Few weeks ago
"Mrs. Rowenne, looks like our little knight-in-training got himself bruised," Ronan called out, a hint of humor in his voice.
Mrs. Rowenne approached, shaking her head. "Sir Ronan, if you keep pushing him like this, he'll be all bruises and no boy!" Ronan chuckled as he turned to face the approaching maid.
"The king demands your presence, Sir," the maid said to Ronan. Without hesitation, he nodded and headed for the king.
"Your Majesty, you called for me," Ronan said as he bowed before the king.
"Yes, I did. How was today's training session?" Kaelion asked.
"He keeps improving every day, sire. But as always, there's still room for improvement."
"Fine, that's great," Kaelion said, nodding. "Because he will soon be required to pick up the Lochlight Sphere."
"Sire, if I may," Ronan began cautiously, "I believe young Asher is not ready for such a heavy task yet."
"Heavy task? Not ready?" Kaelion's voice rose sharply. "This is disappointing, coming from you, Ronan. The future of this kingdom depends on him, and you're telling me he's not ready?!"
"Your Majesty, I understand your concerns, but—"
"No, you don't! You don't!" Kaelion thundered, cutting Ronan off mid-sentence.
"Your Majesty, I didn't mean to upset you, sire. I apologize if I've spoken out of turn," Ronan said, trying to decipher the source of the king's fury.
Kaelion took a breath, his tone shifting from anger to grim determination. "I'm not angry. I'm trying to tell you that you're not training him enough. Stop coddling him, and teach him to be a man."
"But he's just a boy, sire," Ronan said firmly. "I'm pushing him as hard as I can. He trains for hours every day, leaves with cuts and bruises on his hands, his body sore from head to toe, yet he still turns up the next day, ready to try again. Honestly, sire, I pity the boy at this point. An unprepared hero is better than a dead one. If he's unprepared, we can change that. But if he's dead, then nothing can be done."
Kaelion's eyes darkened. "If he is not prepared, he will end up dead. What difference does that make, Ronan? You seem to have forgotten something. Have you forgotten what happened twelve years ago? Do you know the horrors our choices could unleash upon us? When it comes, we must be ready—or we'll have no choice but to dance to its tune. And I assure you, it won't play gently."
Kaelion leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, each word carrying the weight of dread. "What will happen to our hero then? He'll stand there, paralyzed, disgusted by the stench of blood as we wail in agony, calling upon a boy who despairs at its sight. A boy too afraid to walk down the stairways slick with blood—our blood—because he's too consumed by the crimson pools to see their source."
Ronan froze, shaken by the vivid imagery the king painted. His voice wavered as he asked, "My king... is there something you know that we should be worried about?"
Kaelion straightened, his expression guarded. "No. I'm merely saying it's better to have something to fall back on than to be caught unaware."
Ronan was silent, the weight of the conversation pressing heavily upon him. He could almost see the grim visions Kaelion had conjured. As much as he wanted to shield the boy from this crushing burden, he couldn't deny the king's words.
"I'm sorry, sire. I'll do better in training him," Ronan finally said, bowing his head in resignation.
The next day, Asher was seen sweating and panting, locked in a duel with Sir Ronan. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his movements slowing, but there was no room for rest. On the sidelines, Rowenne stood watching helplessly, her worry etched deeply into her face.
"Come on, boy! More fire! Swing like you mean it!" Ronan urged, his voice sharp and commanding.
Swing! Asher swung his sword with all the strength he could muster but was swiftly knocked to the ground by the sheer force of Ronan's strike.
"If this were a battlefield, you'd be dead by now," Ronan said, shaking his head.
"And who would put a twelve-year-old on the battlefield?" Asher shot back, frustration evident in his voice.
"You turn thirteen in three months," Ronan retorted without missing a beat. "And your enemies won't stop to ask how old you are."
"Well, thanks for remembering," Asher replied with a sarcastic edge.
"You're welcome," Ronan said, unbothered.
