Chapter Two - The Weight of a NameZoran

  “A Knight of Egrana is, by their own estimation, one of the most honorable titles in all of Siginar. And, reluctantly, I find myself agreeing with them. In my ten years of wandering the breadth of these nds, I have seen no shortage of men and women who would y cim to virtue. The courts of The Ancients boast of their wisdom, while the warriors of Grothmal speak of their strength as though it were a divine right. Yet, for all their boasts, none seem to embody the quiet dignity and steadfast integrity that the Knights of Egrana carry as naturally as their swords. It is not the armor they wear or the oaths they speak that make them worthy, but something deeper—something rooted in the very stone of their kingdom. King Agnam’s vision for Egrana is a peculiar one. Where other monarchs seek to expand their borders with the sword, he seems more concerned with fortifying the hearts of his people. His knights are not merely warriors, but stewards of justice, chosen as much for their character as their skill. It is said that a Knight of Egrana would sooner fall on their bde than tarnish their honor, and though I was skeptical at first, my travels have proven this cim true more often than not. These are still the early days of the kingdoms, and history’s ink has yet to dry on the pages of Siginar. Who can say what the coming decades will bring? Yet, if the foundations I have seen in Egrana remain unshaken—if its people continue to cultivate loyalty over ambition and justice over power—then perhaps King Agnam has the right of it. Egrana may well outst its rivals, not through conquest, but through resilience. Generations to come may look back and call it the heart of Siginar, the pce where something sting and good took root in an age of uncertainty. For now, I leave this as an observation, not a prophecy. The winds of fate are ever fickle, and kingdoms rise and fall with the whims of men. But if there is one truth I have gleaned in my journeys, it is this: while swords may cim nds, it is honor that shapes empires.”

  — Abzen Mortra, Schor of Siginar

  The morning air was cool, carrying with it the faint scent of dew and earth. A light breeze whistled through the small gaps in the barracks’ wooden walls, stirring the occasional loose thread of my bnket. The snores of my companions filled the room in a discordant symphony, some loud and guttural, others light and wheezy. Once again, I was the first to wake. Sleep often came sparingly, stolen in restless stretches, as if my mind refused to let me rest entirely. Even here, among strangers, the shadow of my father lingered. Velcrove BckRose—the name inspired awe and loyalty among those who knew his deeds. But for me, it was a chain. I wanted to forge my own path, not walk one already paved. Four or five hours was plenty, or so I told myself.

  Sitting up, I stretched, the stiffness in my shoulders a reminder of the hard cot beneath me. My sword, leaned against the post of my bunk. I grabbed it and secured it at my waist before pulling on a pin tunic. The barracks were cramped, little more than a collection of bunk beds, storage chests, and the faint lingering smell of sweat and oil. These weren’t the main barracks used by the knights and castle guards. This was the Knight’s Academy barracks—a pce where recruits like me were housed, trained, and hardened.

  The Academy had once been a grand idea, a symbol of peace and preparation. In the days before war returned to Siginar, it was a pce where those with ambition and talent could learn the bde and earn a knighthood through merit. Now, it was something else entirely—a halfway house, a staging ground for sending fresh recruits to the front lines. The walls seemed to echo with the weight of unspoken fear, the knowledge that few of us would ever return.

  I stepped out into the crisp morning, the air refreshing against my skin. The world was still cloaked in pre-dawn shadows, the sun yet to crest the horizon. From my vantage point outside the barracks, Castle Egrana loomed above, its silhouette a majestic crown atop the hill. One of the windows on the third floor flickered with light, faint but steady. So, I wasn’t the only one awake.

  The aroma of fresh bread and pastries drifted on the breeze, carried up from the vilge below. My stomach grumbled in response, a quiet protest against the thin gruel and stale biscuits we’d been given the night before. I gnced toward the castle town. The barracks sat high enough to offer a view over the walls, and I could see the soft plume of smoke rising from the baker’s chimney.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to get an early breakfast,” I muttered to myself. “Assuming the baker is willing to serve this early.”

  With a shrug, I turned back inside the barracks, grabbing my coin purse and a weathered cloak before setting off. The cobblestone road leading down from the castle curved gently along the hill, its smooth stones worn by years of use. Egrana itself was perched like a watchful guardian over the castle town below, a town that bore a name far older than the kingdom itself: Tharn’veth. In the nguage of the Ancients, it meant “wind-born,” a fitting name for a pce governed by the royal family Galewing.

