The day after his Drawing, Seren awoke to silence.

Not the silence of peace, but of absence.

His chambers, once tended by half a dozen bustling servants, were eerily still. When at last a maid entered, she bowed too deeply, eyes flicking to the faint glow still etched on his palm. She did not meet his gaze, only whispered, “My lord Hero,” before hurrying away.

Seren stared at the door long after it shut. My lord Hero. He hated the sound of it.

By afternoon, the changes deepened. Cousins who had once teased him now stood stiff and polite, their laughter swallowed by calculation. Tutors arrived unbidden, laden with scrolls of history, strategy, rhetoric, as if the word itself had rewritten his life overnight.

At dinner, the great hall buzzed with nervous formality. Relatives congratulated his parents with brittle smiles, offering to foster Seren “for his safety” or “to broaden his education.” Every offer was a leash hidden in velvet.

Seren ate in silence, every bite tasteless. He had never felt so watched, so caged.

Beyond the walls of the house, in the Iron Chamber, the Council of Captains sharpened their knives.

Lady Rena of the Pearl Fleet dispatched emissaries to Seren’s tutors, slipping them heavy purses. “Guide him well,” she purred. “Guide him toward the sea.”

Captain Jorven of the Black Knives sent whispers to darker corners, where knives could be bought and accidents arranged. “Heroes die young,” he sneered. “Better to end a storm before it swells.”

The Merchant Guild plotted too, seeing Seren not as boy or hero, but symbol. “Imagine,” one elder murmured, “the coin that flows when Osvarra sails beneath a Hero’s banner. Markets will bow to us as much as fleets.”

And in the palace, Emperor Aric Veyros III sat alone in his chamber, staring at the black-iron band upon his brow. His thoughts were his own, but his orders were clear:

“Guard the boy. Guard him well. For one day he will serve me, or he will break me.”

Back in the Veyros household, Seren pressed his burning palm against the cool glass of his window.

He could still hear the shouts from the festival echoing in his memory. Crown! Crown! Crown! Always Arenas, always the legend. And now him.

He whispered the word again, quietly, as if hoping it would change if he spoke it differently.

“Hero.”

It sounded heavy. It sounded lonely.

He turned, and found his father watching from the doorway. Alaric stepped into the room, carrying two wooden practice blades.

“Come,” he said simply.

Seren frowned. “Now?”

“Especially now,” Alaric replied. “If you are to bear the weight of that word, your hands must be steady. And your heart stronger than theirs.”

For a moment, the boy hesitated. Then he took one of the wooden blades. It felt clumsy in his grip, far too large.

But as his father guided him through the first clumsy steps, Seren felt something shift, not the burden lifting, but the faintest sense that perhaps he could carry it.

Outside, the city of Solarys schemed, plotted, and whispered his name. Inside, in the quiet clash of wood against wood, a boy began to learn what it meant to fight.

Weeks passed, and still the word did not fade.

Hero glowed faintly in Seren’s palm, as though etched by a fire that would never cool. Everywhere he went, eyes fell upon it. Some with awe, some with fear, most with calculation.

He began to notice the small things.

The way servants who once scolded him for muddy boots now bowed and called him lord. The way cousins who had shoved him aside at games now pressed him to lead, only to whisper behind his back when he faltered. The way tutors praised him too quickly, as though every answer he gave was prophecy.

It felt false. All of it.

One night, unable to sleep, Seren crept onto the balcony. The harbor glittered with lanterns from the ships at anchor, their reflections trembling on the waves. He could hear the sea even here, whispering against the stone.

“Do you hear it too?”

Seren turned. His father stood in the doorway, arms folded.

“The sea?” Seren asked.

Alaric shook his head. “The names. The weight of them.”

Seren lowered his gaze. “I never asked for it.”

“No one ever does.” Alaric’s voice was steady, but his eyes seemed distant, as though seeing more than just the harbor lights. “Arenas never asked for Crown. I never asked to bear his shadow. And now you… you will carry Hero. A name heavier than steel.”

Seren hesitated. Then, quietly: “What if I fail it?”

His father stepped closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Then you will learn. Heroes are not born whole, Seren. They are forged, sometimes by choice, sometimes by fire. What matters is not the word you bear… but the man you become beneath it.”

They stood together in silence, the boy and his father, the sea whispering below.

But elsewhere, in the heart of the Iron Chamber, darker whispers stirred.

Captain Jorven’s dagger traced lazy patterns across the map of Osvarra, its tip circling the Veyros estate.

“Heroes,” he murmured, lips curling. “They burn brightest before they fall.”

His lieutenant leaned close. “Shall I make arrangements?”

Jorven smiled thinly. “Not yet. Let the boy grow. Let him taste the leash they slip around his neck. One day, he will fight it… and when he does, blood will spill. Heroes always bring blood.”