The wind howled across the desolate ridge, carrying with it the scent of burnt soil and rotting wood.
Kael's fingers, blistered and shaking, dug into the earth as he hauled the last stone into place. His knees sank deeper into the cold dirt, but he didn't care. The grave was done.
No tombstone.No name.Only silence.
His father's blood still clung beneath his nails. Days had passed, but it hadn't faded. Not with the village watching. Not with the elders spitting on the ground as they passed. Not with the words they whispered when they thought he couldn't hear.
"Cripple.""Clanless trash.""Let the wind take him like his father."
He stared at the crude marker—a rusted blade, its edge chipped and dull, jammed into the mound of stones.
That sword had once cleaved steel. It had danced through battles when the name Ironspire meant something. Now it stood crooked, forgotten, just like the boy kneeling before it.
Kael bowed his head.
And whispered through gritted teeth,
"I swear… I will never kneel again."
He stood.
His legs trembled, his back screamed in protest, but he forced them to obey. He would not fall. Not here. Not before the dead. Not when the living already laughed behind their hands.
Behind him, the wind shifted. Gravel crunched.
"Digging graves for cowards now?" came a sneering voice. Jarek.
Son of the village head. Born with spirit-flowing veins and a sword hand groomed by masters. Jarek had never bled for a thing in his life.
Kael turned slowly.
Jarek leaned lazily against a tree, his blade gleaming in the low sun, flanked by two other disciples—smirking, bored, cocky.
"I'm digging graves for the kind of men your family will never become," Kael replied, voice hoarse but steady.
Jarek's smile vanished. "What did you say?"
Kael didn't answer. He looked down at the rusted sword in the grave.
Then he reached in—and pulled it free.
The metal groaned, flaking under his grip. It was barely a weapon anymore. But Kael didn't care.
He faced Jarek, sword in hand, shaking, half-starved, barely standing.
"I said," Kael growled, "you're standing on cursed ground. Leave."
Jarek laughed. "You'll threaten me? With that thing? Look at you! You can't even hold it properly."
Kael's hands bled as the rusted hilt bit into his skin.
But he lifted the blade.
Even if it broke his bones.
Even if it killed him.
Because this wasn't about winning.
It was about never crawling again.
Jarek's smirk returned. "Fine. You want to play warrior? I'll grant your last wish."
He drew his sword—a clean, polished blade humming faintly with spiritual energy. The kind of weapon that responded to bloodlines, not effort. The kind that Kael could never earn.
The two disciples beside him jeered, but they didn't move. They knew this wouldn't take long.
Kael took a step forward.
His legs wobbled. His arms screamed. The rusted blade in his hand felt like it weighed the world.
Jarek came fast.
A silver blur of motion, sharp and cruel.
Kael didn't dodge.
He couldn't.
The strike landed hard—flat of the blade against his side, sending him sprawling to the dirt with a choked grunt.
Laughter erupted.
"Still crawling, I see," Jarek spat, pressing his foot on Kael's back. "Your clan's legacy dies in the dirt, same as you."
Kael coughed blood. But even as the world spun, he clung to the hilt of the sword.
He could hear his father's voice, faint and fading, from another life.
"Don't rise for pride, boy. Rise because no one else will carry you."
Kael's fingers twitched.
He pushed.
One inch.
Two.
Jarek pressed harder with his boot. "Stay down, trash."
Kael growled. His muscles trembled. His body was fire and ice, pain and emptiness.
But slowly—
He rose.
Blood pouring from his mouth. Eyes like hollow embers.
He stood.
Not tall. Not strong.
But unyielding.
Jarek blinked, unnerved for the first time. "You—"
Kael's blade whipped out.
It was clumsy. Too slow.
Jarek blocked it easily, but the force staggered him.
"You dare—!"
He slashed.
Kael parried.
Badly. The edge of Jarek's blade carved into his shoulder. Blood spilled.
But Kael didn't fall.
He stepped forward instead.
And drove his rusted sword straight into Jarek's gut.
It didn't go deep. The blade was too dull. The angle too awkward. But it hit.
Hard enough for Jarek to gasp, stumble back, and drop his perfect sword.
Silence.
The other two disciples moved, but Kael spun toward them—chest heaving, covered in blood, rusted blade raised like judgment.
"Try me," he said.
And for a moment, just one moment, they hesitated.
That was enough.
Kael turned his back and limped away, dragging the sword behind him like a dying promise.
The wind whispered through the graves.
The village had seen.
They wouldn't forget.
And Kael?
He would never kneel again.