The candle flickered against the stone walls of the orphanage. Wind rattled the shutters and carried the smell of rain and smoke from the village outside.
Tristan sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes fixed on Sister Rhaena. Her voice was soft but sharp, telling stories older than the walls themselves.
"Long ago," she began, "this land was not a kingdom. It was a graveyard of banners. Lords and clans fought endlessly. Every hill, every valley... soaked in blood. In this era which was called 'The Era of Broken Vale'... one man rose."
She paused. Tristan leaned forward, holding his breath.
"Ragnar Vaelor Ashenvale. No one knew his parents, nor where he came from. Some say he was born beneath a storm. Others say he was forged from fire. What is certain...he fought. Tirelessly. Relentlessly. He united the scattered lands under one banner. And thus... Ashenvale was born."
"Do you know why it's called Ashenvale?" she whispered. "Because the land remembers fire and ash. Because countless lives were lost. Even the stones remember the blood that built this kingdom."
She leaned closer. "The crown founding king Ragnar wore... it wasn't gold. It was forged from the swords of his enemies. Heavy with victory.... and warning."
Tristan's heart pounded.
"The knights who followed him were no ordinary men," Sister Rhaena went on. "Ragnar rewarded the strongest warriors with land, titles, and honor. Their children grew up with tutors, with swords in their hands before they could walk. Soldiers could fight, yes.... but the path to knighthood was given to those with guidance and opportunity."
Her eyes softened as she looked at Tristan. "At first, it was tradition. Later, it became law.
Only children of noble houses could train as knights. Not because others weren't worthy... but because the kingdom needed it.
Tristan clenched his blanket. The fourteen year old boy had heard the story countless time yet his eyes still shone with same awe and admiration as the first time.
*****
The children were dismissed, chattering and running off to their chores. Tristan lingered, eyes still burning with the story.
Sister Rhaena watched him. She sighed softly, then knelt beside him.
"You're staring like you want to jump into the story yourself," she said with a small smile.
Tristan's fists tightened around his blanket. "I… I want to be a knight one day. Like Ragnar."
Her brow furrowed. "It's not that simple, knights are trained from birth. They grow up with swords in their hands, with tutors teaching them tactics, strategy and everything. Most boys….never even hold proper swords."
"I don't care," he said, voice firm. "I'll train. I'll fight. I'll -"
Sister Rhaena held up a hand and laughed softly," You'll injure yourself if you don't slow down. Do you even see how many blisters and bruises you have already? Look at your hands… and your arms ... all red and sore. At this rate, your hands wil be ruined before you even hold a real sword."
"I'll be careful",he said, though he didn't sound convinced himself. "I just… I want to try. Isn't that worth something?"
She studied him, eyes softening "It is worth everything but a dream alone won't carry you. You'll need fire,courage… and a lot of patience."
Tristan frowned, "Patience?"
"Yes,"she said smiling faintly. Even knights can't swing swords perfectly the first day."
He pressed his lips together, thinking "Then I'll swing a hundred, a thousand times… I'll get it right eventually."
She sighed half amused, half worried and reached his head gently. "Just promise me you'll watch yourselg, Trista. Don't throw your heart into the mud before your arms are ready."
"I promise", he said smiling. "I'll train everyday. I'll become a knight and then I'll give you a lot of presents"
She smiled softly brushing his hair back, "Good now… off to bed little warrior. Tommorow is another day."
Tristan looked up at her, eyes bright, then turned and padded to his room already imagining the next days practice. Sister Rhaena watched him go, worry still tugging at her heart but deep down, she knew this fire in him wouldn't be put out.
*****