The courtyard of the Dros estate rang with the clash of weapons and the guttural cries of soldiers drilling under torchlight. Unlike the academy's polished training grounds, this place was raw, brutal—stone floors cracked from endless sparring, iron dummies scarred with burns and gashes, and the faint metallic tang of blood clinging to the air.
Bren stood at the center, shirt torn, sweat streaking his face. His chest heaved, every breath rasping against his throat as he blocked another strike from the hulking soldier before him.
"Too slow," the man barked, slamming his blade into Bren's shoulder and driving him to the ground.
A shadow fell over him. The crowd of watching guards and tutors straightened immediately as a tall figure approached—broad-shouldered, his armor trimmed in dark crimson, lightning-shaped scars etched across his jawline.
Lord Dros.
Bren's stepfather.
The man's gaze was cold, unimpressed. "Pathetic," he said flatly. "A child who cannot even best a low-ranked guard? And you think yourself worthy of my name?"
Bren clenched his jaw, forcing himself to his feet despite the ache in his ribs. "I can do better. Let me try again."
"Again?" Lord Dros's voice carried like thunder. "You've had every advantage. Tutors. Training. Weapons. And still, you falter. Do you know why I do not allow you my family's name, Bren?"
Silence pressed down on him heavier than the armor he wore. The other soldiers looked away. Everyone knew the answer.
"Because I haven't earned it," Bren said through gritted teeth.
"Exactly." Lord Dros turned his back on him, dismissive. "Strength is not given. It is taken. Until you stand above the weak, until you crush them beneath your heel, you are nothing more than a liability."
The words cut deeper than any blade. They always did.
Bren's fists tightened around the training sword, knuckles white. He wanted to scream. To demand acknowledgment. But his throat locked. He had lived under this weight for as long as he could remember—never a son, never enough.
He staggered back into stance as another soldier advanced. His arms felt heavy, but his rage burned hotter than exhaustion. The man swung; Bren twisted and countered, slamming his blade into the soldier's side with enough force to make him stumble. For a moment, satisfaction flickered in his chest.
But when he turned to his stepfather, Lord Dros was already walking away.
Not even watching.
The sting of rejection boiled inside him. Every failure, every sneer, every whispered comparison to the "true heirs" of the family—all of it piled onto his shoulders until it felt unbearable.
He wasn't allowed the name. He wasn't allowed recognition.
And yet, he would take it.
"I'll prove it," Bren whispered to himself, lowering his blade. His voice cracked with desperation. "I'll prove it to him. To everyone. I'll earn that name if it kills me."
The soldier he'd knocked down smirked bitterly as he pushed himself up. "You'll never be more than a half-blood shadow, boy."
Bren's strike came so fast the man barely had time to raise his guard. The training sword cracked across his jaw, sending him sprawling again. Gasps rose from the others, but Bren didn't care. He stood trembling, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the gates where his stepfather had disappeared.
In the stillness, his thoughts turned elsewhere.
Back to the academy.
Back to the boy who had stood in his way again and again.
Kael.
The so-called blank. Weak. Pathetic. A nobody. And yet… something about him unsettled Bren. Kael had no family, no power, no name—yet he carried himself with a stubborn defiance Bren couldn't shake.
It gnawed at him.
Because deep down, Bren saw in Kael the very thing he lacked: freedom.
Kael had nothing, and so he owed nothing. He wasn't chained by legacy or expectation. He didn't need to earn his worth from a father who despised him.
That truth infuriated Bren more than anything.
And so he whispered it again, a promise to himself, to the night, to the blood pounding in his ears:
"I'll crush him. I'll crush them all. Then maybe he'll finally see me."