The next morning came early.
The candidates were dragged from their beds before the sun had fully risen, the chill of dawn clinging to the mountain air. Groggy and sore from the day before, they jogged together along the winding trails that cut through the highlands—each breath visible in the cold. Their legs burned with every step, but none dared complain.
This was only the beginning.
After the run, they collapsed across an open field, chests heaving, legs trembling. Sweat soaked their training gear. The wind whispered down from the peaks, sharp and cold, biting into their skin.
"AAAAAAGHHHHHH!!"
Hunter flung himself dramatically to the ground, flailing like a dying beast. "Johnquis, help me! Please, gods, I'm dying! My legs! My arms! My soul!"
Johnquis chuckled and reached out.
Golden fire bloomed in his palm, surging into Hunter's limbs.
The boy let out a moaning sigh of relief.
"Ugggghhhhhhhhhh… That's it. That's the good stuff…"
Soon, the others gathered around, laughing, some throwing arms over Johnquis's shoulders.
"Careful—he's gonna start charging for this!" someone joked.
"Of course there's a charge," Johnquis said with a smirk. "You'll all work under me once I'm king—until your last breath."
They laughed.
"I'll forever be in your debt, Your Highness. My life is yours—" Kai began, his cheeks red, voice soft—
—but a louder voice cut him off.
"Of course we will! Even if you don't ask, we'll always stand by your side. Just like you do for us, right everyone?!" Hunter called.
"Yeah! Hail our crown prince, Johnquis!"
"Hail! Hail! Hail!" they chanted, voices rising with joy.
Off to the side, Gravier silently watched Johnquis.
Eira sat beside him.
"They really are just boys, aren't they?" she said, almost to herself.
Gravier flinched at her voice, surprised to find her so close.
"Oh! Where are my manners?" she continued, brushing hair from her face. "I never introduced myself properly before talking to you yesterday. I'm Eira. You don't have to call me princess or anything—here, we're just candidates. So… hi!"
She offered her hand.
Gravier didn't meet her eyes. He froze, uncertain. A moment passed… then another… her hand remained, still offered, fingers starting to stiffen from the cold.
Eira held her smile.
Finally, Gravier reached out and shook it.
"Oh, finally," she teased.
But Gravier flinched at the feel of her palm.
"Your hands…"
"Oh! Sorry," Eira said quickly, laughing awkwardly. "Not very princess-like, huh? I guess I've held a sword more than a tea cup."
Gravier, embarrassed, stood up quickly.
"This… this isn't a place for a girl."
Eira's smile faltered. She blinked, then rose calmly to her feet, brushing the dirt from her trousers.
"No," she said, voice even. "I'm not here to be one."
Gravier looked at her—just briefly—then turned and walked away without a word.
Eira's eyes lingered on his back as he disappeared into the crowd of laughing boys. Her gaze stayed fixed, but her focus drifted, the noise around her fading into a distant hum…
"I saw it with my own eyes—it was a slaughter. We've lost too many, and replacements must come now." His voice lowered, cold and sharp. "The Twisted don't just grow in number—they evolve. And yet, the Queen bears another daughter. No prince. Your Majesty… we may not survive another season at this pace. You must find another Queen."
"I swore to love her."
"You swore to serve the kingdom."
Just beyond the stone archway, barely hidden, stood the firstborn child—the princess.
Eira.
That night, she crept to her mother's chambers.
Queen Madelaine stood by the window, her back to the door, cradling a frail newborn in trembling arms. The baby's cries were weak and fading. The room was quiet—far too quiet. Candlelight flickered along the walls, casting the Queen's silhouette like a hollow ghost.
"Mother…?" Eira whispered.
Her voice was soft. Unsure. She took a step forward, then another, and wrapped her small arms around her mother's waist.
For a moment, her mother didn't move.
Then—she turned.
Her eyes met Eira's.
Not with warmth. Not with recognition.
But with terror. And grief.
It wasn't Eira she saw.
It was the memory of her first child—born during a storm, declared a bad omen.
The daughter who should have been a son.
"You…" the Queen gasped.
Then the mask shattered.
"You're the reason. You're the mistake. You should have never been born!"
She shoved Eira hard, nearly knocking her to the floor.
