The House of Veyren was built on steel.
Generations ago, its founder had carved the family's title not from wealth or diplomacy, but from the sword he wielded with unrelenting precision. The Count of Steel, they had called him, for no knight nor warlord could stand before the edge of his blade. The Veyren name carried that legacy, and though centuries had passed since the age of conquest, the family still prided itself on its martial heritage.
Count Veyren himself lived with that weight pressing across his shoulders. He bore the title with pride, and though his lands now thrived through treaties and trade, his heart still longed for a descendant who could inherit the steel of their lineage. He dreamed of a prodigious swordsman to carry the family's legacy into a new age of glory.
But fate had given him something else.
His legitimate children—Elias's elder siblings—were prodigies, but not of steel. Alaric, the eldest, could carve runes into swords that shimmered with heat, lightning, or impossible sharpness. Isolde, his sister, could weave magic with elegance and summon fire as easily as one might breathe. Their talents shone brightly, earning them admiration at court, whispered respect among other noble houses, and the silent approval of the Count.
Yet behind every approving glance lingered disappointment. They were brilliant, yes—but their brilliance was not in the art of the sword.
And then there was Elias.
At seven years old, Elias was neither brilliant nor remarkable. He was not a legitimate heir; his birth had come from the Count's dalliance with a lesser noblewoman, and though his father did not deny his blood, Elias's presence was tolerated more than celebrated. The servants addressed him politely but distantly. His siblings treated him like a shadow at the table, neither cruel nor kind, simply indifferent.
Elias did not hate them. In truth, he admired them—his brother's confidence, his sister's sharp wit, their easy way of commanding attention. But admiration carried with it a sting, a quiet jealousy that pressed into him like the edge of a blade. He longed for a gift of his own. Something that would make the Count look at him as more than an afterthought.
It was this longing that drew him to the forests bordering the estate.
The woods were dense with pine and oak, their roots winding like veins through the earth. For Elias, they were a refuge. Here, the weight of family expectation lifted, and he could imagine himself anything: a knight of legend, a wandering hero, even a king of distant lands. He carried sticks for swords, fought invisible armies, and raised imaginary banners over fallen foes.
One mist-laden morning, while wandering deeper than usual, Elias stumbled upon something different.
It lay beneath a tangle of roots, half-buried and swallowed by moss. At first, he thought it another branch, but when he kicked at it idly, the clink of metal rang faintly in the air. Dropping to his knees, Elias brushed the moss aside, revealing the hilt of a sword.
The blade was long, its steel rusted and dulled with age. The hilt bore faint etchings, once intricate but now worn smooth. Dirt caked the fuller, and the edges had long since lost their sharpness. It was a ruin of a weapon, discarded and forgotten.
Elias's breath caught. To his eyes, it was treasure.
He tugged at the hilt, and after a stubborn pull, the blade came free of the roots with a faint metallic groan. It was heavier than the sticks he was used to, awkward in his small hands. But oh, how it gleamed to his imagination.
"This is it," he whispered, his voice hushed as though afraid the forest might overhear. "My knight's sword."
He swung it clumsily, the tip dragging through the dirt. In his mind, however, it cleaved through enemy ranks, scattering foes with each mighty strike. He brandished it aloft, pretending to hear the roar of soldiers chanting his name.
"Sir Elias!" he declared to the trees, puffing his chest. "Knight of Veyren! Defender of the realm!"
He marched between the trunks as though they were castle pillars, holding the sword with both hands. When a squirrel darted across the path, Elias lunged with exaggerated vigor, missing by a wide margin but laughing all the same. He fought monsters of bark and shadow, cut down phantom bandits, and raised his blade to the sky in triumph.
For hours he played, sweat streaking his brow, his breath coming in quick bursts. The blade grew no sharper, nor did it suddenly shimmer with hidden power. It was what it appeared to be: a rusted, forgotten sword. But in Elias's hands, it was everything.
When he returned to the estate, he hid the sword beneath his cloak, sneaking past servants and siblings alike. His heart pounded with every step, terrified someone would notice. He was not supposed to bring home forest relics, much less rusted weapons.
But no one stopped him.
In the quiet of his small chamber, Elias set the sword beneath his bed, careful to cover it with cloth so the rust wouldn't stain the floorboards. He lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, imagining the life of the blade before it came to him.
Had it belonged to a knight of old, cut down in battle? Was it once wielded by a hero who saved kingdoms? Or had it been discarded by some careless soldier, forgotten as time marched on?
His mind spun with stories, each grander than the last. He imagined himself standing in the place of those warriors, the rusted blade reborn in his grip, the name of Elias Veyren carried proudly across the land.
Days turned into weeks. Each morning, before lessons, Elias stole into the forest with the sword. He practiced clumsy swings, mimicking the stances he saw the guards take during drills. He fought invisible enemies until his arms ached and his palms blistered.
The servants noticed the dirt on his boots, the leaves tangled in his hair, but they said nothing. His siblings scarcely looked his way, lost in their own brilliance. His father did not ask where his youngest son vanished to each morning.
And so Elias continued.
The rusted blade became his secret companion, a thing that belonged to him and no one else. It was not a rune-etched weapon. It was not a symbol of magical genius. It was old, battered, forgotten. Just like him.
But when he swung it, when he imagined the world it once knew, Elias felt something stir inside him — a spark, small and fragile, but his own.
That night, as the estate slumbered, Elias lay awake with the sword tucked safely beneath his bed. He traced the ceiling beams with his eyes, replaying every swing and every imaginary duel of the day. His arms still ached, his palms still burned with blisters, but none of that mattered.
For once, he had something that was his. Not a rune taught by tutors, not a trick learned from watching his siblings, but a sword—his sword. Rusted though it was, dull though it seemed, Elias clung to it with the quiet determination only a child could muster.
And as sleep finally took him, he smiled faintly, already eager for the next day's battles in the woods.