"Hello, boy," a deep, familiar voice resonated as Aragon crossed the threshold of the door. Before he could process what was happening, the entrance vanished behind him as if it had never existed. The room lit up with a golden glow, and before him appeared an imposing man clad in gleaming armor whose plates seemed to capture sunlight even within that enclosed space. It was Sir William, his uncle.
"Little one," Sir William said with a barely perceptible smile beneath his grizzled beard, "the time has come to begin your training, just as your father would have wished."
Aragon looked down at his hands, noticing they were smaller, almost childlike. Frowning, he searched for a nearby mirror. When he saw his reflection, his heart skipped a beat. His youthful face, rounded cheeks, and lean frame—it was as though time had rewound.
"What is this? What's happened?" he murmured, touching his face in disbelief. "I'm young again!" I'm thirteen again, he exclaimed.
Sir William let out a deep laugh that echoed through the chamber. "Young people these days and their antics," he remarked indulgently. "Well then, are you ready, boy?"
"How is it possible that I've returned to my thirteen-year-old self? Am I... dead?" Aragon whispered softly, his mind swirling with confusion and fear.
Before he could get an answer, the door burst open, interrupting the moment. A tall, robust youth entered with confident strides. "Sir William, for you," announced an authoritative voice.
"Ah! It's you, cousin Charles," Aragon exclaimed, recognizing the newcomer.
"Of course, who else did you think it would be? The king?" Charles replied with a mocking grin.
The two youths began exchanging jests, their voices rising into a budding quarrel. However, Sir William, unperturbed, slammed his metal fists together with a thunderous clang that reverberated off the walls.
"Enough!" he roared. "It's time for your training. Remember, you're here to become knights of the king. There's no room for childish squabbles."
"A thousand apologies, Uncle," Aragon quickly responded, bowing his head. Charles followed suit, though less enthusiastically, muttering an almost inaudible apology.
Sir William chuckled under his breath. "Good, let's go."
As they walked down a long corridor of cold stone, Aragon remained lost in thought. The air smelled of metal and dampness, and the sound of their footsteps echoed like a distant reverberation. Was this heaven? Or something in between? Certainly, it didn't seem like hell, but the situation was too strange to be real.
Finally, they arrived at an outdoor training field. The sun shone brightly over the green grass, where other young men practiced with wooden swords and improvised shields. Some shouted with effort as they struggled to master basic techniques. It was clear that all of them were there for the same purpose: to inherit the legacy of their families. If there was no direct heir, the title and armor would pass to another family after a combat to determine who was worthy.
"Well, boys, I'll leave you to train," Sir William announced before departing.
One night, after hours of exhausting practice, Aragon and Charles were walking down a corridor when they came upon a vast room filled with ancient suits of armor and weapons. Each piece was carefully arranged, as if it were a living museum of knightly history.
"Do you see that armor over there, the brown one?" Sir William asked, pointing to an imposing figure in the corner.
Aragon snapped out of his reverie. "What?"
"I said, do you see that brown armor?" Sir William repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Are you still asleep or what?" Charles added sarcastically.
"No, I'm sorry, Uncle. I was lost in thought. Please continue," Aragon replied, straightening himself.
Sir William cleared his throat before speaking. "That armor belonged to my older brother, your father. And you, as his descendant, will one day be its heir."
"Of course, that's truly worthy," Charles interrupted with an arrogant smile.
"Of course, I'm worthy, and I'll prove it to you," Aragon shot back firmly. "Besides, I always beat you in training."
"Hah! That's what you think, huh? That's just practice. Let's see how you fare in a real fight," Charles challenged, crossing his arms.
"Boys, calm down!" Sir William interjected. "Look who's over there. Do you want to give a bad impression?"
At that moment, a majestic figure entered the room. He wore crystal armor that shimmered like diamonds under the light, and a silver mask concealed his face. It was the king.
"We're sorry," both boys said in unison, bowing their heads in reverence.
Instead of showing displeasure, the king smiled faintly. "Such good energy from you two. I hope to count on you both as royal guards, so I can knight you as sirs."
"Yes, Your Majesty!" they responded in unison, their voices strong and clear, though their gazes remained fixed on the floor, as if afraid to look up.
"Your Majesty," Sir William began with a deep bow, "we are almost ready to name the final knight for your personal guard. My nephew Aragon is quite a prodigy. At fourteen, he has surpassed all the challenges we've given him and successfully completed several missions."
The king, his silver mask reflecting the torchlight, nodded slowly. "Indeed, achieving all that in just a year. I'm glad to hear it," he replied in a calm yet authoritative voice. "Then, great feats from you, young Barns. Just as your father once did."
Aragon, feeling the weight of those words, bowed respectfully. "Without a doubt, my lord. I will honor my family and serve with loyalty."
Charles, ever competitive, didn't want to be left behind. "I will too, my lord," he added with determination.
"Good," the king said, looking at them alternately. "I expect the best from both of you." Then, turning gracefully, he left the room.
"Wow, meeting the king was incredible!" Aragon exclaimed, excited. Charles nodded silently, though his expression was more pensive.
Sir William observed them with a mix of pride and seriousness. "That's why you must strive if you wish to join the king's guard. Skills alone aren't enough; you must demonstrate character and commitment."
"Father," Charles interrupted suddenly, "I won't be able to become an official knight while you're still alive, right?"
Aragon and William looked at him in surprise. The question was unexpected, even uncomfortable.
"Don't misunderstand me," Charles quickly added, trying to soften his tone. "I'm just saying I'll only ever be a substitute knight, and perhaps... well, if my cousin were to give up his position, I might have a chance."
