The training yard echoed with the clash of steel. Athelric swung his blade in a wide arc, forcing Caedmon to step back. The younger prince parried, sparks flying as iron struck iron, and pressed forward with surprising speed. Their audience—squires, knights, and servants—watched with hungry eyes. To them, this was sport. To the brothers, it was something more.
"Too slow, little brother," Athelric taunted, grinning as he forced Caedmon to retreat again.
"And too predictable, elder brother," Caedmon replied, twisting his wrist in a deft maneuver that nearly knocked the blade from Athelric's hand.
The crowd cheered, but the King's steward frowned. He knew the difference between playful rivalry and the dangerous edge of ambition.
When the match ended, Athelric clasped his brother's shoulder, smiling for the crowd. Yet his grip lingered too long, his eyes sharp with unspoken warning. Caedmon forced a smile, but inside he felt the press of that weight—the knowledge that to live in his brother's shadow was to be forever underestimated.
Still, there was bond between them. They hunted together, feasted together, and once had sworn as boys never to let crowns or swords come between them. But time erodes boyhood oaths.
Later that night, Caedmon lingered in the great hall as the fire burned low. He watched his brother drink with the knights, boasting of victories and laughing as if already king. Caedmon could not help but wonder: if destiny placed a crown upon Athelric's head, what place would remain for him?
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