"Well, I think it's because her Grace passed away after giving birth to you, my young lord," said the guard with chilling words.
They seemed to hang in the humid air of the long corridors of the castle. Like a lethal gas cloud, they poisoned Leon with fear.
"I see." All the blood rushed out of Leon's face in mere seconds. It turned deathly white. The boy heard nothing but ringing in his ears.
My mother died because of me. The idea shocked the eight-year-old Leon. He did not even feel his hands trembling. He did not shed tears nor scream – only walked slowly, with his eyes fixed on the floor and his heart heavy with betrayal.
"...Uncle Julian told me that Mother died due to some illness..."
"Sir, it's time for lunch," called Julian from the distance, his raspy voice breaking Leon's stunned state.
The boy looked in the direction of the servant's voice and saw Julian standing at the end of the hall. For the first time in his life, Leon got goose bumps when looking into Julian's eyes which were smiling.
The boy accompanied by Julian walked to the hall where he sat silently at a large round wooden table, seeming too tiny next to it. A young maid came closer to put food before him.
Leon picked up his fork. He took a single, slow bite. He chewed, swallowed, and then carefully set the fork down.
With agonizing deliberation, Leon gripped the edge of the ceramic plate and slammed it down onto the floor.
The plate crashed into a dozen pieces, bits of both the dishware and its contents falling over the pristine marble table. The maid squealed, stepping backwards and shaking from fear.
"Master Julian?!" Julian cried out, staring in shock. "Why did you—?"
"Why not, Julian?" Leon inquired, his tone unnaturally calm, totally lacking the naivety of a little boy. He raised his gaze, it was lifeless. "It is quite tasteless. Under my standards."
Julian was rooted to the spot. It was unusual for Leon to act so viciously after all the years of serving him. The sweet, innocent little boy who begged for recognition – this was something else entirely.
"Perhaps I'll have a nap," Leon mused as he got out of the chair and dusted crumbs from his clothes. "After all, my appetite has been ruined."
He walked past Julian without looking at him. Behind him, the young maid dropped to her knees, bowing her head in sheer terror, whispering apologies to an empty room. Julian knelt beside her, trying to console her trembling frame, but his mind was racing, a deep, sickening dread settling into his old bones.
Leon locked his bedroom door and collapsed onto his bed. A single, hot tear escaped his eye, tracking down his cheek. He pressed his hands against his ears, trying to tear his own thoughts out of his skull. "Ah! Go away... these thoughts... I don't want this!"
But the mind is a cruel master, and the voices of his past began to echo in the dark, overlapping, mocking, suffocating him:
"You are not a part of this family."
"Soon, young master, you will begin training very soon..."
"Father explicitly ordered me to tell you... you will never be given the status of a knight."
"Well, I think it's because Her Grace passed away after giving birth to you..."
He cried until his throat was dry, but nobody came to knock on his door. Nobody came to hold him.
Over the next few weeks, a terrible transformation occurred in Leon. This pain did not disappear but congealed into apathy and hate.
"Alright, guess there is nothing for me to do," he told himself with a sneer while looking at his image in the mirror. "It's not my fault that I cannot be a knight. They chose this path for me."
"Why should i care about anyone when no one cares for me?"
Time bled away, and the corruption within Leon continued to eat deeper and deeper as he aged. No longer did Leon beg for affection; he used the power he had to hurt those beneath him.
One day, looking to escape the oppressive confines of the main house, Leon found himself in the smithy of his family home. The furnace flames licked around him as he looked at Alric, no longer a child but a muscular youth drenched in sweat and soot. Alric had never had an interest in wielding the sword, but he had an almost religious fervent belief in the hammer and anvil.
"What are you doing in the smithy, Leon?" Alric asked, wiping his forehead with his roughened hand. He did not hate Leon, simply curious about what he was doing there.
"Just passing through," Leon said. They talked for a while.
"Did you know, Leon, why I chose not to become a knight?" Alric asked, turning a glowing piece of steel over the fire. "There used to be a legendary blacksmith, right after the Svaron War. He forged weapons so mathematically perfect, so inherently lethal, that even puny, untrained squires could match elite knights in battle. Sometimes, the squires even took their heads."
Alric smiled, a genuine spark of passion in his eyes. "Isn't it funny? How men who are insanely strong can be brought down by someone so weak, just because of the difference in the steel they carry. That's what made me decide. Instead of becoming a knight who wields a sword, I will craft swords so great that a common man can stand equal to a king."
Leon's eyes narrowed slightly, a dark curiosity piqued. "Tell me more about the smithing."
Alric reached over to a leather pouch, pulling out a strange, glowing green crystal. "I'm planning to embed this stone into the pommel of these daggers."
"Why?" Leon asked.
"It's a Flow-stone," Alric explained, his voice full of awe. "Its natural energy will channel into the steel, making the blade feel weightless and incredibly fast. It will feel as if the daggers are moving entirely on their own, guided by the wind."
