Years passed like the wind over stone—swift, shaping, relentless.
From the moment Edwin Clyne stepped foot into the palace, bloodied and broken, his name began to echo beyond the gates of Xvalon.
He grew not as a guest—but as a storm gathering strength.
By age nine, he ran faster than the squires.
By eleven, he bested the older guards in sparring.
It felt as though a greatness dwelled in the boy... that some began to call him ' The Young knight' or ' The Young Flame of Xvalon'.
By thirteen, his frame towered like a young stag—broad-shouldered, proud-backed, with coal-dark hair, stormy eyes, and the kind of jaw that made the highborn girls turn twice.
But Edwin had eyes only for one.
Princess Zexviliar.
From the day she held his hand in the infirmary, a bond had bloomed quietly. What began as shy talks in garden corners became shared books, stolen sweets, swordplay under moonlight.
She listened when he told her about the mana beast farms—the sleepless nights, the screaming creatures, the orphaned boys left to rot in the marshes.
And she had wept for him.
"You were forged in suffering," she once whispered, brushing mud from his cheek, "but bright as the sun."
He smiled, always slightly unsure. He wasn't taught to believe in beauty, nor did he ever compare himself to the greatness of the sun.
He wasn't born to greatness.
But somehow, she saw it in him.
And so did others.
The palace cooks adored him. The town guards called him "The Flaming Sword." The stable master wept the day Edwin tamed the mad black stallion that had bucked every rider.
Even nobles begrudgingly nodded when he passed—he held himself like royalty, but wore humility like a crown.
And the people loved him.
But not all eyes watched with joy.
The sorcerer—still unnamed, still veiled—lingered in the edges of Edwin's vision. He rarely spoke, yet Edwin felt him everywhere. In the flickering of torches.
In the chill of his room. In the sudden silence when he entered a hall.
His eyes constantly watching him.
He had a thousand questions about the man. Why did he sit so close to the king? What spell held his trust? What poison hid in his words?
But Edwin never received answers.
Until he found one.
One night, weeks before his knighting ceremony, Edwin wandered the lower halls of the palace in search of an old sword rumored to be lost in the vaults.
But what he found was a door—a jar, flickering with green light, and sinister feelings.
He shouldn't have looked.
But he did.
Inside, the sorcerer stood alone in a circle of blood symbols, whispering incantations in a tongue Edwin had never heard before. And in his gloved hands—trembling, glowing—he held the King's signet ring.
Edwin's heart thundered.
"What are you doing?" he barked, stepping in.
The sorcerer didn't flinch. He turned slowly, smile coiled like a snake. "Curiosity is a dangerous thing, boy."
"I'm not a boy anymore."
"No," the sorcerer whispered, voice thick with venom. "And that's the problem."
They stared—fire meeting shadow. And in that moment, Edwin knew.
This man was dangerous and would try to end him.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he merely smiled… and let the ring vanish into smoke.
The next morning, the king summoned Edwin privately.
The kings voice sharp as a blade"You've grown strong, Edwin. Respected... Loved."
"I only live to serve the crown, my King" Edwin said.
"And my daughter?" the king asked, his voice razor-thin.
Edwin blinked and hesitated. "She's… my friend." he told the, though the truth trembled beneath it.
"And not the way a man looks at a woman?" the king asked.
Edwin's jaw tightened, unsure what to say.
"Take care, Edwin. The people may love you. But kingdoms are not ruled by love. They are ruled by bloodlines."
Later that same morning, Zexviliar was summoned too. At breakfast.
"Your loyalty belongs to your lineage," the king said coldly without looking directly at her. "Not your heart."
She didn't respond. But her eyes lingered on Edwin's empty seat. And in them was war.
Days later, the Kingdom gathered to witness the Knighthood of Edwin Clyne.
At fifteen, he stood tall, draped in silver and black, the royal crest, stitched into his chest. The princess smiled from the balcony, pride glimmering behind her emerald eyes.
He knelt before the king.
"I vow to serve. To protect. To die, if I must."
The king's voice was firm. "Rise, Sir Edwin Clyne, Knight of Xvalon."
And he rose.
To thunderous cheers.
For this was a proof to all that even an orphan could attain such glory.
But not all were pleased.
To jealous stares.
To one pair of eyes burning from the shadows below.
Eyes that burned with one truth: Edwin Clyne would live long enough to see the throne change hands.
But that night, the sorcerer began to write a different spell.
One that would either bury fate…
…or change it.
And this time, the spell had a name.
Edwin Clyne.