The banquet hall of Castle Dravoryen glittered with golden chandeliers and polished marble floors, yet the air stank of arrogance. Nobles lounged at long tables, goblets overflowing, their laughter loud enough to drown the music. At the far end of the hall, seated quietly with his hands folded, was Toru—the prince they called weak.
He tried to stay composed, watching the nobles through lowered lashes. Every sneer, every smirk etched itself into his memory. He had endured their ridicule before, but tonight their voices were sharper, their scorn deliberate.
"Look at him," one noble snickered, raising his glass. "A prince in name only. He couldn't hold a sword if his life depended on it."
Another added, loud enough for all to hear, "If this is Dravoryen's heir, then may the gods help us. Perhaps he should be sent to the kitchens—he looks better suited to lifting spoons than steel."
Laughter erupted, bouncing off the stone walls. Toru clenched his fist beneath the table, knuckles white. Their words cut deep, but he forced himself to remain calm. He remembered his old life—drills on barren fields, recruits collapsing from exhaustion, and the mantra shouted into their bones: "Strength is not born of muscle. Strength is born of will."
Then the hall fell silent at the heavy tread of boots. Sir Calden, the kingdom's most celebrated knight, strode forward, armor gleaming under torchlight. He towered over the others, broad-shouldered and confident, his smirk aimed directly at Toru.
"Enough of this prattle," Calden declared, voice carrying like a hammer strike. "If the prince wishes to be treated as a man, let him prove himself like one."
He pointed his sword toward Toru, the gesture deliberate, humiliating. "Tomorrow, in the arena. You and I. Or will you hide, as always, behind your title?"
The hall gasped, then erupted into jeers and chants. "Yes! A duel! Let the weak prince fight!"
Toru's heart pounded. His mind screamed at him to refuse, to find some clever retort. But he knew—refusal meant death of his honor. He would be branded a coward forever.
Slowly, Toru rose. The hall grew quiet again, curiosity replacing mockery. His voice, though low, carried to every corner.
"I will fight you."
The nobles stared, some amused, others incredulous. Calden bowed mockingly, already certain of his victory. "So be it. Tomorrow, then. May the gods grant you a swift end."
---
That night, Toru slipped from his chamber, sword in hand. The training yard lay empty beneath the pale moon, shadows stretching across the worn sand. He removed his cloak, baring a body not yet knightly, still lean from weakness—but his eyes burned with something new.
He gripped the sword and began to swing. Once. Twice. Again and again until his arms ached. His breath came ragged, sweat dripping down his brow.
"Discipline first. The body follows the mind."
The words weren't his own. They were the bark of his old instructor, a memory from his former world. Toru's muscles screamed, but the echo of that voice kept him moving. He shifted stances, practiced thrusts, rolled across the ground as though dodging invisible blows. Every motion carried the weight of survival training, the endless drills of military life.
Another voice surfaced, the laughter of a comrade during night exercises: "When you think you've reached your limit, that's when the real fight begins."
Toru's arms trembled. His legs burned. But he didn't stop. He remembered sparring with bayonets, grappling in mud, the suffocating chokeholds and the command to never yield. His blade blurred through the air, clumsy but relentless, until dawn painted the horizon.
By then, he was drenched, body screaming with exhaustion. Yet as he lowered his sword, he whispered,
"I am not the same weak prince anymore."
---
The arena was a sea of noise. Thousands filled the stands, nobles and commoners alike, banners snapping in the wind. Some shouted insults, others simply came to see blood. The Dravoryen crest hung above, though many whispered this day would mark its disgrace.
Sir Calden entered first, a mountain of steel and arrogance. He raised his blade and the crowd roared. Then Toru stepped into the sands—armor plain, sword unadorned. The crowd's reaction was laughter, pity, and disbelief. Only a few loyal eyes—Liora's tearful gaze, Elandor's steady watch—offered silent support.
The announcer raised his hand. "This duel shall decide honor. Begin!"
Calden wasted no time. He charged like a bull, sword cleaving down with crushing force. Toru sidestepped, sand spraying beneath his boots. The blade slammed into the ground where he had stood, the impact rattling through the arena.
Again and again Calden struck, each blow meant to break. Toru blocked what he could, dodged what he couldn't, his arms stinging from the force. The crowd jeered at his evasions.
"Run, little prince! Run!"
But Toru's breathing remained calm. He wasn't fighting to impress. He was surviving, waiting, learning. Every swing of Calden's sword was raw power—but power without thought.
Every giant leaves an opening.
At last, Toru saw it. Calden raised his blade high, exposing his side. Toru moved, fast as instinct, striking with the hilt of his sword into the knight's ribs. The crowd gasped. Calden staggered, fury flashing in his eyes.
He swung wildly, but Toru ducked low, shoulder driving into Calden's chest. Both men crashed into the sand. Calden rolled, roaring, but Toru's body acted on memory. Grappling drills. Riot control holds. He slipped behind, locking his arm around Calden's throat, legs wrapping tight.
A chokehold. Not knightly, but lethal.
Calden thrashed, his gauntlets clawing at Toru's grip. Toru's muscles screamed, yet he tightened, drawing on every last shred of strength. His voice was a growl through clenched teeth.
"Surrender."
The arena froze. The strongest knight of Dravoryen—caught, helpless, in the grip of the weak prince?
Calden's face darkened, movements slowing. Finally, his hand tapped the sand. Submission.
The announcer's voice cracked as it rang out.
"Victory… Prince Toru!"
For a heartbeat, silence. Then, like fire sweeping through dry grass, the crowd erupted. Cheers thundered, drowning the whispers of doubt. Even those who mocked now stared in awe.
Toru released the hold and rose slowly, chest heaving, sword hanging at his side. He lifted it skyward—not in arrogance, but in quiet defiance. His gaze swept the nobles, daring them to look away.
The weak prince was weak no longer.
And Dravoryen's destiny had just shifted.