The smell of burnt bread filled the room again.
Lucien stood by the window, resting his elbows on the chipped stone sill. Morning fog still clung to the rooftops of the slums, where every house looked stitched together from scraps. Smoke curled lazily from crooked chimneys, and the distant toll of the bell marked the sixth hour.
Behind him, the oven clanked shut.
"Damn thing burned again," his mother muttered, brushing ash from her hands. "I should've pulled it out sooner."
Lucien turned just as she placed a charred loaf on their only table. She gave him an apologetic look.
"It's okay, Ma," he said, walking over. "It's still warm."
He tore off a chunk, chewing despite the bitterness. Hunger had long since taught him to stop complaining about taste.
The small room creaked around them — wood that hadn't been replaced in years, a roof that leaked during storms. His sisters were still asleep in the corner, curled under a patched blanket, their soft breaths rising and falling in rhythm.
Lucien glanced towards the wall. His father's old sword still hung there — dull, cracked at the edge. A relic from when strength alone could feed a family.
That time had passed.
This was the kingdom of Valdera, where nobles ruled by blood, not merit. Magic ran in veins like gold, and surnames held more weight than swords. If your name wasn't on the High Registry, your life was little more than a footnote.
There were twelve Great Houses. Their banners flew over castles, their crests carved into coins. They trained in the finest academies, dined in marble halls, and raised children who never saw dirt under their nails.
And then there were people like Lucien.
Lowbloods. Commonborn. Crownless.
Born without titles. Without land. Without a voice.
Lucien had grown up in the outer district of Mirevale, the capital of Valdera. A city split by walls—not just of stone, but of wealth, magic, and legacy. The inner ring was where nobles drank wine aged longer than his life. The outer ring was where fathers died pulling carts and children learned to run from guards.
His father, once a swordsman in the frontier wars, now hauled iron for blacksmiths who wouldn't meet his eyes. His mother, once a seamstress for a minor house, now baked what she could with second-rate flour.
Yet despite it all, they smiled.
And that hurt more than the hunger.
Lucien swallowed the bread, hard and dry, and said, "Where's Dad?"
"Left at dawn," his mother replied. "The smith in West Quarter needed help with the furnace. Said he'd try to bring meat this time."
Lucien nodded.
"He's working himself to the bone," he muttered, more to himself than her.
"He's doing it for us," she said gently, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "And so are you."
Lucien's fists clenched at his sides.
He had trained. Every day. In secret, in silence. With sticks, stones, dull blades, and broken ones. He watched knights practice from rooftops, mimicked their stances, read stolen pages of sword manuals thrown away by noble brats who didn't need them. He learned footwork by studying cats and strength by hauling stone.
He was better than them. He knew he was.
But in this world, skill meant nothing without a surname.
He remembered standing outside the gates of Graymoor Academy, watching carriages roll past with boys in velvet and girls in gemstone-threaded dresses. When he'd asked to apply, the guard laughed in his face. No recommendation. No noble blood. Not even a coin to bribe with.
Not worth their ink.
Lucien walked over to the old sword on the wall and ran his fingers across the hilt. He was only fifteen, but his hands were already calloused — not from war, but from hauling water, chopping firewood, scrubbing floors.
He wasn't born into greatness. He didn't have a crest.
But he had will.
One day, he would stand in those academies. He would walk through castle halls — not as a servant, but as an equal. He would cross blades with their finest, and when they asked who trained him—
He would smile. And lie. Because the truth would be too humiliating for them.
"Lucien?" his mother's voice broke the silence.
He looked at her. She looked tired. She always did these days.
"Are you going to train again?" she asked softly.
He hesitated, then nodded. "Just for an hour."
She didn't stop him. She never did.
As Lucien stepped out the door, the city greeted him with the noise of carts and curses, hawkers and hammers. A world that never cared if you were starving — only if you were noble.
But someday, they'd remember the name Lucien Verath.
Not as a beggar.
Not as a lowblood.
But as the man who rose without a crown…
and took them all.
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