บท 5: The backstory
The clang of steel echoed through the training grounds as Sir Alaric's sword clashed with Prince Dylone's. The morning sun bathed the royal castle in a golden glow, casting long shadows across the field where the knight and prince sparred. The knight moved with a calculated ferocity, each strike precise and powerful. His blade whistled through the air, forcing Dylone back with each blow.
Dylone, though skilled, was on the defensive, his breathing labored as he parried Alaric's relentless attacks. His royal training was evident, but the sheer force and speed of the knight were overwhelming. Alaric's expression was calm, focused—he wasn't just testing the prince; he was teaching him.
The prince's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword as he deflected another strike, the impact reverberating through his arms. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his muscles strained under the weight of the contest. Alaric's assault was unyielding, and Dylone knew he was being pushed to his limits. With every block, his defenses weakened, his form beginning to falter.
In a swift, fluid motion, Alaric feinted left before swinging his sword in a wide arc to the right. Dylone was too slow to react, and the force of the blow sent his sword clattering to the ground. He stumbled, his knees buckling as he fell onto his back. Alaric stepped forward, the tip of his sword hovering just above Dylone's neck.
"You grow faster, Prince," Alaric said, his voice steady, a hint of respect in his tone.
Dylone's chest heaved as he caught his breath, his face flushed with exertion. Yet, despite his defeat, there was a hardness in his eyes, an inner conflict that twisted his features. He looked up at Alaric, and his tone was bitter as he responded, "I'm still weak. I'm not worth the crown."
Alaric paused, studying the young prince. He saw the self-doubt lurking behind Dylone's words, the weight of the future pressing down on him. Without a word, Alaric extended his hand, helping the prince to his feet.
As Dylone rose, brushing the dust off his tunic, a voice called out from across the yard. The sound of hurried footsteps followed, and they turned to see young Fyorne bounding towards them. At fourteen, the boy's face was alight with excitement, his smile wide and infectious.
"I passed the exam, brother!" Fyorne shouted, his eyes bright with pride as he approached. He was full of youthful energy, the embodiment of hope and potential.
Dylone smiled as Fyorne reached them, his younger brother's excitement contagious. He placed a hand on Fyorne's head, ruffling his hair affectionately. "Congratulations, Fyorne. You've done well. Father will be proud to hear this," Dylone said, his voice softening with genuine warmth as he looked down at the boy.
Fyorne beamed, basking in his brother's praise. But Dylone's expression soon grew more serious as he turned to leave. "I have to meet with Father now. I'll make sure to tell him about your success. Keep up the good work, Fyorne."
With that, Dylone gave his brother a reassuring nod and departed, his strides purposeful as he made his way toward the castle. Fyorne watched him go, the admiration in his eyes clear.
As Dylone disappeared from view, Sir Alaric turned to Fyorne, his gaze assessing. "Well, young prince, are you ready to start your training?" Alaric asked, his tone expectant.
Fyorne's smile faltered, and he looked away, kicking at the dirt with his boot. "Come on, Alaric, I'm tired today. Can't we skip it just this once?" he replied, a hint of pleading in his voice.
Alaric frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fyorne, training isn't something you can skip whenever you feel like it. You need to be ready for whatever comes, whether you want to be or not."
Fyorne sighed, frustration flickering across his face. "But I'm not going to be king, Alaric! Why do I need to learn how to fight? That's Dylone's responsibility, not mine."
Alaric's expression hardened, his voice taking on a stern edge. "Your brother will need you, Fyorne. You'll be his most trusted man, the one who stands by his side when things get tough. And when that time comes, you'll need to know how to fight—to protect him, to protect the kingdom."
Fyorne's brow furrowed as he looked up at the knight, conflicted. "But I'm not a warrior, Alaric. I'm not like you or Dylone. I don't want to be," he said, his voice wavering slightly.
Alaric stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Fyorne's shoulder. "You're more than that, Fyorne. You're the hero of the gods, the chosen one. How can a hero not know how to fight? You have a destiny to fulfill, and part of that is being ready for whatever challenges come your way."
Fyorne hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground. "Being a hero doesn't mean being a warrior, Alaric. There's more to it than just fighting. The gods… they visit me at night, you know? They teach me things—about the ancient history of our kingdoms, about the nature of people. They show me the past, the mistakes that were made, and how they shaped our world."
Alaric listened intently, his grip on Fyorne's shoulder tightening slightly. "What do they tell you, Fyorne? What do you see in these visions?"
Fyorne looked up, his eyes wide and filled with an unsettling mixture of fear and certainty. "They warn me, Alaric. They warn me about a curse—a curse that might befall our kingdom. They say it's been waiting, festering in the shadows, and that it could destroy everything we've built."
Alaric's heart skipped a beat at the gravity in Fyorne's words. He stared at the young prince, a cold dread settling in his chest. "A curse? What kind of curse? What are they telling you?"
Fyorne shook his head, his expression haunted. "I don't know, not exactly. But they said it's connected to betrayal… that it feeds on the darkness within us, on the lies and the deceit that we try to bury. And that if we're not careful, it will tear our kingdom apart from the inside."
Alaric felt a chill run down his spine as he processed Fyorne's words. The boy's voice was calm, but the weight of his message was overwhelming, casting a dark shadow over the training grounds.
"Fyorne," Alaric said quietly, his voice tinged with a newfound urgency. "You need to keep telling me about these visions, about what the gods are showing you. If there's a curse… we need to be ready for it. We need to stop it before it's too late."
Fyorne nodded slowly, the fear still lingering in his eyes. "I will, Alaric. I promise. But I'm scared… What if we can't stop it? What if… what if it's already started?"
Alaric's grip on the boy's shoulder tightened as he met his gaze, determination blazing in his eyes. "Then we'll fight it, Fyorne. Together. Whatever it takes, we'll protect this kingdom—and your brother. We won't let the curse win."
But deep down, as they stood in the morning light, both of them knew that the path ahead would be fraught with danger, and that the curse Fyorne spoke of might already be closer than either of them dared to believe.
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