The training hall fell silent as Arin's wooden practice sword clattered to the floor.
"Again?" His instructor's voice dripped with contempt. "How many times must we repeat this, Your Highness?"
Arin picked up the sword with trembling hands, his body aching from the morning's brutal session. Around him, the palace guards tried to hide their smirks. Even the servants cleaning the hall couldn't quite mask their pity.
He was eighteen years old, sixth son of King Aldric Eldoria, and absolutely worthless.
"Focus your aura!" The instructor barked. "Channel it through the blade like I've shown you a thousand times!"
Arin closed his eyes, reaching for that internal power that came so naturally to his brothers. He felt it—a faint flicker, weak as a dying candle in a storm. His aura was pathetic, barely at the first stage of Aura Awakening after eighteen years of training.
His youngest brother had reached this level at age twelve.
The wooden sword trembled in his grip as he tried to channel what little power he possessed. For a moment—just a fleeting moment—golden light flickered around the blade.
Then it vanished.
"Pathetic." The instructor turned away. "We're done for today. I have actual warriors to train."
Arin stood alone in the training hall, sweat dripping down his face, muscles screaming. The achievement sash tied around his waist remained mockingly blank—no cultivation breakthroughs, no tournament victories, no accomplishments worth recording.
His brothers' sashes were covered in emblems.
"Prince Arin?"
He turned to find Gregor, his elderly servant, waiting by the entrance. The old man's face showed nothing but patient kindness—the only person in the palace who didn't look at him with disappointment or disgust.
"Your presence is requested in the throne room, Your Highness."
Arin's stomach dropped. His father rarely summoned him anymore. The King had five other sons, all talented, all useful. Why waste time on the failure?
"Did he say why?"
Gregor's expression flickered with something that might have been pity. "No, Your Highness. But the other princes are also being summoned. It seems to be a formal announcement."
*That's unusual.* The King only gathered all his sons for important matters—declarations of war, succession planning, major policy announcements.
Arin cleaned himself quickly and changed into formal court attire. The palace servants who helped him dress whispered among themselves, not bothering to lower their voices.
"...probably sending him to the monastery..."
"...waste of resources training him..."
"...King must be embarrassed having such a weak son..."
He'd learned to tune it out years ago. Let them talk. Their opinions couldn't hurt him anymore.
The throne room was already filled when he arrived. His five brothers stood in a line before the dais, each radiating the confidence that came from genuine power and accomplishment.
Crown Prince Kaelen, twenty-five, an Aura Knight at peak stage. First in line for the throne, brilliant military commander, his father's pride.
Prince Matthias, twenty, an Aura Knight and gifted scholar. The intellectual of the family, already advising the King on magical theory and governance.
Prince Darian, nineteen, an Aura Knight and tournament champion. The warrior prince, celebrated throughout the kingdom for his martial prowess.
Prince Lucian, seventeen, an Aura Warrior at peak stage. The diplomat, charming and silver-tongued, already negotiating trade agreements with foreign powers.
Prince Marcus, sixteen, an Aura Warrior at mid-stage. The youngest before Arin, showing promise in both combat and administration.
And then there was Arin. Eighteen years old, barely Aura Awakened, skilled in nothing, accomplished in nothing, useful for nothing.
He took his place at the end of the line, feeling like a weed among roses.
King Aldric entered, and everyone knelt. The King was sixty-two, his black hair streaked with silver, but his presence remained commanding. His aura filled the room—an Aura Sovereign, one of perhaps twenty individuals in the entire kingdom to reach such heights.
"Rise," the King commanded.
They stood, and Arin caught his father looking at him for just a moment. The King's expression was unreadable, but Arin had learned to recognize the subtle disappointment in those gray eyes.
"My sons," King Aldric began, "you stand before me today because important decisions must be made regarding the kingdom's future."
He gestured to a large map unfurled on a table beside the throne. It showed the Kingdom of Eldoria—vast territories, prosperous cities, thriving farmlands.
And in the far eastern corner, a small region marked in faded ink: Ashvale.
"As you know, the noble houses manage territories throughout the kingdom under our authority. Some territories thrive. Others..." The King's gaze swept the map, "...do not."
Arin felt a chill run down his spine. He knew where this was going.
"Ashvale was once prosperous," the King continued. "Forty years ago, it produced enough grain to feed three provinces. Its mines yielded iron and copper. Its position on the eastern trade routes made it wealthy."
The King's voice hardened. "That was before the Blight."
Everyone in the room knew the story. Thirty-two years ago, a magical plague had swept through the eastern territories. Crops failed for three consecutive years. Livestock died. People fled. The Eldor family that had governed Ashvale for generations went bankrupt and abandoned the territory.