  If the King himself had chosen the name, it would speak to both his wit and his knowledge. But, if my history lessons were correct, the Ancients had been instrumental in the founding of Egrana. Perhaps the name was their gift to King Agnam—a reminder of their friendship and their shared history.

  The cobblestone path turned left as it approached the gate, where the guard post waited. The main gate wouldn’t open for another hour, and I knew I’d need to go through the smaller post entrance if I wanted to pass. I knocked lightly on the wooden door. After a moment, it creaked open to reveal an irritable, bearded man who clearly hadn’t had enough sleep.

  “Oi,” he barked, rubbing his eyes. “Took you long enough. You’re a half-hour te, Anderson.” His bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Wait, you’re not Anderson. What do you want, kid?”

  “Apologies for disturbing you, sir,” I said, bowing slightly. “I just need to pass through. Thought I might grab some fresh rolls from the bakery for breakfast.”

  The guard grunted, clearly not thrilled to be interrupted. “Well, all right. But listen up—main gate won’t open for another hour, so you’ll have to wait to get back in. You came through with the recruits st night, right?”

  “That’s correct, sir,”

  He frowned, his brow furrowing as if deciding whether I was worth the trouble. “Make sure you’re back in time for the ceremony at noon. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered, keeping my tone respectful.

  With a scowl, he stepped aside, allowing me to pass. Behind him, a few other guards sat at a rickety table, deep in a card game. They barely gnced up as I slipped through the gate, their focus split between their hands and the pile of coins in the center.

  The town awaited, its cobblestone streets still quiet in the early morning light. Somewhere ahead, fresh bread and pastries promised a brief reprieve from the weight of the day ahead.

  I made my way quickly down to the bakery, the cobblestone streets of Tharn’veth slick with dew from the cool morning air. Knocking lightly on the wooden door, I waited as muffled footsteps approached. The baker, a middle-aged woman with weary eyes and flour-dusted hair, opened the door, blinking groggily at me. Though she was clearly still waking, she agreed to sell me a fresh loaf for a few Copps—the smallest coins minted on the continent.

  Copps were pin and practical, small copper discs that jangled in every borer’s pocket. Ten Copps made a single Siv, a silver coin, and ten Sivs amounted to a golden Dinar. But only the wealthiest ever dealt in Celestial Crowns, ptinum coins so rare they were more legend than currency. Still, wealth was retive. I tossed her the st Dinar in my purse—a small fortune for a single loaf in the eyes of most—and thanked her for her time.

  The bread was warm in my hands, its crust crisp and its aroma irresistible. Taking a few bites, I let its simple goodness distract me as I wandered the cobbled streets. My gaze drifted down the alleyways, looking for a way to climb higher. It wasn’t long before I found what I needed—a dder leaning against the side of a bcksmith’s shop, its rungs worn smooth by use.

  Climbing quickly and crossing the rooftops as quietly as I could manage, I found a perch overlooking most of Tharn’veth. The rising sun gilded the horizon, casting soft golden light over the tiled roofs and winding streets below. From my vantage point, I could see the town waking to life. Shopkeepers rolled up their shutters, children ran after stray cats, and the scent of fresh bread mingled with the faint tang of forge smoke. The world below was alive with small, vibrant motions, a hum of life that always seemed more real from a distance.

  I sat down, the bread resting in my p, and let my thoughts wander.

  It had been three years since I left my home within the borders of the Grothmal Empire. Three years since my intention to enroll in the Knights Academy of Heitly had been derailed by war. The journey by nd had grown treacherous with the outbreak of conflict, so I chose the safer route: a ship from the port town of Branarn.

  Three months at sea brought me to Corah, Egrana’s own port town—a pce I’d hoped would offer stability. I’d been na?ve. If Grothmal’s corruption was brazen and cruel, Corah’s was insidious, hidden beneath yers of bureaucracy and false smiles. The governing council had its cws in every facet of the city, their power subtle but suffocating. I spent a year in that pit, unraveling their web, rooting out their influence where I could. Wasted time, perhaps, but at least they’ll never hold Corah in their grip again.

  Another year followed at the Academy, though it proved little more than a formality. My father’s teachings had long since surpassed the basics they offered. For me, it was simply a means to an end—a stepping stone to bring me here, to Egrana, to this moment. In hindsight, I should have come directly to the castle and requested an audience with King Agnam. It would have saved me years of detours.

