"I always believed that I would one day be able to close the gap that separated me and my siblings."
Now I lay on the cold stone of the dueling yard, my breath shallow, and blood going down my neck in a thin line. The match had ended with a single strike, steel to skin, first blood drawn, another mark to my flawless losing record. Above me, I could hear the silent murmurs of instructors, and the stifled laughs in the back. I clenched my fingers around the hilt of my sword, but it only offered the weight of my failure.
My brother, Tarran, second born of House Velthran, stood a few feet away, sword still in hand. He didn't gloat, this was routine to him, I wasn't strong enough to be worth the satisfaction.
"Get up, Caelen," he said flatly, not bothered to reach my eyes. "You'll freeze if you lie their long enough."
He turned away before I could answer, walking back to he bench where our siblings sat spectating. Lira, my sister, didn't say anything, just offering a shrug and a small shake of her head. Another loss. More confirmation that I the fifth son, had achieved nothing, at best, being forgettable.
I pushed myself up, the blood from my neck already clotting. My limbs ached, not from the duel, but from bracing for a duel that ended before it ever got to begin. I failed to even land a blow. I saw the strike coming and still couldn't move in time. Tarran moved like water, sharp and inevitable. And I? I moved like someone who'd trained all his life with shadows and dull wooden swords.
My sword, a practice blade of tempered steel, dulled at the edge, clanged softly as I sheathed it. The stone beneath my boots was slick with frost, the courtyard lit by the weak morning sun. Above us, the banners of House Velthran flapped on their poles, silver on gray, the twin blade of our crest crossed beneath a blazing sun.
Steel above all.
That was our house motto. And steel had no room for softness, for doubt, for second sons or fifth born disappointments.