In the sprawling estate of the House of Calderon, tucked deep within the grimy heart of the Kingdom of Ferradin, the steady beat of hammer on metal echoed through the stone halls and smoke-tinged corridors.
Ferradin—famous across the seven kingdoms for its blacksmiths—was a place where sparks danced like tiny suns and skill with a hammer meant power.
Inside the estate's private forge, hidden behind thick iron doors and warmed by ancient, rumbling furnaces, a lone figure worked in near quiet.
A young man, in his teens, stood over an anvil, hammer in hand. Sweat slicked his brow, the orange glow of the flames painting his face. Each swing of his hammer was sure, practiced—almost a dance. The thing he was shaping was simple, but his movements showed a skill way beyond a normal beginner.
He stopped for a moment, holding up the half-finished blade. The metal caught the light, showing a faint shimmer. Good enough. Not his best work, but it would do for what they wanted.
His name was Rylen, a servant in the House of Calderon.
With every strike, he remembered why he was there, why he put up with the nobles' sneers and the way they looked down on him.
He had a goal, and it burned hotter inside him than the forge itself.
To everyone else in the house, he was just the quiet apprentice, a kid with nowhere else to go, taken in out of pity. Useful because he was skilled. But inside, Rylen was a shadow, waiting for his time.
His father, once a respected blacksmith, had been robbed of his name and locked away for a crime he didn't commit. The plans his father had spent years on had been stolen by the powerful. Rylen had grown up watching his mother struggle, and after she died, he'd learned the hard truth: talent didn't matter without the power to protect it. The nobles had taken everything, but he would make them pay, eventually.
That betrayal had shaped him. The nobles' cruelty, their arrogance—it had sharpened his purpose like a master smith's file. From the moment he understood how unfair the world was, he'd sworn revenge for his father. But revenge needed patience. Sharp focus. He wasn't going to rush it.
So he hid in plain sight.
He'd come to the House of Calderon as a boy with "potential," keeping his family a secret. His talent quickly earned him a spot in their forge. Over the years, he'd quietly gotten better, working on fancy orders and their designs, all the while learning their ways. Gaining their trust.
Every day, they thought he was just another talented nobody, desperate to please his noble bosses. They couldn't see the fire simmering beneath his calm surface.
Now, finally, the next step was almost here.
In one month, he would leave for the Academy of Orvale. The home of opportunity.
That was the Calderons' idea—a chance for him to represent their house and bring them honor through his skill. Not because they were nice, of course. No noble house wasted anything on a commoner unless they saw a way to use them. Rylen was a tool, and the Academy was just another way for them to profit.
They didn't know that this tool was going to be used against them.
He set the sword down and leaned against the warm forge wall, his eyes drifting up as his thoughts started to race.
One month… He said it quietly to himself, trying to push down the weight of what was coming. His life was about to mix with nobles from all the kingdoms—mages, Knights, heirs, the best of the best.
He glanced at the faint mark on his wrist—glowing with a soft, almost hidden light. A mark he'd gotten from the Archive.
Now he understood why most people never talked about the test they had to take.
That night had almost broken him. The trial had gone deeper than just his strength or smarts—it had ripped open his pain, his anger, his weaknesses. It made him live through everything again. His mother's death. His father in chains. How helpless he'd felt.
But he'd made it through. And in the end, he'd passed.
A sudden voice cut through his thoughts.
"You're not planning to just daydream your way through the academy, are you?"
Rylen turned without hurrying. Lysander Calderon, the oldest son, was walking into the forge. Dressed in smooth leather clothes, with a rolled-up paper under his arm, Lysander looked exactly like what he was—well-bred, cool, and with sharp eyes that missed nothing.
"I already finished the job," Rylen said, nodding towards the blade on the table.
Lysander gave it a quick look and nodded. "Of course you did."
He paused, then stepped further into the forge.
"The Academy doesn't just hand out spots," he said. "Even some nobles don't automatically get in anymore. You'll have to pass some kind of test to prove you're good enough before they actually accept you."
Rylen wiped his hands on a rag. "That makes sense."
Lysander watched him, his expression hard to read. "You'll pass. You're skilled—I'll give you that. But don't forget whose name you'll be representing when you're there."
Rylen just looked back at him, saying nothing.
Lysander went on, "The House of Calderon isn't sending you there for fun. Make sure you don't mess up our reputation. And… try not to cause any trouble." His voice wasn't mean, just cold and matter-of-fact.
The way nobles always talked to people they thought were beneath them. Even smart ones like Lysander couldn't shake off how they'd been raised. To him, all commoners were the same. Tools, things to use… sometimes allies. Never equals.
"I'll remember that," Rylen replied, his voice even.
Lysander gave a small nod, then turned to leave. Just before he walked out, he stopped.
"Oh, and Rylen?" he added, not looking back. "Don't disappoint me."
Then he was gone.
The forge went quiet again. Only the dying embers and the slow beat of Rylen's heart were left.
Don't disappoint me…
He let out a breath and walked back to the anvil, the waiting blade still gleaming faintly.
"We'll see about that."