  But now, my path was clear. From what little news I could glean, Egrana’s forces were holding Grothmal’s armies at the border. Whether the reports were accurate, I couldn’t say. Perhaps during these two weeks at the castle, I could gather more precise intelligence. Worst case, I’d find out firsthand when we reached the front lines.

  “Oi! Get down from there, boy!”

  The sharp voice startled me from my reverie. Looking down, I saw a guard on the street below, his ntern casting faint light against the buildings. A sack of fresh candles hung over his shoulder, his uniform rumpled but his expression more amused than stern.

  “Sorry, sir,” I called back, waving my half-eaten loaf. “Just enjoying the morning while I eat. I’ll be on my way shortly.”

  The guard chuckled, shaking his head. “Be down by the time I come back this way, and I’ll pretend I didn’t see you.”

  “Understood, sir.” I gave him a mock salute, which earned me a grin as he moved on, extinguishing the mps and repcing their spent candles.

  I turned my gaze back to the castle. The lone lit window I’d noticed earlier was dark now, its occupant perhaps preparing for the day ahead. The rising sun painted the castle walls in hues of gold and rose, a striking reminder of the kingdom’s grandeur. Two more weeks here, then another month of travel to the border. Then, finally, I’d see the war for myself. Would it be treason to fight against Grothmal? My home had been within its borders, true, but it had never been part of its heart.

  The old man—my father—had cimed a secluded valley after the Demon War, a pce where the empire’s cruelty couldn’t reach. Refugees had followed, and soon the valley had become a haven. They named it Atharn, a sanctuary for those fleeing oppression. My father had spoken well of King Agnam, but my time in Corah had nearly shattered my belief in Egrana’s cause. Thankfully, the vilges and the Academy restored my resolve. Agnam’s kingdom wasn’t perfect, but it was worth fighting for.

  The guard was making his way back now, his ntern bobbing as he moved. I stood, brushing crumbs from my tunic, and scanned the wall ahead. There—a gap in the patrols. It wasn’t far, maybe fifteen paces from the rooftop to the wall’s highest point. I could make it.

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and unched into a sprint. The rooftops blurred beneath me, my focus narrowing on the stone wall ahead. At the edge of the building, I leapt, my momentum carrying me five paces into the air. My toes caught the wall’s rough surface, and I pushed upward, my fingers stretching toward the top.

  For a moment, I slipped. My hand caught the edge, but my grip faltered, and I felt myself falling. Then, just as I was about to let go, a warm gust of wind surged beneath me. It carried the scent of a arcon storm and was accompanied by a faint, musical giggle. The wind lifted me just enough for my other hand to catch the wall, steadying me.

  As quickly as it had come, the gust was gone. My heart raced as I pulled myself up, the wind’s mysterious touch puzzling my mind. What was that? And who—if anyone—had sent it?

  I pulled myself up and perched on the wall, my chest rising and falling as I caught my breath. The faint smell of a storm lingered in the air, but nothing else gave away the source of the wind that had helped me. My eyes scanned the area, searching for any trace of who—or what—might have intervened.

  The battlements stretched out before me, patrolled by the usual guards, their armor clinking faintly as they walked their routes. No one seemed out of pce, and certainly no one who might have the inclination—or the ability—to assist me. A wind spirit, perhaps? The thought flickered through my mind. The fae were known for their capriciousness, but most of their kind would have found it far more amusing to push me down rather than lift me up. Wind-based Djinn were another possibility, but they rarely acted without exacting a price. This felt... different. More deliberate, and strangely benevolent.

  Something to ponder ter. For now, I needed to slip down the other side of the wall before someone decided to report me for bypassing the gate.

  Descending was easier than climbing. The guards were inattentive, their eyes fixed straight ahead, their minds likely on the end of their shifts. I moved carefully along the battlements, my steps light on the stone compared to their armored boots. Not one of them seemed to notice as I passed, which was troubling. I wasn’t particurly skilled at stealth—there were far more talented individuals who could have made the jump onto the wall without the wind’s aid. That I’d managed this with such ease revealed gring holes in the King’s defenses.

  The barracks came into view quickly as I slipped down the stairs and back onto solid ground. Outside, a few of the other recruits were already awake, milling about in the morning light. Boys, really—barely past their childhoods, though they stood taller now with swords at their hips and the weight of the Academy’s training on their shoulders.

