The arena was smaller than the grand dueling grounds, but tonight it felt huge. Torches burned along the stone walls, their flames throwing shadows across polished marble. Nobles crowded the balcony seats, their whispers rolling like storm clouds above. At the center, Rowan stood alone, wooden sword resting against his shoulder.
Across from him, the first challenger stepped forward with a smirk. A boy at the Awakened stage strutted as though victory were already his. "This won't take long," he sneered, earning laughter from his companions.
It lasted seconds. Rowan's blade slammed into his wrist, his legs swept from under him, and the boy crashed to the marble with a cry. Rowan pressed a boot on his chest, sword-tip grazing his throat.
"Say it." Rowan's voice was quiet, but it carried.
The boy blinked up at him, confused.
"Say you're sorry."
"I…" His pride caught in his throat. Rowan's foot pressed harder. "S–sorry!" he gasped.
Only then did Rowan step back. The boy scrambled away, humiliated.
Realizing Rowan was already at the Disciple stage, the next lackey they sent was a trainee of the same stage. He looked desperate to reclaim honor. He struck again and again, sweat flying, teeth clenched. Rowan blocked, parried, let him exhaust himself, then caught his strike, twisted, and slammed his sword against the boy's ribs with a crack. The disciple dropped, coughing in pain.
Rowan stood over him, eyes cold. "Your turn. Say it."
The boy glared, trembling, but the weight of silence from the nobles crushed him. "...Sorry."
Rowan's smirk was merciless. "Good boy." He stepped back, letting him crawl out of the ring.
By now the leader knew he was not Rowan's match. He too was only a Disciple stage trainee, and seeing how Rowan handled the last opponent, he already felt defeated. But not fighting would be worse. He charged, fury blazing, his strikes wild and desperate. Steel rang against wood as Rowan parried, countered, and struck back. Blow after blow landed until the leader staggered, his guard shattered. Rowan's final strike slammed into his chest, sending him sprawling onto the marble floor.
Rowan's sword-tip pressed against his throat, unyielding. He leaned down, his voice a razor.
"You called me a fake prince right." His boot pinned the leader's arm. "Now beg. Say you're sorry."
The leader's jaw clenched, his pride trembling against the edge of Rowan's blade.
"Do it," Rowan hissed. "Or you don't get up."
The arena held its breath. Finally, broken and shaking, the leader forced the words out. "...Sorry."
Rowan's gaze burned into him for a long moment before he stepped back, lowering his sword. The leader scrambled away like a beaten dog, face red with humiliation.
Rowan turned, sweeping his gaze over the rest. "All of you. One at a time or together. But before you leave this floor, every last one of you will say it."
The boys froze, pride warring with fear.
The fight had not lasted long. In truth, it was over before it had even begun. What the nobles had expected was a contest, a clash of pride, skill, perhaps even a drawn-out struggle. Instead, they had witnessed something else entirely.
They thought: were they not of the same age? How could the difference be so great? The obvious answer settled in every mind at once.
Talent. Extraordinary talent.
Up in the balcony, a middle-aged man with sharp features and blond hair leaned forward, eyes narrowing. His voice carried quietly to the man beside him.
"Marquess Lender… you're thinking what I'm thinking."
Lender's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes, Duke Eadric."
The duke's gaze never left Rowan, who still stood at the arena's center like a blade drawn from its sheath. "Keep an eye on him. It's too early to make a decision right now."
"Yes," Lender said, bowing his head.
When Rowan left the arena floor, Aelric was waiting for him just outside the stone archway. The younger prince's eyes were bright, his smile stretched wide with admiration.
"That was good," Aelric said. "But tell me, how come you don't fight like that during practice?"
Rowan opened his mouth, but before he could answer, a new voice swept in like a spark to kindling.
"Not bad."
Princess Ember stood nearby, her posture relaxed but her gaze sharp, cutting straight through him. A faint smile tugged at her lips. "You didn't disappoint me."
Rowan inclined his head slightly. "Thank you, for opening my eyes."
Ember's smirk softened, turning almost teasing. "Aww… my grateful little brother."
Rowan only smiled awkwardly, not knowing what to say next.
Aelric blinked, glancing between them. "What's going on here?"
"You," Ember said, turning her eyes on Aelric with a flash of amusement, "should learn from him. A thing or two about how to respect your elders and follow their advice."
