At four years old, Ren—no, Sunny, as he still called himself in his thoughts, was beginning to grasp the deeper realities of the kingdom he'd been reborn into. The world of Minstrel wasn't just a colourful backdrop; it pulsed with magic, music, guild banners, and danger. Even the quiet village of Hearthspire, tucked away along the southern coast, bore traces of that vibrant yet volatile culture.
Sunny had learned early that Minstrel was known for its arts and elegance—theatres filled with magic-enhanced performances, grand ballrooms echoing with enchanted music, and painters who captured scenes with living brushstrokes. But beneath that beauty lay something darker. Guilds were everywhere, legal and otherwise. Where there were artists and heroes, there were thieves and killers. Dark guilds operated in shadows, sometimes openly when bribes covered their tracks. The laws existed, yes—but they cracked often, and corruption leaked through.
Still, life in Hearthspire was simple. Safe—for now. And Sunny was determined to make the most of it.
"Again," said his father, voice calm but stern.
Sunny stood in the familiar training clearing behind their cottage, gripping a wooden sword with both hands. His bare feet dug into the packed earth as he readied another strike.
He exhaled, twisted his hips, and swung at his father's side.
Clack.
Blocked. Easily.
"Better. Your stance is improving," his father noted, lowering his own wooden sword. "But your weight's still on your front foot. You'll fall over if someone feints."
Sunny adjusted instantly, frowning. "I'm trying."
His father gave a short nod. "I know you are. And you're ahead of most four-year-olds, but that's no excuse for sloppiness."
Sweat dripped from Sunny's brow. The wooden blade felt heavier today. Not from fatigue, but from the pressure he placed on himself. He wasn't training just for fun. Not for praise. He had to get better. Not just to impress his father—but to protect his family in a world where danger had rhythm, where beauty masked blades.
They took a break beneath the shade of a fig tree, where Sunny's mother had laid out a plate of bread and apricot jam. She always came with snacks after training—gentle, warm, her hair tucked into a loose braid that smelled faintly of lavender and sea salt.
"You boys always work up a storm," she said, placing her hands on her hips. "My little knight's going to pass out one day from swinging that stick too hard."
"I'm fine, Mama," Sunny mumbled, already devouring the bread.
His father chuckled as he wiped his face with a cloth. "He's tougher than he looks. Stubborn too."
Sunny grinned. It felt good to be praised, even if it came wrapped in mild teasing.
After a moment of peaceful chewing and wind brushing through the leaves, Sunny sat forward, legs crossed.
"Papa," he asked, "can you tell me more about Minstrel?"
His father glanced down, curious. "Why do you want to know?"
"I want to understand everything. The people. The guilds. The good and the bad."
His father looked thoughtful, then nodded slowly.
"All right," he said, shifting to sit more comfortably. "You already know we live in the western coast, in Hearthspire. It's a quieter village, not far from the Coral Bay. The ocean's kind to us, and the winds keep the dark guilds away—mostly."
Sunny listened intently, chewing slower.
"Minstrel is a strange kingdom," his father went on. "Famous for its music, painting, festivals. You'll find bards as often as you'll find blacksmiths. Dancers perform in town squares using magic to light up the skies. There's even a city where the streets change colors depending on what mood the performers are in."
"Really?" Sunny's eyes sparkled.
"Really. But there's a darker side, too. Magic here is more… freeform than in kingdoms like Fiore. Less control. So you have guilds for everything—carpenters, traveling musicians, messengers, even puppeteers. But many of them operate in shadows."
"Dark guilds?"
His father nodded. "There are more here than in most kingdoms. Some control whole towns. They exploit performers, steal magical instruments, and sometimes even enchant art to cause harm."
Sunny's knuckles tightened around the crust of his bread. "Why doesn't the king stop them?"
His father gave a tired shrug. "The laws exist. But enforcement? That's another story. Minstrel values freedom more than order. That's why we train—to be ready, not to rely on anyone else."
Sunny stared at his wooden sword resting against the tree.
One day, he'd carry a real one.
Later, they went to the village square. The afternoon air was sweet with fruit and salt, and performers from neighboring towns had set up along the fountain plaza. A woman sang in three-part harmony—with herself—using sound-duplication magic. A boy juggled small orbs of fire, while a masked dancer twirled beneath enchanted streamers.
Sunny and his mother watched for a while, clapping when the dancer struck his final pose.
"That was amazing!" Sunny said.
The dancer bowed deeply and offered him a tiny glowing marble, enchanted to hum softly when rolled. "For the boy with bright eyes."
"Thank you!" Sunny beamed.
His mother smiled but stayed close. She always did around strangers, especially performers. Not because she disliked them—but because some of them weren't what they seemed. In Minstrel, even magic meant to entertain could have a blade hidden behind the curtain.
That evening, Sunny helped chop vegetables while his mother cooked. The stew simmered gently on the stove, fragrant with garlic and local herbs. Outside, the sky turned peach and violet as the sun lowered toward the sea.
"Sunny," his mother said as she stirred, "what do you want to be when you grow up?"
He thought for a moment. "A swordsman. A good one. Maybe a guild mage too. Or a knight who protects dancers."
She laughed softly. "All three? You dream big."
"I have to," he said seriously. "Someone has to protect you and Papa when the dark guilds come."
She turned and knelt beside him. "Listen to me. You don't need to carry the weight of the world just yet. Just be a boy for a little longer, all right?"
He nodded slowly, though in his heart, he didn't feel like "just a boy." Not with what he remembered. Not with the danger he sensed creeping in on the edges of Minstrel's colors.
After dinner, his father stood in the moonlight with two wooden swords.
"Tonight," he said, "I show you your first form. Real swordplay. Not just swings."
Sunny's eyes widened. He stood at once.
His father demonstrated—a flowing kata, deliberate and elegant. Each movement had weight, grace, and intention. It reminded Sunny of the masked dancer, but this was art with purpose. Art for battle.
Sunny imitated him, stumbling once, slipping once more—but his eyes never left his father's movements. He tried again. Again. Again.
His father didn't stop him.
"You're watching well," he said finally. "You have good instincts."
They trained beneath the stars until his arms ached. Until his legs burned.
Then they sat on the porch, watching the sea glitter beneath the moonlight.
"Papa?" Sunny asked quietly. "Do you think I'll ever join a guild?"
His father looked at him, then at the horizon.
"If you do, make sure it's one you build with your own values," he said. "Minstrel has too many guilds that forgot what they stood for. Don't follow a name. Follow your heart."
Sunny nodded slowly, resting his head on his father's arm.
He wasn't ready yet.
But one day, he would be.
And when that day came, he would be ready to bring light to the stage that was Minstrel—and protect those who danced within it.