The river ran cold and indifferent beside the muddy bank, gray and restless under the pale dawn. Its waters surged and tumbled over hidden rocks, uncaring of the three brothers who danced across its edge, their feet sinking into the slick earth, mud clinging to their calves with every step. The wind cut through them like knives, tugging at their hair, chilling their skin, but they barely noticed. Each man, soaked with sweat and streaked with mud, moved with the precision of hunters, swords clashing again and again, steel ringing in the morning quiet.
Arion's chest heaved with exhaustion. Each swing of his blade burned his arms, and each step was heavier than the last. The mud pulled at his boots, a silent adversary, but he refused to stop. His brothers, Dervon and Veyon, fared little better, their chests rising and falling with ragged, visible breaths.
"Arion," Dervon gasped, staggering back and gripping his sword loosely in one hand, shoulders heaving. "I think we've had enough. Look at you... You can barely swing the sword again."
Arion laughed, ragged and raw, and gave his blade a lazy flourish. "I'm tired because my sword is heavier than..."
"Than ours," Dervon interrupted, glaring at him. "Yes. Because you wanted to prove you were stronger. Nothing more."
"I don't need to prove anything," Arion said, steady despite the burn in his muscles. "I just wanted to train harder."
Veyon sheathed his sword with a sharp flick, letting out a harsh breath. "For what, brother?" he asked, voice tinged with amusement and fatigue. "There is no one in this kingdom who could best any of us, either with sword or bow."
Arion spun his blade again, steel whispering through the wind. "You're too weak to spar with," he said lightly, though the steel in his tone was undeniable. "I want a Goldengate Sword‑saint. That would be a fight. Battle is coming, and I want to be ready."
Veyon's lips pressed into a thin line. "And we are prepared," he said, as if saying the words would make it true.
Arion's gaze swept over them, mud-streaked and sweat-slick, and he found fire in their eyes. "Well then," he said, grin forming despite exhaustion, "let's see who makes it to the square first."
Without waiting for an answer, the three brothers broke into laughter and sprinted down the riverbank. Roots snagged their feet, mud pulled at their ankles, but they barreled forward, shoving and tripping over one another, laughing like boys though their muscles were those of men.
Veyon reached the square first, hands braced on his knees, gasping. "For the record," he wheezed, "I got here first."
Dervon snorted, chest rising and falling. "Is that why you're breathing through your ass?"
Veyon looked up, still catching his breath. "How are you demons still standing straight?"
Arion did not answer. His eyes had found her. Across the square, her posture calm, gaze unwavering. Margareth. The sight of her tightened his chest. His fingers itched around his sword's hilt, though he held it loosely. "Oh my Creator," he whispered, almost to himself. "You shaped my destiny well."
Dervon followed his gaze and smirked. "Margareth," he said. "Don't trouble yourself. She'll marry into our family… or our uncle's. And since he has no son…" He shrugged faintly, letting the thought trail off. "It would have to be you or..."
"Whoever claims her dies first," Arion cut in coldly, eyes narrowing, voice low but lethal. "I swear it on my destiny."
Veyon groaned, shaking his head. "Idiots. Swearing murder over a whore who doesn't even know your names."
Arion spun to him, voice sharp. "Did you just call her a whore?"
From nearby, a lazy, amused voice drifted across the square. "Would you stop blocking the road, shirtless beggars… or sit down and drink?"
Erikth leaned against the railing, grinning. Veyon laughed and started moving toward him. "Erikth, my destined brother… how many jugs did you order?"
Arion shook his head and turned to Dervon. "I won't be part of this," he said. "I'll be in my room by the time you're answering for it."
"Father won't kill us," Dervon said, catching his breath. "He'll just make us… stronger than before."
"He'll make us regret today," Arion replied, teeth clenched, jaw tight.
Serikth, nearby, spoke in his steady tone. "Arion, sit. My father is worse than yours. Old men bark louder than they bite."
Arion lowered himself onto a bench. "I'm sitting only to see if Margareth comes around," he said.
Dervon hummed softly, thoughtful. Arion's gaze moved between Serikth, Erikth, and Veyon. "Serikth, Erikth… me or my brother... who deserves Margareth more?"
Veyon slammed his cup down. "Arrange the trial. Whoever walks away alive is destined."
Serikth shook his head. "Or perhaps she chooses who she loves."
Erikth leaned back, eyebrow raised. "Which one of you does she accept?"
Veyon grinned. "Neither. The two bastards haven't even spoken to her. Cowards."
Laughter erupted, though Arion and Dervon exchanged a glance, uneasy despite the joking.
A Haldon guard approached, carrying three folded garments, laying them carefully on the table. "Lord Tharion summons you back to Sunspire. Urgently," Evion said.
Arion blinked, trying to catch his breath. "We… we were training by the sea, right?"
Evion gave a sly glance at Veyon. "Of course. Training wine tolerance. Seems one of you hasn't trained hard enough. Get up. Move fast."
Dervon glanced around, concern flickering across his face. "What's going on? Why is everyone running? Where are they going?"
The five boys moved quickly, Arion, Dervon, and Veyon tugging on their shirts as they jogged toward Sunspire. The gates clanged open with a metallic roar. "Open the gates!" a guard shouted.
"You three… straight to the hall," Evion called. "I'm heading to the armory. I'll meet you shortly."
Inside the great hall, commanders of the Coastguard and the Fjords bent over a map, alongside Tharion. Smoke from the torches flickered across the room. Dervon panted, words catching in his throat. "Fa… Fa..."
"Dervon," Commander Malion interrupted, voice sharp. "You'll lead fifty of the Coast Guard."
Tharion's eyes, dark and piercing, found Arion. "You will command the archers. Veyon… you'll bring the civilians to Sunspire." He gestured at the map. "The slavers have taken Azure Island. They are advancing on Kazura. Villages are burned. Stormhaven has fallen. Their next move is..."
"Kazura," Arion said, the word tasting bitter.
"How many men?" he asked, voice tight.
"Reports vary," Commander Malion said. "Some claim a hundred ships. Others say close to two hundred. Likely… one hundred fifty."
Arion did the math in his head, cold and clinical. "Thirty to forty men per ship… that puts them at... "
"Five thousand men," Tharion finished for him.
Arion's stomach churned. "Father, we can't hold them. Maybe we can kill a few, but they'll ram the gates, force their way in… and then what?"
Tharion's voice rose, slicing the room like steel. "Then I die defending Sunspire, boy. War does not care what you understand."
Evion entered the hall and added, calm but firm, "My lord, we have nearly two thousand arrows. Swords enough for every man. Our stores are full… but we need confirmation of enemy numbers."
Arion shook his head. "Then we surrender the outer walls. Take what we must. When they advance, we strike from the front. Force them to defend. Then we..."
Tharion's glare cut him short. "Enough. You will take thirty men, scouts under your command, archers only. Harass their advance. Repel any foolish enough to stray too close… and then we will see what you are truly capable of."
Arion raised his hands slowly. "Okay, Father. I'll do as you say. Nothing more. We'll die anyway."
Outside, villagers gathered, clinging to one another. Children trembled in their mothers' arms. Margareth guided the frightened to safety, voice firm despite the chaos.
Inside Sunspire, Arion moved to his mother's door. "Lady Virelia does not wish to be disturbed," the maid warned.
"Then it is fortunate I am not here to disturb her," Arion replied, voice steady.
Words passed between mother and son, heavy as steel. Truths about inheritance, worth, and destiny fell like cold rain. Arion left without pleading, the weight of responsibility and war pressing down on him.
Outside, the river continued to flow, gray and uncaring, carrying their fates silently toward the coming storm.