  “Out early again, Blue?” one of them called out, his voice light with teasing. He was a short boy with hazel eyes and cropped brown hair.

  “Just because you yabouts sleep until the sun’s halfway up doesn’t mean I have to,” I replied, a smile tugging at my lips. The nickname had stuck early on, born of my hair’s unusual teal hue. I hadn’t bothered to correct them. Names were unimportant—I didn’t pn to know them long enough for it to matter.

  The boy ughed and turned back to whatever task he’d been pretending to do. Another recruit, a tall blonde man, poked his head out from the barracks doors, his voice carrying easily. “We’ll be ready to march in about twenty minutes, Blue. Jus’ a couple ds still getting their trousers on.”

  I nodded, leaning against the wall to wait. When the others filed out, they assembled into formation with practiced ease. I took my pce at the front of the second line, suppressing a sigh. I’d have preferred to stay in the back, where I could avoid notice, but even that wouldn’t have hidden me for long.

  King Agnam was an old friend of my father’s. He’d know me on sight—our shared hair color was unmistakable. In my travels, I’d seen every shade of hair imaginable: earthy browns, fiery reds, silvery whites, deep purples, and even greens. But this light teal hue seemed unique to my family. At least, I hadn’t encountered anyone else with it.

  The morning passed slowly as we practiced walking formations, the sun rising higher and the air growing heavier with each step. By the time the noon bell rang, I felt the strain in my legs, though I kept my posture steady. The horns sounded from the castle walls, and the gate groaned open, the path ahead lined with expectant faces.

  We marched in unison up the incline and through the castle gates. The Grand Hall stretched before us, a vast space of stone and light that seemed designed to dwarf those who entered. My boots touched the polished floor, and I took a steadying breath, letting my eyes sweep over the room.

  The hall was roughly thirty yards long, half as wide, and fnked by rows of towering stone pilrs. A red carpet edged with golden thread ran down the center, its rich color a stark contrast against the gray stone. Guards stood at attention on either side of the carpet, spaced evenly at fifteen-foot intervals, their armor gleaming faintly in the midday light. Beyond them stood six schors, three on each side, their robes flowing as they stood with hands csped in front of them.

  At the end of the hall sat the King and Queen on their thrones, their presence commanding even from a distance. King Agnam was as regal as the stories had painted him, his shoulders broad and his crown an unassuming band of gold. Beside him, Queen Shar sat with serene grace, her eyes calm but watchful. Behind the Queen stood the Captain of the Guard, his posture rigid, his gaze sharp.

  Then my eyes found the figure standing behind the King. The Princess. Though her features were partially obscured by the throne’s high back, there was no mistaking her for anyone else. She stood with the poised stillness of royalty, though something about her expression suggested a hint of impatience, as though she wished to be anywhere but here.

  Finally, my gaze drifted to the woman leaning casually against the st pilr on my left. She had striking red hair that caught the light like fire, her posture rexed but attentive. A maid, perhaps? Or someone else entirely?

  I didn’t have time to ponder. My first step onto the carpet seemed to echo louder than it should have, and the weight of the room pressed down as we moved forward. The air felt heavier with each pace, the attention of the King and Queen unmistakable as we reached the base of the dais.

  As one, we dropped to our knees, fists over our hearts, and bowed our heads before the throne.

  There sat a king, though not in the manner of lords proud and stern. His throne, carved with the sigils of ancient lineage, seemed too grand for his current bearing, as though it chided him for his careless repose. He leaned upon one armrest, his form rexed, yet there was no mistaking the tent power in his frame. His broad shoulders and sinewed arms bore the mark of many battles fought, and his hands, calloused and strong, rested idly as though unused to idleness.

  His hair, brown as the rich earth, fell in unruly strands about his face, untamed and indifferent to any attempt at regal order. It lent him a wild, almost roguish air, as if the wilderness still clung to him despite the trappings of the throne. Upon his head sat a crown, heavy with age and wrought of gold, but it was askew, tilted as though it had been pced in haste or with little care for its dignity. Yet, in its crookedness, it seemed to echo the man beneath—a king who bore his burden with defiance rather than reverence.

  His eyes, sharp and piercing as the edge of a bde, roved the hall with a keen and restless light. They were the eyes of a warrior, not a ruler bound to courtly ways, and in their depths, there was a weariness mingled with the fire of untamed resolve. He seemed a man out of pce upon the throne, as if he longed for the csh of steel and the freedom of open fields rather than the weight of crown and counsel.

