You lasted longer this time—twelve seconds, to be exact. Keep it up, and you might beat me someday. That is, if you live long enough. You’ll probably need two lifetimes. Maybe three!" Ronan laughed heartily at his own joke, clearly amused.

Asher sighed, used to Ronan’s endless teasing by now. He dusted himself off, picked up his sword, and prepared to sheath it. Then, an idea struck him. Without warning, he lunged at Ronan again, hoping to catch him off guard.

But Ronan was ready. With a quick sidestep, he evaded the attack without breaking a sweat—or stepping over the line.

"Sneaky boy! Smart, but far too predictable," Ronan said, smirking. "And attacking after you’ve lost? That’s dishonorable! Get up!" He extended a hand, pulling Asher to his feet.

"Mrs. Rowenne, looks like our little knight-in-training got himself bruised," Ronan called out, a hint of humor in his voice.

Mrs. Rowenne, the royal caretaker assigned to Asher approached, shaking her head. "Sir Ronan, if you keep pushing him like this, he’ll be all bruises and no boy!" Ronan chuckled as he turned to face the approaching maid.

"The king demands your presence, Sir," the maid said to Ronan. Without hesitation, he nodded and headed for the king.

"Here, sit down, Asher. Let me take care of that wound," Mrs. Rowenne said gently, gesturing for him to take a seat.

"Thank you, Mrs. Rowenne," Asher replied with a soft smile as he sat down.

For a while, silence lingered between them as she tended to his injuries. Finally, Asher broke the quiet, his voice hesitant.
"Do you think I'll ever be good enough someday?"

Mrs. Rowenne paused, looking up at him with a mixture of surprise and warmth.
"What are you saying? You’re the best swordsman of your age I’ve ever seen. I just wish my son were more like you, but all he does all day is play, eat, and sleep."

Asher couldn’t help but giggle at her exasperated description.
"What’s his name?" he asked, curiosity piqued.

"Alaric. You’re the same age," she replied, smiling softly.

"What’s he like?"

"You two share some physical traits—the same dark hair, though his is longer and always messy. Same pointed nose. But he has bronze skin instead of your golden tone. You’re both about the same height, too. Personality-wise, though, you couldn’t be more different. He spends his days running around with boundless energy, comes home late, washes up, and goes straight to bed. The only thing he has going for him is his looks. He’s quite popular with the girls his age. I can’t believe they fall for that playful charm of his."

"I’m sure he got it from you," Asher said with a sly grin.

Mrs. Rowenne blinked at him, momentarily startled.

"The looks, of course," Asher clarified quickly, and they both burst into laughter.

"All done," Mrs. Rowenne said, tying the final bandage.

"Thank you, Mrs. Rowenne. Oh, wait—I have something I want you to give Aldric."

"It’s Alaric. And thank you," she corrected, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.

"Oh, sorry. I’m not great with names," Asher admitted sheepishly.

"Obviously," she teased, and they both chuckled again.

Asher got up, disappeared inside for a moment, and returned with a small scroll in hand.
"Here, I want you to give this to him," he said, holding it out to her.

"What’s this?" she asked, taking the scroll.

"It’s a guide with the basic sword forms. I hope it helps him get started. Maybe one day we’ll get to train together," Asher explained earnestly.

Mrs. Rowenne looked at him with a mix of affection and pride.
"That’s so thoughtful of you, Asher. I’ll make sure he gets this—and if he refuses to train, I’ll drag him to the practice yard myself."

They exchanged knowing grins just as a maid approached, interrupting the moment.
"Excuse me, my prince. Your bath is ready."

Asher turned back to Mrs. Rowenne.
"Have a good day, Mrs. Rowenne."

"You too, my prince," she replied with a warm smile as he walked away.

________________________________________________________

"A-la-ric!" Rowenne’s voice rang through the house as she stepped into the chaos. The living room was a disaster—furniture out of place, clothes strewn everywhere.

"Yes, Mother?" Alaric called, rushing in from his room, where he’d just changed, ready to sneak out to play again.

"You’d better have a good explanation for this, or you’re about to find out what homelessness feels like," she said, arms crossed and glaring at him.

"I... I really don’t have an explanation," Alaric admitted, grinning cheekily.

"Ah, I see," Rowenne replied dryly. "So, it’s an opportunity to get thrown out. Fine. If you can’t give me a proper explanation, you’ll be locked in your room for a week."

"Wait! Mother, I have an explanation!" Alaric exclaimed, his grin quickly vanishing.

"That’s what I thought," she said with a smirk. "Save it for later, though. You’ve got plenty of cleaning to do first." She pulled out a scroll from her satchel and held it out. "By the way, Asher sent you a present."

"The prince?" Alaric asked, eyes widening in surprise.

"No, the maid," she quipped sarcastically. "Of course, the prince! He asked me to deliver this to you and hoped you’d make good use of it."

Alaric opened the scroll and frowned as he scanned its contents—basic sword forms. He looked up at Rowenne, suspicious.
"Did you ask him to give me this?"

"Nope. Just someone else who believes you should learn," she replied, shrugging.

"But I don’t really need it. My life is perfect—a beautiful mum, a lovely home..."

"Uh-uh, not working," Rowenne interrupted, unimpressed by his attempt at sweet-talking his way out.

"Why complicate such a perfect life with hard lessons?"

"It may be hard now, but it gets easier. Honestly, at this point, I’m better with a sword than you are."

"I challenge you, Mother, to a duel!" Alaric declared dramatically, pretending to be a knight ready to face an opponent.

"I’d win with my eyes closed," Rowenne teased, pulling him close with a laugh.

Her tone softened. "Listen, son, there’s danger outside these walls—not from beasts or animals, but from people. People like me and you. I won’t always be here to take care of you. Just look at this house—it’s starting to look as messy as your hair."

"Mother!" Alaric groaned, rolling his eyes.

Rowenne chuckled but then grew serious, her voice laced with affection and a hint of sadness. "I just want to protect you, Alaric."

"Protect me from what gave me this scar?" Alaric asked, pointing to the faint mark on his arm.

"Not the scar again. I told you—you were kissed by a dragon," Rowenne said, her tone playful yet evasive.

"Like I’d believe dragons really exist," Alaric retorted skeptically.

"They do! The proof is right there on your arm."

"Then show me one!" he challenged.

"I told you, they only appear to those who’ve learned to fight. If you train and master the sword, I’ll personally take you to see one."

"Nope. I’d rather not. Dragons are dangerous," Alaric said, backing away from the idea.

"All right, then. Get cleaning!" Rowenne ordered, watching him shuffle off reluctantly.

She leaned against the doorway, her playful smile fading as her gaze softened, shadows flickering in her eyes. Behind the humor was a quiet fear—a fear of the unknown, of what dangers might come for her son.