No one had wanted to take it since.
"Ashvale now has perhaps two thousand residents," the King said. "The manor is in ruins. The land is exhausted. By all accounts, it's a dying territory that drains more resources than it produces."
He turned to face his sons directly.
"The crown cannot allow territories to simply die. It sets poor precedent. Therefore, I am appointing a new lord to govern Ashvale, with full authority to restore it or manage its decline."
Arin's hands clenched. He knew what was coming. He'd always known this day would come.
"Arin."
His name hung in the air like a death sentence.
"You are hereby appointed Baron of Ashvale, with full territorial rights and responsibilities. You will depart within the week to assume your duties."
The room was so quiet that Arin could hear his own heartbeat.
Baron of Ashvale. Lord of a dying territory that no one wanted. Exiled to the edge of the kingdom where he could fail in obscurity without embarrassing the royal family further.
His brothers stood silent. No one offered congratulations. No one protested the obvious injustice. Even Kaelen, who'd always been kind to him in private, simply stared ahead with neutral expression.
"The crown will provide an annual stipend of five hundred gold," the King continued, his tone businesslike. "Beyond that, you will be expected to manage the territory with its own resources. Guards and servants are your responsibility to hire and maintain."
Five hundred gold. Barely enough to feed the manor staff for a year, let alone restore an entire territory.
"Do you accept this appointment?"
What choice did he have? Refuse and be labeled a coward and a traitor. Accept and die slowly in a forgotten corner of the kingdom.
"I accept, Your Majesty," Arin said, keeping his voice steady. "I am honored by your trust."
The King's expression didn't change. "Good. The formal decree will be issued tomorrow. You may go."
Dismissed. Just like that. Eighteen years of his life in the palace, and his farewell was a two-minute appointment to exile.
Arin bowed and left the throne room, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes on his back. The moment he stepped into the corridor, the whispers erupted.
"Ashvale! He's being sent to Ashvale!"
"Might as well have executed him..."
"At least he'll die out of sight..."
"The King is merciful, giving him a chance to prove himself..."
"What chance? That territory is cursed!"
Arin walked faster, ignoring them all. He'd perfected the art of pretending not to hear, not to care, not to feel the daggers of their contempt.
Back in his chambers, Gregor was already packing his meager belongings.
"I heard, Your Highness," the old man said quietly. "I've already sent word to prepare a carriage for the journey."
"You don't have to come, Gregor." Arin sat heavily on his bed. "You've served the royal family for forty years. Request reassignment. Serve someone who actually has a future."
Gregor looked at him with those kind, weathered eyes. "Your Highness, I've watched you grow from a boy into a man. I've seen your struggles, your perseverance despite having every reason to give up. If you think I'm abandoning you now, you understand nothing about loyalty."
Something in Arin's chest tightened. "Ashvale is dying, Gregor. I don't have the talent, the resources, or the knowledge to save it. I'll probably fail and die there."
"Perhaps," Gregor said, folding clothes with practiced efficiency. "Or perhaps you'll surprise everyone, including yourself. You've been underestimated your entire life, Your Highness. Maybe it's time to prove them wrong."
Arin wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to believe that this wasn't just a slow execution disguised as an opportunity.
But he'd lived eighteen years as the disappointing prince, the weak cultivator, the family embarrassment. Hope had been beaten out of him long ago.
Still, what choice did he have but to try?
That night, unable to sleep, Arin stood on his chamber balcony overlooking the palace gardens. Tomorrow would be his final full day here. The day after, he'd leave for Ashvale, probably never to return.
His brothers hadn't visited to say goodbye. His father hadn't offered any private words of encouragement. The palace staff were already treating him like he was already gone.
Eighteen years in this place, and he'd leave without anyone caring that he was gone.
*Fine,* he thought, gripping the balcony railing. *Let them forget me. Let them think I'll disappear into obscurity.*
*But I swear, if there's any way—ANY way—to make something of Ashvale, I'll do it. Not for them. For me. To prove that I'm worth more than they ever believed.*
It was a foolish promise, made in anger and desperation by someone with no talent or resources. The kind of promise that was forgotten as soon as reality set in.
But in that moment, under the stars, Arin meant every word.
He had nothing left to lose.
Which meant he was finally free to fail spectacularly, or—against all odds—succeed.
The next morning would bring the formal decree. The day after, the journey east.
And then?
Then he'd find out if hope was a luxury only the talented could afford, or if even the weakest prince could carve out a place in this world.
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