William frowned, his gaze as sharp as an unsheathed sword. "That cannot happen, and you know it well," he replied firmly. "Each of us has our place and must abide by the laws that have protected our order for generations."
Charles clenched his fists in frustration but said nothing more. However, his thoughts were clear: Stupid royal laws. With a barely audible huff, he stormed out of the room, irritated.
"Don't follow him, Aragon," William said, noticing his nephew hesitating about whether to go after his cousin. "He needs to understand his place and accept the rules that have kept us alive for years. Ever since the first king emerged from a small village in Bristol, he chose his protectors and bestowed upon them armor and the title of Sir so they would always stand by his side, safeguarding both him and his lineage."
William paused, his gaze lost in distant memories. "Perhaps my son is being influenced too much by outside cultures. Maybe that's it."
"Maybe that's it, Uncle," Aragon reflected aloud. "But why do we have to hide from the world and live only as legends?"
William smiled faintly, though there was a hint of sadness in his expression. "That, my young boy, was decreed by the ancient king, and it has been for our own good. Protecting our techniques and fighting style ensures they don't fall into the wrong hands. Besides," he added, lowering his voice, "there's the stone the king wears around his neck, though he sometimes keeps it hidden. It was for that reason your father sacrificed himself—to keep us safe and concealed."
Aragon nodded slowly, understanding the weight of his uncle's words. "I think I understand, Uncle. Well then, what comes next now?"
"Now, we go home to eat, and then rest. Tomorrow, you have a long road ahead."
Days turned into months, and months into years. Aragon grew rapidly, strengthening both his body and spirit. One night, after defeating a group of invaders threatening the kingdom's borders, Sir William looked at him with pride.
"You've done well, boy," he said, placing a heavy hand on Aragon's shoulder.
During a solemn ceremony held in the grand hall of the castle, the king addressed all those present. "For your bravery in battle and because you are now a skilled knight, I name you Sir Aragon, the Brown Knight."
Everyone present applauded and cheered, congratulating the sixteen-year-old for his promotion. Everyone, that is, except one: Charles. Watching from the shadows, he felt a mixture of envy and resentment. He envied his cousin's strength and skill, but more than anything, he loathed the traditions that kept him trapped as a mere substitute knight until his father passed away.
On a dark night, beneath a moonless sky, the thirteen knights of the king accompanied him in his private chambers. The silence was absolute, interrupted only by the occasional creak of wood and the distant echo of guards patrolling the corridors. Suddenly, an explosion shook the palace, briefly illuminating the windows with an orange flash. Fragments of stone and dust filled the air as dozens of hooded figures burst into the royal hall like living shadows.
Alarms blared throughout the castle, their shrill and piercing sound cutting through the chaos. The knights moved swiftly, forming a protective barrier around the king. However, the invaders did not attack with swords or spears. Instead, their blows were devastating and precise, delivered solely with hands and feet. The common soldiers retreated, confused and frightened. "It's witchcraft!" one of them shouted, but Sir William shook his head as he blocked an attack aimed at Aragon.
"This isn't magic," William said firmly, his voice barely audible over the chaos. "It's an ancient power known only to a few, those closest to the king and his protectors. We call it 'AURA.'"
"AURA?" Aragon asked, looking at his uncle in disbelief. "I don't see anything—what kind of power is that?"
William responded without taking his eyes off the invaders. "Your training isn't complete yet, boy. You still have a lot to learn. I hope I have time to teach you if we make it out of this alive."
There were over fifty intruders advancing like an unstoppable tide, knocking down soldiers who weren't part of the elite. The king's knights resisted bravely, but even they were beginning to feel the weight of the assault.
"Alright," said William, turning to the other eleven knights. "I believe it's our turn." Then, addressing Aragon, he added, "Not you, boy. You must stay with the king."
"But, Uncle, I want to go!" Aragon protested, his voice filled with frustration.
"You're a knight, but you haven't yet reached the higher ranks of AURA. Besides," William continued, his gaze stern yet brimming with confidence, "I've chosen you to protect the king if something happens to us. I trust you more than anyone else."
"And where is my son? He should be here at his post. Something must have happened to him; I need to go find him," William murmured, his concern evident.
"Wait, sir," interjected the knight in blue armor, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "It's time to focus on protecting the royal family. You made an oath."
"You're right," William replied with a heavy sigh. "I just hope Charles is alright." With a resolute motion, he donned his golden helmet and prepared to face the invaders.
The twelve knights charged into battle with impressive ferocity. Each wielded their AURA in unique ways: some emitted blue flashes with every strike, while others moved so quickly that their bodies became mere shadows. From his position beside the king, Aragon watched with a mix of admiration and anxiety. Though he wanted to join the fight, he knew his place was there, guarding the monarch.
The battle seemed to be tipping in favor of the knights. One by one, the invaders fell under their precise blows, and many began to flee the castle. However, just as victory seemed within reach, a new group of five hooded figures burst onto the outskirts of the palace. These newcomers radiated a different energy—more dangerous and menacing.
One of them extended an arm toward a group of invaders attempting to escape. Without touching them, they lifted them into the air as if they were rag dolls, crushing them with an invisible force before hurling them against the walls with a sinister crunch. Other invaders ran in terror, but the same fate awaited them.
When the last body hit the ground, the leading figure came to a halt in the center of the hall. Slowly, he removed his hood and let the cloak that covered him fall to the floor. Beneath it, he wore impeccable steel-blue armor that reflected the faint light of the torches. His face remained hidden behind a silver mask, but his voice rang out with absolute coldness.
"Useless and cowardly," he said, gesturing to the corpses at his feet. "They deserved their fate. Now, it's time to finish this party."