Kael was sixteen when he made his choice. Old enough to work the fields, but young enough to dream of more.
After Tharos had chosen him, the village felt smaller, the whispers louder.
Every mocking laugh reminded him that he was reaching for something beyond his station.
One evening, he told his mother.
"I have to go," he said quietly. "The Empire is recruiting. If I don't try now, I'll never have
another chance."
Her eyes filled with worry. "You're still a child."
"No," he answered. "I'm a child if I stay. A man if I leave."
She said nothing more, only pressed her hand against his cheek as if memorizing his face.
He packed little: a worn cloak, a wooden practice sword, and Tharos. Together they walked the long road to the capital. Upon arriving Kael marveled at the towering walls, the banners snapping in the wind, the endless crowds. For the first time, he felt both small and infinite.
Upon arriving at the trial ground Kael knew that the Empire did not accept peasants easily. Kael stood in line with dozens of others, most older, stronger, and dressed in finer clothes. A knight with a scarred face barked orders.
"Strength, endurance, courage. Fail any, and you're out."
The trials were brutal: lifting weighted stones, running until his lungs burned, sparring against seasoned recruits. He stumbled, bled, and nearly collapsed but he refused to quit.
When asked to ride, the nobles laughed. "He has no horse."
But Kael stepped forward with Tharos. Gasps rippled through the crowd as the creature obeyed his command, moving with grace and power.
The knight's eyes narrowed, but he
nodded.
"You pass."
That night, Kael sat alone, staring at the parchment that bore the Empire's seal. He was now a recruit. Sixteen years old, poor and untested, but chosen.
The next morning, Kael entered the training grounds. Nobles sneered, their polished armor gleaming in the sun.
"What's a peasant doing here?" one muttered.
"He'll break before the week is done," another laughed.
But Kael gripped his practice sword until his knuckles whitened. I've endured hunger,
ridicule, and endless labor. I'll endure this too.
The recruits were herded into the practice yard, each handed a wooden sword and shield. The instructor barked orders:
"Hold your stance. Feet apart. Shield high. Sword ready."
Kael mimicked the movements, awkward and stiff. His arms ached after minutes, while the nobles shifted with practiced ease. Sweat dripped into his eyes, but he refused to lower his shield.
Inside, doubt gnawed at him. I've never held a sword before. What if they're right? What if I don't belong here?
---
Hours passed in endless repetition of strikes, blocks, footwork. His muscles screamed, his palms blistered. When the instructor ordered them to run laps in full gear, Kael stumbled, collapsing into the dirt.
Laughter rang out.
"Look at the peasant crawl," Rowan jeered, his voice dripping with contempt.
Kael forced himself up, staggering forward. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me
quit.
Finally, the instructor called for sparring. Kael's stomach twisted as he stepped into the ring.
His opponent was Rowan, the same noble youth who had mocked him every chance he get.
The match began. Rowan struck fast, his blows heavy and precise. Kael raised his shield, but each impact rattled his bones. He swung clumsily, missing by inches.
The crowd laughed as he stumbled. Rowan pressed harder, knocking him to the ground.
"Stay down, peasant," Rowan sneered.
But Kael forced himself up, blood on his lip, determination burning in his eyes. He raised his sword again, though his arms trembled.
The instructor finally called the match, shaking his head.
"You'll need more than stubbornness to survive here."
That night, Kael returned to the stables. Tharos lowered his head, pressing his muzzle against Kael's shoulder.
"They think I'll fail," Kael whispered. "But I won't. Not while you're with me."
---
Weeks later, Kael's strikes grew sharper, his footwork steadier. The scarred veteran
instructor, Sir Garrick, noticed.
"You're stubborn, Kael. Stubborn enough to survive. Keep climbing, and you may yet earn your place."
But Rowan grew more hostile, plotting to humiliate him again.
A few recruits began to respect Kael. One offered him bread after a long day, another sparred with him without malice. Slowly, he was no longer alone.
That night, Kael sat beside Tharos, staring into the flickering lantern light.
"Every day feels heavier," he murmured. "But if I keep climbing, one day… one day I'll
stand among them as an equal."