  Yet, for all his casual demeanor, there was an undeniable majesty about him, raw and unpolished, like a mountain unhewn by mortal hands. His every movement, though unstudied, carried the assurance of one who had earned his pce through strength and will. To see him was to understand that kingship was not always a matter of pomp and ceremony; sometimes, it was the sheer force of a man who could hold a kingdom together by the strength of his hands and the fire in his heart.

  I could feel the King’s eyes moving over us, scanning the line of kneeling recruits like a hawk surveying its prey. His voice carried through the Grand Hall with practiced authority, though the tone betrayed his boredom. This was not the first time he had delivered these words.

  “Welcome, test graduates of our esteemed Knights Academy,” he began, his voice steady but distant. “You have endured challenges, I am certain, in perfecting your craft. But let us be honest with ourselves—you are not all destined for glory. Most of you will not live out your days as knights of the realm, truly fulfilling the oath you’ve taken. No, most of you will remain Junior Knights until the day you die. For some, that will be three weeks from now on the battlefield. For others, sixty years from now, in the comfort of your beds.”

  A few of the recruits shifted uncomfortably at this, the stark reality of his words sinking in. But I remained still, my focus sharp. I wasn’t here to dream of knighthood; I was here for something far more tangible.

  Then his tone changed, a spark of interest igniting as he continued. “However,” he said, “one among you will not be leaving this time.”

  The hall seemed to grow quieter as he said this. My instincts prickled. I dared to lift my head slightly, and immediately, my suspicions were confirmed. The King’s gaze was locked onto me.

  I stiffened, trying to keep my face neutral. Of course, he’d recognized me. The resembnce to my father was too strong for him not to. My light teal hair was a dead giveaway. If I could have rolled my eyes without consequence, I would have. This was exactly what I had feared. I’d come here hoping to fight on the front lines, to make something of myself without the shadow of my lineage hanging over me. But the King’s expression told me my hopes were already dashed.

  “Which one among you is considered the strongest?” Agnam asked, his voice cutting through the tension.

  One of the recruits at the front—a blonde-haired young man—rose to his feet and turned to address the King. “Lord Agnam,” he said with practiced respect, “we all graduated at the top of our css. But if you wish to know the best among us...” —he turned, and his eyes met mine. — “None of us have ever bested him.”

  The words hung in the air, and I bit the inside of my cheek to suppress a sigh. It was true—I had never lost a duel to any of the other recruits. Most of them had only begun training when they entered the Academy, while I had been drilled in swordpy, formations, and tactics since I could hold a bde. My father’s tutege had given me a significant edge, though it felt like a hollow victory. No matter how many duels I won, I couldn’t escape the whispers that followed: Of course he’s good—he’s Velcrove’s son. The Academy simply hadn’t challenged me in the ways I’d hoped, leaving me wondering if I would ever be seen for my own merits.

  “Is that so?” Agnam mused, his lips curling into a smile. His attention shifted fully to me as he rose from his throne and descended the steps, each movement deliberate and unhurried. He stopped just a few feet away, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Rise, boy.”

  I stood, keeping my posture respectful but meeting his gaze evenly. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  “How skilled would you consider yourself to be, my d?” Agnam asked, his smile lingering as he studied me.

  The King wasn’t at all what I had expected. His attire was simple—a shirt and trousers, with his crown perched crookedly atop his head—but his presence was anything but. His gaze carried a weight that made me feel both measured and assessed, as though I were being considered for something more than just my skill. Agnam wasn’t merely a ruler; he was a strategist, and every gnce seemed to peel away yers, leaving nothing unseen. He stood with a rexed slouch, his demeanor almost pyful, though his eyes were sharp and piercing. Perhaps he hadn’t even bothered to dress properly for the occasion.

  “I started my training much earlier than most who join the Academy, M’lord,” I replied. “While I may be more experienced, I would not consider myself better than anyone here.”

  He ughed, a warm sound that echoed in the hall. “Humble, are we? Or just cautious?” He cpped a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm but not harsh. “Perhaps a test, then, to see how much experience you truly have. Sir Rodrick!”

  The knight who had been standing near the queen stepped forward, his silver armor gleaming under the light of the hall. He moved with practiced precision, each step deliberate as he descended the dais. A crimson cape flowed behind him, secured to his shoulders by ornate csps.

