Every day, before the sun rises, we crawl out of bed and make our rooms spotless. Boys and girls sleep separately now—unlike the orphanage where we just collapsed wherever there was space.
Food and water are plentiful. Meat. Bread. Fresh vegetables. Before, back at the orphanage, it was thin soup and stale bread—once a day if we were lucky. Sometimes nothing. But here… we eat well. We're growing stronger.
But we suffer for it.
All three hundred of us run laps up and down the mountain before the first light of dawn touches the peak. Then we swim across the freezing lake and back. The cold bites into our bones, dragging us down like dead weight. At first, we nearly drowned every day. Now… our limbs move on instinct. Survival. Habit.
After breakfast, we're given a short break—barely enough to breathe—before training begins again. We spar with swords, spears, and shields until our arms shake. Formations drilled over and over until our knees give out. Bruises line our ribs; blisters carve deep into our palms. Blood on the dirt is common. Pain became routine.
But that wasn't the worst of it.
Twenty of us—myself included—were separated from the others. The top twenty. We didn't feel lucky. Our training doubled. Our food was cut in half. We fought longer. We sparred harder. If we collapsed, we were forced to stand again. I lost count of how many times I passed out or woke up with broken ribs.
I used to wonder if this was punishment.
But none of us complained.
Because we understood.
Because he suffered with us.
Rhydher H. Drakseid, the Crown Prince of Drakseid Kingdom and our friend.
He trained alongside us from the beginning. He bled with us. His hands blistered from sword practice. His knees were scraped raw from hours of crawling through dirt and stone. He swam the lake with us, shivering and gasping for air. He collapsed after drills with the rest of us—face-down in the dirt, breathing ragged and shallow.
He could have had an easy life. A prince. Royal blood. He could have watched from a palace window, issuing commands without ever touching a sword. But he chose to be here. In the mud. In the cold. With us.
At first, we admired him. Then we began to resent him.
Because no matter how hard we tried—no matter how much we bled—he was still stronger. Faster. Smarter.
He mastered swordplay in months. He read and memorized books in days. He stood after training when the rest of us couldn't lift our arms.
It wasn't fair.
He was born a prince. We were born worthless.
I remember the day we nearly broke.
It was after a brutal sparring session. My hands were shaking, raw and bleeding. My ribs screamed with every breath. Someone had cracked them earlier in a formation drill, but I didn't dare stop.
Rex was on the ground nearby, clutching his arm. Dislocated. Frexur was sobbing quietly behind him, trying to help but shaking too hard to even touch him. The others were scattered across the dirt—some coughing blood, some clutching broken limbs.
And Rhydher stood in the center of it all—calm and composed, not a single wound on him. His sword resting at his side.
"Enough," he said. His tone was calm. Controlled.
My blood boiled.
"Enough?" I hissed. "Easy for you to say."
He turned toward me. His eyes—sharp and calm as steel—focused on mine.
"You're done for today," he said quietly. "Rest."
"Rest?" My voice broke. "What's the point? Why are we even doing this?"
Rhydher's gaze didn't waver.
"Preparing."
"For what?" I demanded, my chest heaving. "To die?"
He didn't answer.
I stumbled toward him, my fists shaking.
"What the hell do you want from us?" I shouted. "We are nothing. Trash. Orphans. Forgotten. Nobody cares about us. Why are you even wasting your time?"
The words tumbled out—desperate, broken and angry. I was sobbing now, my chest burning with rage and shame.
"No one wants us." My voice cracked. "No one cares about us."
I collapsed to my knees, hands digging into the dirt. I couldn't stop shaking. Rex was crying now too. Frexur covered her face with her hands, shoulders trembling.
Tank, Stryder and the others… they couldn't even look at me.
"We're nothing," I whispered.
And then—
"You're right."
My head snapped up.
Rhydher stood over me, his eyes colder than steel.
"You're nothing." His voice cut through the air like a blade. "Worthless. Trash. A burden."
I gasped. The others' eyes widened. Frexur flinched. Rex's breath hitched.
"No one wants you." His voice sharpened. "No one will ever care about you."
Tears burned my eyes. My chest tightened painfully.
"But…"
His voice softened.
"I care."
My breath hitched.
"I want you."
His gaze swept across the others.
"All of you."
"I need you."
"The world may not have a place for you—but I do."
He knelt on one knee.
A prince. He knelt before us. In the dirt. In front of orphans.
"If you have no future—then follow me." His voice cracked. Just slightly. "I'll give you one."
"If you have no purpose—then become my sword."
For a moment, his hand trembled. His breath hitched. Then his eyes sharpened again.
"When we march into battle, the world will remember your names." His voice rose. His eyes burned. "They will fear you. Respect you. Praise you."
"Not because you were born noble. Not because of blood."
"But because you fought for it."
"Because you became more."
"Because you stood with me."
I couldn't breathe. My chest was burning.
"But why?" I whispered. "Why would you fight for us?"
His hand curled into a fist. His jaw tightened. His eyes—steady and fierce—burned into mine.
"Because you are my friends. My family. My people."
"Because you are mine."
The last piece of me shattered.