"Now, what did I tell you about your feet? They need to be grounded—rooted so deeply into the soil that your legs become one with it. Unless your opponent's strike is powerful enough to shake the very earth beneath you, you shouldn't lose your balance. When you move, you need to be light on your feet for swift and precise maneuvers. Otherwise, stay planted. And your swings," Ronan added, his tone sharpening, "they're slow, sloppy, and lack strength."
"If you can't take down your enemies with a single strike, make sure it's powerful enough to shake them and leave them vulnerable for a moment, struggling to recover from that blow. This doesn't work in every situation, but what separates a skilled swordsman from a mere swordsman is his intellect—knowing when to attack, defend, pick up his sword, drop it, or sheath it," Ronan lectured.
He pulled Asher back to his feet and placed the sword into his hand again. Asher's palm was bruised and bleeding, the handle of the sword smeared with tiny streaks of red. Despite the pain, he poured every last ounce of energy into each swing, his determination shining through his exhaustion.
But fatigue betrayed him. Within moments, Ronan struck him on the side with the hilt of his sword. Asher stumbled, clutching his side in pain.
"Can you be more attentive? How could you not have seen that coming?" Ronan scolded, his voice sharp with frustration.
"Because I'm not like you!" Asher shouted, his voice breaking as tears welled in his eyes. "I'm not skilled with the sword. I'm not good enough. I'm not strong enough. I'll never be you!"
He threw the sword to the ground and ran toward his quarters, his shoulders trembling with sobs.
Ronan, leaning on his sword for support, knelt on one knee. Slowly, he picked up the scabbard and slid his blade back into it with a quiet sigh.
Rowenne, who had been watching from a distance, approached the knight. Understanding the weight on his shoulders, she spoke gently. "Don't worry, Sir Ronan. I'll go talk to him."
Ronan nodded, his expression weary. Straightening himself, he gave her a small, grateful nod before walking away in silence.
Rowenne made her way to Asher's room, carrying a bowl of water and a damp towel. Stopping by the door, her heart shattered at the sound coming from inside. She stood frozen, listening to the young boy's sniffles and muttered words:
"I'll never be good enough. No matter how hard I try, I still won't be good enough. I'll always fail."
The quiet, broken repetition pierced her. Taking a deep breath, Rowenne stepped inside. Her eyes scanned the room until they settled on Asher, sitting on the ground beside his bed. His head hung low as he stared at his bruised palms, the same despondent words falling from his lips like a sorrowful mantra.
Rowenne's heart ached with maternal instinct as she knelt beside him, setting the bowl aside. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. Her voice was a soft whisper in his ear:
"It's okay."
Tears brimmed in Asher's eyes, but he remained still as she spoke again, her words tender yet firm. "You're doing your best, and that is enough. Your best doesn't always have to work out, but there's nothing more you could have done. Despite the bruises, the cuts, and all the pressure, you still show up every day, ready to pick up the sword again. That, young prince, is true strength and bravery."
Her words broke through his despair, and he turned to her, tears spilling down his cheeks. "It will? Really?"
"Yes," she said with quiet conviction. "It will."
Asher wiped his tears, his voice wavering as he asked, "Why was Sir Ronan so tough on me today? Did I do something wrong?"
Rowenne gently shook her head, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. "No, you did nothing wrong, and neither did Sir Ronan. You both are just under a great deal of pressure."
"What pressure?" Asher's brow furrowed with concern. "Is there something he isn't telling me?"
Rowenne hesitated for a moment, carefully choosing her words. "In two days' time, you'll have to pick one of the relics—the Lochlight Sphere, to be specific. And if you're not ready, it could all go terribly wrong."
The weight of her words hung in the air as Asher's curiosity flared. "What could happen?"
Her gaze softened, but her tone turned somber, laced with the gravity of the moment. "It could go beautifully well, and we'd celebrate. Or... it could go horribly wrong. And in the worst cases—"
She paused, swallowing the lump in her throat, before meeting his wide, fearful eyes. "Death."
The room fell silent, the word echoing in the heavy stillness. Asher's breath caught, the boyish innocence on his face replaced with a flicker of understanding of the weight he bore. Rowenne placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, but her words lingered like a shadow of the storm to come.