  “Come and test this young squire,” Agnam said, amusement clear in his voice. “I’m curious to see how well he fares if he’s never been beaten. Wooden swords, of course—we don’t want you maiming him.”

  Though the King’s words were directed at Rodrick, his eyes remained on me, the challenge unmistakable. My heart quickened, but I kept my composure, giving a small nod.

  A servant entered, carrying two wooden practice swords. One was handed to Sir Rodrick, the other to me. I tugged at the knot securing my cloak, letting it slide to the floor with a soft whisper of fabric. With a light kick, I sent it skimming across the polished floor to the other recruits.

  The space cleared as the other squires and schors stepped back, giving us room to maneuver. Rodrick unsheathed his wooden bde, its polished surface catching the light, and assumed a stance that spoke of years of disciplined training. His movements were fluid, precise—this was no ordinary test.

  I tightened my grip on the wooden sword, feeling its weight in my hand. The tension in the hall was palpable now, every eye fixed on us. Agnam’s smile widened slightly as he stepped back to observe, his interest piqued.

  I took up my stance, steadying my breath as I gripped the hilt of the wooden longsword with both hands. The weight surprised me—it felt nearly identical to steel, despite being crafted from wood. At forty-one inches long with a ten-inch hilt, the weapon matched the dimensions of a true longsword. Most training bdes felt lighter, requiring adjustments to the force and angle of a swing, but this one moved with familiar heft. It suited me perfectly.

  Across from me, Sir Rodrick mirrored my stance, his polished armor gleaming faintly in the light of the Grand Hall. His presence was commanding, every movement precise and deliberate. Even with a practice sword, he carried an air of undeniable lethality.

  “Young sir,” he called out, his tone even but firm, “do not hold back, for I won’t be.”

  Without waiting for my reply, he unched himself forward, his opening thrust a blur of speed and precision. I stepped to the side, angling my bde to parry his strike, the sharp crack of wood meeting wood echoing through the hall. Pivoting behind him, I turned and struck the ft of my bde against his shoulder guard.

  Rodrick chuckled as he spun to face me again, his stance resetting as we began to circle one another. “Good reflexes,” he remarked, his voice betraying a hint of amusement.

  We exchanged blows for several minutes, our movements fluid and calcuted. Rodrick pressed his attack, testing my defenses with a series of feints and thrusts, but I countered each one, never allowing him to gain the upper hand. Each time I struck back, I did so with the ft of the bde, aiming for non-lethal points—an arm, a shoulder, a leg.

  “I see you’re skilled at countering,” Rodrick said, stepping back momentarily to assess me. “But why don’t you strike back properly? Every blow you make is with the ft of your bde, nothing lethal.”

  “You’re not an enemy,” I replied simply, lowering my stance. “I have no reason to strike with lethal intent.”

  Rodrick ughed, lowering his sword and shaking his head. “Spoken like a man who knows his limits—or his principles.” Turning to the King, he sheathed his practice bde with a smooth motion. “If I’m honest, my lord, while I could beat this young man, it would take far too long for the purposes of this ceremony.”

  Agnam tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over me once more. “Rodrick is perhaps the best knight in the castle,” he mused aloud. “While not the best in all the realm, the fact that he believes defeating you would take significant time—and effort—at your age is no small praise.”

  The King’s words carried weight, but I sensed a deeper curiosity behind them. His next question came as no surprise. “You didn’t just study at the Academy, did you?”

  “No, Your Majesty,” I admitted, my tone careful. “I’ve been learning from my father for years.”

  Agnam’s smile widened slightly, though there was a knowing glint in his eye. “Who might your father be, boy? I’ve only ever met one man with hair like yours. I can guess, but I’d prefer to hear it from you.”

  I gritted my teeth, suppressing the frustration that welled up. I’d hoped to establish myself on my own merits before this moment, to avoid the whispers and sideways gnces that always came with the revetion of my lineage. But those days were clearly over.

  “My father is Velcrove BckRose,” I said evenly, my voice steady despite the murmurs that erupted throughout the hall. The weight of the name rippled through the room, the reactions varied.

  The King smirked, his amusement clear. The queen’s expression was one of quiet awe, as though she were recalling tales of my father’s exploits. But the most intriguing reaction came from the red-haired woman standing behind the princess. For a brief moment, her expression faltered—a frown, a slight shiver—before she quickly composed herself. It was subtle, but I caught it, and the moment lingered in my thoughts.

