The clang of iron rang through the courtyard, echoing off the high stone walls of the castle like a morning bell. Sweat gleamed on the young master's brow as he twisted, ducked, and surged forward—his wooden training blade striking with the precision of someone far beyond his years.
"Again," barked Instructor Halvar, the grizzled veteran who had served the Lord for nearly two decades. "Form three. Don't rely on instinct. You're not a beast."
"I'm not," the boy replied, breath steady despite the dozens of drills. "But instincts win when discipline falters."
Halvar grunted. Not approval, but not quite disapproval either.
From the balcony above, a pair of shadowed figures watched in silence—one tall and broad-shouldered in a dark cloak trimmed with silver, the other thinner, holding a scroll tucked under his arm. The taller one—Lord Kaelen, the Conqueror of Five Provinces—studied his son with the same distant, calculating gaze he reserved for maps and enemies. He said nothing. He never did during training.
Down below, the boy reset his stance and flowed into the next form. Fluid. Sharp. Measured. When the session finally ended, he rolled his shoulders and handed off his practice sword to a servant. His attendants rushed to wipe the sweat from his brow, but he waved them off and turned toward the main hall. He already knew where he was needed next.
"Going to ease drop again, young master?" Halvar called after him, half-joking.
"Not eavesdrop," the boy said over his shoulder. "He lets me listen now."
He didn't look back. He didn't need to.
The war council chamber was lit by a single chandelier of mageglass, flickering with enchanted blue flame. Around the heavy oaken table sat five men, each seasoned and scarred, each commanding armies or territories in the Lord's growing realm. They quieted slightly as the door opened and the young master entered—though none objected.
Lord Kaelen did not turn to look. He simply gestured to the seat beside his own.
"Sit."
The boy did, folding his hands in his lap as servants poured wine and laid out maps inked with troop movements, borders, and unfamiliar emblems. Kaelen's voice was low, rough, but utterly controlled.
"The kingdom of Velmar is weak after their failed harvest. Their southern fortress is undermanned."
"An opportunity," said one general, stroking a thick, greying beard. "But Velmar is part of the Triad Accord. Move too fast, and we draw out the ire of Grel and Ardentis."
Kaelen leaned forward, tapping a province line.
"They won't move unless they think we're trying to take all three. I'm not. Not yet. Velmar alone strengthens our grip on the trade routes."
"And their mana wells," added another. "Their Circle mages won't give those up easily."
That word—mana wells—sent a ripple of electricity through the young master's spine. The idea of controlling such power was almost mythical.
He turned slightly to his father. "If we strike at the fortress directly, they'll call for aid. But if the supply convoys start disappearing…"
The table went silent.
One general raised a brow. "Are we taking tactics from children now?"
Kaelen didn't smile. He never smiled. But his voice held weight when he spoke.
"He isn't wrong."
That single phrase felt heavier than any blade the boy had lifted in training. Kaelen tapped the map again, this time farther south.
"We'll test them with raiding parties. Disruption. Delay. If the Triad doesn't move, we take Velmar before the winter freeze."
The others murmured approval. The meeting continued, but the boy had stopped listening. His mind raced ahead—calculating, imagining, plotting. One day, this would all be his. Not just a seat at the table.
The table itself.
Later, as dusk painted the sky in streaks of gold and crimson, the young master stood on a high tower balcony overlooking the capital. Below, lanterns lit the streets, carriages rattled on stone, and beyond the walls, distant provinces lay like pieces of an unfinished puzzle.
Kaelen joined him—silent as ever. They stood together without words for a while, the wind tugging at their cloaks.
"You fought well today," Kaelen said at last, eyes still fixed on the horizon.
"I will be stronger tomorrow," the boy replied.
Kaelen nodded once. "You must be. We've taken five. Seven remain. And the next will not fall as easily."
He rested a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. "Remember this: strength earns respect. But only vision earns loyalty. You will need both."
The young master swallowed hard, then stood a little straighter.
"I won't fail you."
Kaelen's hand lingered a moment longer. Then he was gone—disappearing back into the fortress like a shadow passing between flames.
Alone, the boy turned back to the distant lights.
Twelve kingdoms.
One Empire.
And someday, he would rule it all.