Aelric frowned. "Respect? What does that have to do with this?"
But Ember wasn't listening anymore. Her gaze had shifted, locking onto the balcony where another figure lingered, watching with a cool, unblinking stare.
"Cyrus," she called, her voice carrying across the space.
The eldest prince straightened at once. His dark eyes narrowed, his jaw set as if carved from stone. With measured steps, he rose from his seat, shoulders squared, the very picture of princely authority. Nobles whispered as he descended the stairs, parting before him as though a storm approached.
Rowan watched, half-expecting a clash. But when Cyrus finally stood before them, Ember's gaze pinned him in place like a hawk eyeing prey.
"You really think you're something now, don't you?" Ember's voice was cool, sharp.
Cyrus froze. His tough mask faltered for a heartbeat before he quickly forced it back into place. "No… big sister," he said, the words oddly soft for someone who had just marched down like a conqueror.
Rowan blinked at the sudden change, startled by how quickly Cyrus had folded.
Leaning closer, Aelric whispered at his side, barely holding back a grin. "It's always like that. Big sister is scary. Even Father has to give her face."
"Then say sorry to Rowan," Ember demanded.
"Why?" he asked, surprised.
"Because you knew those boys were guilty," Ember said coldly, stepping closer, "and still you pushed Rowan, just for your entertainment. You think others are toys. But remember this in the Crownlands, it won't be the same. You might become someone else's toy."
Cyrus's pride quivered like glass under a hammer. His jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. But in the end, under Ember's steady glare, his head bowed.
"...Sorry," he muttered, the word sounding more like surrender than apology.
He turned sharply and stormed away, cloak snapping behind him, ears faintly red.
Ember exhaled, shaking her head slightly. "That kid really needs to be taught the hard way."
Her eyes shifted back to Rowan, her expression softening, if only slightly. "You have great talent as a knight. Keep training hard. Even if your magic awakening ritual doesn't go as you hope, remember, this," she gestured toward his sword behind him, "is also strength."
Rowan nodded. "I understand."
Then Ember's gaze flicked to Aelric, who stood straighter, clearly waiting, though he tried to hide it. She smiled faintly.
"You're doing great too, Aelric. I can see you've been putting in the work. I'm proud of you."
Aelric's eyes lit up at the words, his face breaking into a grin. "Do you have to go this early? You just came…"
"Aww." Ember leaned closer, teasing. "So you do have some love for me. I was starting to think you might've picked up that poisonous personality of your brother." She ruffled his hair, making him protest weakly, before stepping back. "Don't worry. I'll be back soon, to pick you up for the Crownlands next year. And remember, next time I see you guys, you both should be at Adept rank. I can already see you're close. If you don't reach it, that means you've been slacking."
With that, she gave them a final wave, turning and leaving with her guards in tow.
For a moment, silence hung between Rowan and Aelric. Then Aelric sighed, his lips curving into a faint smile.
"Come on. This ceremony is pretty much over anyway. Also… tell me what really happened between you and big sis."
Ten months passed. Training, sweat, bruises, and countless spars filled their days. By the end of it, both Rowan and Aelric had broken through, stepping into the Adept stage just last month.
Now, in the training yard behind the palace, their wooden swords clashed again and again, the sharp crack of strikes echoing against the stone walls.
Rowan swung hard, his blade whistling through the air, but Aelric slipped aside, footwork quick, countering with a jab to Rowan's ribs. Rowan blocked, pushing back with force that nearly knocked Aelric off balance.
The younger prince grinned, sweat glinting on his brow. "Not bad. You're stronger than last week."
Rowan didn't reply, pressing forward with a series of sharp, relentless strikes. Their blades rattled together, each impact heavier than the last. Finally, Aelric ducked under Rowan's guard and struck his shoulder, forcing him back.
The match ended with Aelric's blade resting just an inch from Rowan's chest. Both of them froze, breathing hard.
Aelric let out a laugh, lowering his sword. "Ha! That's one for me. Don't sulk, I barely won this time."
Rowan exhaled, straightening, his lips twitching despite himself. "You're getting faster."
"Of course," Aelric said, puffing up a little. Then, after a pause, his grin softened. "Let's go. Your magic awakening ritual is today. You don't want to be late."
Rowan nodded slowly. Finally, the day had arrived.