  With a sigh, I walked over to retrieve my cloak, hooking it back onto my armor. The whispers in the hall continued, a low hum of specution and recognition. My time at the Academy, free from such attention, already felt like a distant memory.

  “My suspicions were correct,” Agnam said, his tone lighter now. “I’d heard Velcrove had retired somewhere. Odd for a man of his age, but I understand if he was raising a family. That would make you what, seventeen? Eighteen?”

  “Eighteen, Your Majesty,” I replied.

  Agnam nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. “I would like two things from you, boy. First, your name. And second, a favor.”

  I hesitated only briefly before answering. “My name is Zoran BckRose,” I said, allowing a small chuckle to escape. “And I would be honored to have the King owe me a favor down the line.”

  The King ughed, a rich sound that filled the hall. “Zoran BckRose,” he said, his voice carrying a note of finality. “I hereby dub all recruits here Junior Knights—save you. Your skills would be better suited for other matters.”

  He returned to his throne, his demeanor rexed but his words sharp. “While I am sure you would be effective on the front lines, I have something more meaningful in mind for you as a full-fledged knight.”

  The weight of their stares pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating. I could feel the murmurs lingering just beneath the surface, a silent tide of judgment and curiosity. Drawing a deep breath, I steadied myself, pushing down the frustration bubbling within.

  “If this is solely because of my heritage,” I said, dropping the formalities, my voice steady but sharp, “then I decline, Agnam.”

  The ripple of gasps that followed was immediate, the breach of decorum as loud as any shouted word. Heated stares bored into me, none more intense than the Queen’s. Her posture stiffened, and her lips pressed into a thin line.

  “He is your King, boy,” she said, her voice cutting through the room like a bde. “I would suggest that you change your tone.”

  Agnam, however, seemed utterly unbothered. He raised a hand, a simple gesture that silenced his wife. The tension in the room eased slightly, though the Queen’s disapproval still lingered like a storm cloud.

  “Not at all,” Agnam said, his tone calm, almost amused. “I had my suspicions about who you were from the moment you entered this hall. As I mentioned before, your unique hair color is unmistakable. But even so, I was prepared to let the matter lie unless your skill proved worthy.

  “When I asked for the strongest among you, I expected someone to name you. Watching you fight Rodrick confirmed what I suspected. You were holding back far more than you let on.” He turned briefly to Rodrick, who stood silently at the edge of the dais, his posture stiff but his expression unreadable. “As skilled as he is, I don’t believe Rodrick would have won had you chosen to fight in earnest. He was already struggling with your counters, which were executed with care and restraint. Had you pressed the advantage, I have no doubt the outcome would have been swift and decisive.”

  Agnam’s gaze settled back on me, his smile faint but genuine. “No, Zoran. I do not seek you for your name, but for your skill.”

  For a moment, I said nothing, letting his words hang in the air. Slowly, the corners of my mouth tugged into a grin. “Alright, you have my attention then, Your Majesty.”

  “Very well,” Agnam said, straightening slightly. His voice took on a formal cadence, rich with authority and weight. “I, King Agnam Romius Galewing, First of my Name and King of Egrana, hereby name twenty-seven of the men before me Junior Knights of the Realm.”

  He paused, his gaze steady as it met mine. “The twenty-eighth—Sir Zoran BckRose—is hereby named a fully-fledged knight of the realm.”

  The murmurs began again, quiet but insistent. Awe flickered in some faces, envy in others, and a few seemed relieved that the spotlight wasn’t on them. Their reactions were as predictable as they were grating—a reminder that no matter how much effort I put in, I would always be measured against the legacy of a name I hadn’t chosen.

  Agnam continued, his tone softening. “You are dismissed to the sleeping quarters. Rest well, for your training and duties begin tomorrow. Zoran,” he added, his voice carrying a subtle command, “I would ask that you remain. I have yet to make my request.”

  The other recruits hesitated, their gnces darting between me and the King. Slowly, they turned and began filing out of the hall, their footsteps echoing faintly as they left. I remained rooted in pce, my cloak swaying gently as I shifted my stance. Agnam leaned back slightly, his expression curious but measured.

  Whatever he had in mind, it wasn’t just a formality. The weight of his gaze told me as much. This was the moment I had been waiting for—or perhaps, the one I had dreaded most.