After finishing his daily swordsmanship training, Keiz trudged back to his chamber, sweat still clinging to his skin. As he passed the living room, hushed voices stopped him in his tracks.
It was his father—and the sword instructor who had trained him since childhood.
"Forgive me, your grace," the instructor said after a long pause. "But… I must be honest. I see little talent in your second son. His swordplay lacks promise."
Keiz froze in the corridor, his chest tightening.
His father's voice followed, cold and heavy."Hmph. I already knew as much. That boy has no talent whatsoever. So long as he doesn't disgrace the Acrex name, I will be content."
The words struck deeper than any blade. Keiz clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to shout, to argue, but his voice refused to rise.
He whispered to himself instead, forcing his shaking breath steady."Just one more year… when I turn fifteen, my blessing skill will awaken. Then Father will see. Then I'll prove myself worthy."