"GET HER AWAY FROM ME! GET HER OUT!"
Maids surged in. Eira's small hands clawed for someone—anyone—but no arms held her.
They carried her away like a burden, not a child.
She screamed. She sobbed. And then she fell silent.
That night, she didn't cry for her mother. She didn't know who to cry for.
She just held her arms out into the dark, hoping someone might reach back.
From that moment on, Eira hungered for a mother's warmth.
She found it, surprisingly, in the arms of the Elven Queen—her father's new wife—who held her not as a duty, but as a daughter.
And so Eira learned: she was not unloved.
Her father saw her fire, her fierce eyes, her stubborn will—and loved her for it.
And when her mother was cast from court, Eira felt… nothing.
Why mourn the absence of someone who had only ever seen her as a mistake?
Where others saw a curse, the Elven Queen saw potential.
To Eira, she was more than a stepmother.
She was the first woman who made her feel strong.
She became a model of strength.
Who led men into battle without fear.
Whose stories of valor in the war against the Twisted lit a spark in Eira's chest.
And from that spark, something began to grow.
At eight years old, while most girls her age were learning embroidery and courtly manners, Eira mastered both—and something more.
She perfected her posture, her curtsy, her smile. She walked like royalty, spoke with grace, danced like the daughter of a king. To the court, she was the image of a perfect princess.
But deep down, she was forging something else.
It began with a smell.
Not perfume or flowers—but iron, fire, and something darker.
It clung to her father's weapon, the one he carried with pride.
She would stare at it from across the room, breathing in that strange, powerful scent.
One day, she asked:
"Where was this made?"
The answer led her to the royal blacksmith's forge—a place few princesses dared to go.
There, she discovered the source of the scent: Carcanite—a rare material used in Dragonborn and Wyrmknight weapons, capable of cutting through the Twisted.
But when Eira saw it, she felt no fear—only certainty.
And so, she made herself a promise:
She would become a Dragonborn.
And one day wield a weapon made of Carcanite.
From that day forward, Eira lived a double life.
By morning, she was flawless—a princess present at every lesson, every tea, every courtly engagement.
She memorized noble lineages, quoted ancient poets, and danced with practiced elegance.
But by evening, she slipped into the shadows of the forge—apron tied, fingers blistered, eyes burning with purpose.
She forged.
She wielded.
She studied.
Every blade she made, she brought to Johnquis. He tested them all.
Most broke, bent, or felt wrong.
But she kept going.
Learning from each mistake, she poured herself into fire and steel.
The King found out only a week later.
One of the palace guards reported a strange figure—always cloaked in black soot—sneaking in and out of the castle.
The King came himself—sword in hand—expecting danger.
Instead, he found his daughter sweating, covered in soot, red hair tied back in a messy braid, hammering down on a piece of glowing steel with grit in her teeth and fire in her eyes.
He said nothing at first.
Then—he laughed.
A deep, surprised laugh broke the tension—rich with pride.
"So my princess is the strange figure, huh?" he said, eyes shining.
He lowered his sword, stepping closer.
"If the forge calls to you… then answer it."
From that day forward, it wasn't a secret.
Not to the court.
Not to the people.
And at 11 years old, she finally forged her first perfect weapon.
It wasn't just strong.
It wasn't just beautiful.
It felt alive in her hands.
As if it had been waiting for her all along.
With that weapon in hand, she went to the only one who could teach her to fight like she dreamed—
The Queen.
Her stepmother.
The warrior-elf who had once led armies into battle and treated Eira like her own blood.
"I want to train," Eira said. "With you."
The Queen's eyes searched her—then smiled.
So they began.
And to her surprise, Eira tried—tried even when she faltered.
She stumbled. She bled. But she never gave up.
She didn't just fight—she listened to the weapons.
Felt their rhythm.
Whenever she mastered one, she forged another. Sword, spear, bow, axe.
She could wield anything.
To the world, Eira was still the perfect princess.
But to those who truly saw her—she was something more.
A girl once called a curse, now becoming a force of change.
A daughter dismissed at birth, now forging a future where anyone could rise.
And in every sword she shaped, in every movement she trained—
She wasn't just chasing power.
She was becoming it.