Rex crawled forward and gripped Rhydher's sleeve. Frexur stumbled to his side, clutching his arm. One by one, the others followed—dragging their broken bodies toward him. Clutching at him. Crying.
"We'll follow you," I whispered.
"Even to hell," Rex said.
"Even to death," Tank added.
Rhydher's gaze softened. His lips curled faintly.
"Good."
That night, none of us could sleep. We lay awake beneath the stars, whispering to each other. Dreams we had never dared to speak aloud before.
"I want to be a knight."
"I want to own land."
"I want to have a family."
"I want to protect him."
We weren't broken anymore.
We had a reason to stand.
We had a reason to fight.
We had him.
The next day, we trained harder than ever. Our bodies ached, our muscles screamed—but it didn't matter. We were motivated. Driven. We fought to stand next to him during practice sessions and drills, practically shoving each other aside just to catch his attention.
He just laughed. A full, genuine laugh that made us freeze in surprise.
"I'm human, you know," he said, grinning. "Let's all get along. Everyone's equally important."
It was the first time we'd seen him that relaxed. That light.
In the afternoon, the roll was called for the twenty of us, including Rhydher. Then, like every day, we sparred in the evening.
And I could feel it—my techniques were sharper, my movements more fluid. My footing more stable. The difference wasn't strength or skill. It was that now… I had a place. I was needed. We all were.
Nothing held us back anymore.
We changed.
Gradually, we learned to think for ourselves. We could speak up. We could ask for what we needed without fear of being ignored or punished. At the year's end, we were allowed to make personal requests—new weapons, better armor, even books for study.
We weren't just soldiers anymore. We were a family. Happy. Content.
Queen Ester and Aunt Mary used to visit us too. We were shocked the first time we saw them.
Everyone had the same thought:
"They're both so beautiful."
The queen taught us about life and values—lessons that extended beyond the battlefield. She taught us how to lead, how to negotiate, how to understand the people we would one day protect.
And Aunt Mary…
She cooked for us. Real food. The kind that makes you feel warm inside. We ate until we could barely move, grinning through mouthfuls of meat and fresh bread.
But the most surprising thing wasn't the queen or Aunt Mary.
It was Rhydher.
When he saw his little sister for the first time, he clung to her like a child. His arms wrapped around her body, her head resting against his arm. For two whole days, he barely left her side. He smiled more. Laughed more. His expression softened in a way we'd never seen before.
It was… refreshing.
We'd never seen him like that. For once, he wasn't a leader or a prince. He was just… a boy with his sister.
We grew.
We trained hard and studied even harder for the next four years. Our bodies toughened, our minds sharpened. The drills became instinct. The pain became familiar.
And then… something incredible happened.
I beat Rhydher in a duel.
It wasn't luck. My spear struck true, the tip resting at his neck. I expected him to be angry—or maybe disappointed.
But he smiled. A slow, proud smile.
"Well done, Banner." he said, brushing dirt from his sleeves.
I was beaming. Then, one by one, others started beating him too. Stryder, Tank, Rex, Frexur—we started holding our ground in one-on-one duels.
Before, even with twenty of us attacking at once, we couldn't touch him. Now, we could win. Sometimes.
But the victory didn't last long.
Because a week later, Rhydher challenged all twenty of us at once.
And he wiped the floor with us.
Spears shattered. Shields crumpled. Swords broke. He moved faster than we could track, his strikes impossibly precise. He left us gasping in the dirt, barely able to stand.
"Don't get comfortable," he said afterward, his eyes gleaming. "There's always room for improvement."
It was frustrating—but we couldn't stop smiling.
Because it proved something important.
He wasn't a god. He wasn't untouchable. He was human.
And if he could grow stronger—so could we.
We were shaping up. We could see our futures now. Bigger dreams. Better goals.
After four years, Rhydher left the mountain. Left the garrison.
He was going to lead a war campaign. We all knew it was coming. We knew he wouldn't stay forever.
But knowing didn't make it easier.
We lined up at the garrison gate that morning—three hundred of us standing at attention, weapons polished, uniforms spotless. The sun was just beginning to rise behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the courtyard.
Rhydher stood at the gate, dressed in his armor and red cape. His sword strapped to his back. His expression was calm, but his eyes softened when he looked at us.
"You've done well," he said quietly.
Stryder stepped forward first. He knelt, pressing his fist to the ground.
"We'll be ready when you return."
Beatrice followed, lowering her head.
"Come back soon, Rhydher."
Tank, Rex, and the others followed, their fists pressed to the ground in quiet salute.
I stood last. I didn't kneel. I stepped toward him, standing eye to eye.
"Do you think you'll win?" I asked.
His gaze sharpened.
"Yes."
"Of course you do." I smiled faintly. "We'll be here when you get back."
His eyes softened. He raised his hand and squeezed my shoulder.
"Don't get lazy while I'm gone."
"No chance."
He smiled.
Then he turned and walked through the gate. His cape trailed behind him, the polished steel of his sword glinting in the morning light.
We watched him disappear down the path toward the capital. None of us moved.
"He'll be back," I said quietly.
"Of course he will," Rex replied. "He promised."
We stayed at the gate long after he was gone. The sun climbed higher. The wind shifted through the trees.
We waited.
And we would keep waiting.
Because we knew—
He would return.