Before Leon could respond, the heavy iron doors of the smithy banged open. Master Garron, the chief blacksmith of Morvain and a legendary figure in the kingdom, walked in. He took one look at Leon, and his weathered face twisted in immediate disgust.
"Brat," Garron barked, his voice like grinding stones. "Why are you wasting your time talking to this parasite, Alric? Get back to work."
"Sorry, Master," Alric said quickly, lowering his head.
Leon's posture stiffened. His eyes turned dangerously cold. "Master?" he asked, turning his gaze to Garron.
"I am his apprentice," Alric whispered nervously to Leon. "He is the greatest blacksmith in Morvain. I had no reason to refuse."
Garron stepped forward, pointing a thick, scarred finger at Leon's chest. "Get out of my forge. This is no place for someone like you. I've heard stories of how you treat the servants in the manor. You're a disgrace. Get out."
The air in the smithy grew instantly suffocating. Leon didn't flinch. Instead, a cruel, arrogant smirk spread across his lips as he took a step toward the legendary smith.
"Who? Do you know who you're speaking to, you commoner?" Leon spat with pure disdain. "You are no one but a mere blacksmith. A commoner who plays with fire, one who serves my family."
The muscles in Garron's neck swelled, his fists balled up with such force that the leather gloves seemed as if they might tear from the tension. "What? What did you just say to me?!"
"Leon! No!" Alric cried desperately, getting in between the two of them. "What are you saying? Get out now before you get us both in trouble!"
Leon glared into his brother's eyes for a split-second, but the sheer horror and betrayal written on his brother's face was too much to ignore. With an ugly sound of disgust coming from his throat, Leon stormed off in a huff.
Their once-strong relationship deteriorated from then on. They began avoiding each other until they were nothing more than distant relatives under the same roof.
------------------
Years passed, and the day finally arrived for Liora's Knight Oath Ceremony. She had turned nineteen, a lethal, pristine reflection of the Leodrick legacy, ready to be sworn into the royal ranks.
The Grand Hall of Morvain was suffocatingly packed. Every minor branch, distant cousin, and noble house tied to the Leodrick bloodline had gathered beneath the colossal black banners draped from the stone pillars. The long tables groaned under the weight of expensive wine and roasted meats.
In the absolute center of the hall, bathed in the glow of a hundred candles, stood Liora. Dressed in shimmering silver and midnight-black armor, she looked magnificent. Her ancestral sword rested point-down on the marble floor beneath her hands, while the elder Oathmaster recited the ancient, sacred vows of knighthood. The hall was dead silent, the nobility treating the moment with the religious reverence Morvain gave to honor and legacy.
And then, there was Leon.
He sat at the furthest, darkest end of the hall, placed next to distant relatives he barely recognized. He lounged lazily in his chair, one leg crossed carelessly over the other, spinning a silver chalice between his fingers. He didn't look at his sister. He didn't care. Years ago, a younger version of him would have begged to sit in the front row, crying tears of pride for Liora. But that boy had been buried in an empty bedroom long ago. He only attended tonight because his absence would cause a tedious political headache.
As Liora began to repeat the sacred words of the oath, a young servant hurried past Leon's table, carrying a silver tray stacked high with crystal glasses of dark red wine.
Without a single glance, Leon casually extended his foot outward into the aisle.
The servant, moving too quickly to notice, tripped over Leon's boot. He lunged forward with a sharp gasp, the silver tray slipping from his fingers.
The sound of breaking glass shattered the sanctity of the hall. Dark, blood-red wine scattered all over the spotless marble floor in an aggressive manner, splattering against the servant's clothing and the robes of several noblemen nearby.
The Oathmaster froze midway through his speech. Liora was silenced. The music stopped. All at once, hundreds of gazes turned to the far end of the hall.
Kneeling among the glass shards, the servant's face was entirely pale while he hurriedly tried to explain himself, his shaking hands scooping up the mess left behind.
Leon simply gazed down at the weeping man, amusement twinkling on his lips. Leaning back into his chair, he slowly brought his cup to his mouth.
"You should watch where you are walking," Leon remarked in a voice that could clearly be heard through the silence of the hall. "How careless."
An audible sigh of shock could be heard from the relatives sitting at the table. While some looked at him with wide, incredulous eyes, others just sighed, shaking their head disapprovingly. It came as no surprise.
From one end of the enormous hall to another, Leofric turned his eyes.
There was a stare Leon was familiar with. It was cold. Disappointed. Completely indifferent.
Leon did not react. He made eye contact for a split-second and then looked away with a cynical grin on his face. Liora silently indicated the Oathmaster and the ritual resumed. However, all the magic had been lost. The heavy oppressive silence that reigned through the rest of the evening had nothing to do with the spilt drink.
With the boring ritual over, Leon left the hall and ran into the chilly garden under the full moon.
He stood by the grand stone fountain, the sound of rushing water masking the distant muffled noise of the party inside. He closed his eyes, rubbing his temples, a sharp, throbbing headache building behind his eyes.
"You ruined your sister's ceremony," a sharp, trembling voice called out from the darkness behind him. "A night she waited years for."
Leon didn't turn around. He just smiled.