The Hall of Banners smelled of old torch smoke and lemon polish. It was a cold smell.
Kaelen walked down the center of the gallery. His boots clicked on the marble, a sound that felt too loud in the quiet. The sand from the arena was gone, swept away, but he could still feel the heat of the fight under his skin.
He kept his eyes forward. He knew they were there.
Nobles stood in little clusters near the pillars, holding wine goblets like they were precious jewels. They pretended to talk about taxes or borders, but their eyes slid toward him as he passed.
"Too soft," a woman murmured. She hid her mouth behind a fan painted with birds. "Hesitant." "Not Alaric."
Kaelen didn't blink. If he looked at them, they'd see it got to him.
Lord Vane was leaning against a column, his face flushed with wine. He didn't bother whispering. "Adequate. Can you imagine? 'Prince Adequate.'"
His friends chuckled. It was a wet, sloppy sound.
Kaelen's hands curled into fists. His nails dug into his palms until it hurt. Good. Focus on the sting. Don't flinch.
Two young lords 'sons of minor houses 'bowed as he walked by. Their smiles were tight. The kind of smiles you wear when you're trying not to laugh at a joke everyone knows.
"If only he carried two swords," one muttered as Kaelen passed. "Maybe then he'd be half the man his brother is."
The laughter followed him down the hall. It felt like paper cuts.
Kaelen kept walking. He passed Master Deyric. The old soldier was leaning against a wall, arms crossed, looking like a slab of granite. He didn't bow. He just watched Kaelen walk, his eyes measuring the stride, the posture, the breathing.
Just keep walking.
Above him, the Banners hung heavy in the draft. The Sword. The Wings. The Axe. The Bow. And the empty black strip of Marrow.
At the end of the gallery, past the shadows, sat the King.
Aldrick Veylor sat alone on a stone bench. His sword lay across his knees. He wasn't doing anything. He was just waiting.
Kaelen's stomach tightened. The whispers were loud, but his father's silence was heavy. It had gravity.
Kaelen straightened his tunic. He forced himself to take the last ten steps toward the man who had united five kingdoms, and who looked at his second son like he was a puzzle with a missing piece.
"Kaelen."
The voice stopped him dead. It was deep, level 'a voice that didn't ask for attention, it just took it.
Kaelen turned. "Father."
Aldrick didn't look up immediately. He was studying the crossguard of his blade, tracing the steel with a thumb. The torchlight flickered over his face, catching the hard lines around his eyes.
"Come here."
Kaelen walked to the bench. He bowed. It felt stiff. "I 'the display today. The crowd '"
"Raise your head."
Kaelen lifted his chin. He braced himself. He waited for it. Why can't you be more like Alaric? Why did you hesitate? Why are you so… average?
Aldrick looked at him. His eyes were grey, like the sea before a storm. He didn't speak for a long time. The silence stretched until Kaelen could hear his own blood rushing in his ears.
Then, slowly, Aldrick reached out. He took Kaelen's right hand. His grip was rough, calloused from forty years of holding a hilt. He moved Kaelen's fingers, shifting his grip just a fraction of an inch.
"Your knuckles were white," Aldrick said quietly. "You were squeezing the hilt like you were trying to strangle it. A blade isn't a neck, Kaelen. It's a lever."
Kaelen blinked. "I… I was trying to hold the line."
"You were trying to be Alaric."
The name hung in the air between them.
Kaelen pulled his hand back, stinging. "I tried. But the crowd 'they laughed."
"The crowd calls you 'Adequate,'" Aldrick said. He didn't sound angry. He sounded bored. "Let them. Titles are wind. Deeds are stone."
He stood up. He was tall. Taller than Kaelen. Taller than Alaric. He cast a long shadow across the marble floor.
"Alaric fights like a river," Aldrick said. "He flows. He overwhelms. That is his ground. If you try to stand on it, you'll drown."
He looked down at Kaelen, his expression unreadable.
"You fought with mercy today. Clumsy mercy, but mercy. The crowd saw weakness. I saw… restraint."
"It felt like weakness," Kaelen whispered.
"That's because you don't know how to carry it yet," Aldrick said. "You will never be Alaric. Stop trying. Find your own ground. Find the place where you can stand without shaking."
He turned and walked away, his scabbard scraping softly against his leg.
Kaelen stood there for a long time. Not Alaric.
For the first time, it didn't feel like an insult. It felt like a dare.
The sparring yard at dusk was a graveyard. The heat had broken, leaving behind a cool, purple twilight. The sand was cold under Kaelen's boots.
He was alone. The squires were eating. The guards were changing shifts. Just him and the wooden post.
He picked up a longsword. It was heavy. It felt hateful.
Swing. Step. Turn.
He tried to copy Alaric's motion. The perfect arc. The effortless power.
The blade hit the post with a dull thud. It jarred his wrist. Slow. Sloppy.
"Again," Kaelen hissed.
Too low.
Too slow.
Sweat ran into his eyes. His palms were slick. A blister on his thumb burst, smearing the leather grip with blood. He didn't care.
He hated this sword. He hated the way it dragged. He hated the way it made him feel small.
He dropped to his knees in the sand, chest heaving. He stared at the post. It looked like it was mocking him.
I won't quit.
He stood up. His legs shook.
He took a breath. Closed his eyes. Forgot about Alaric. Forgot about the perfect arc.
He just moved.
He shortened his step. Lightened his grip. Stopped trying to chop the post down and started trying to dance around it.
The blade moved faster. Not powerful, but quick.
He struck the post.
He spun, letting his momentum carry the blade.
It felt better. But… unbalanced. The sword was too long for this speed. It dragged behind him on the turn. It felt lonely.
He paused, panting. He looked at his left hand. It was empty. It felt… useless.
What if…
A thought sparked in the back of his mind. A weird, dangerous little thought.
What if I stopped relying on just one?
He looked up. Master Deyric was leaning against the far wall, a shadow in the gloom. He wasn't saying anything. He was just watching, head tilted like a bird listening to a worm underground.
Kaelen wiped the blood from his hand onto his tunic. He picked up the sword.
"Again," he whispered.
"Still at it?"
The voice was smooth as silk and sharp as glass.
Kaelen spun around. Alaric was standing in the archway. He looked perfect. Crisp tunic. Neat hair. Like he'd just stepped out of a painting.
"You've been hacking at that post for two hours," Alaric said, walking into the yard. "Trying to bore it to death?"
Kaelen gripped his sword. "Training."
Alaric laughed. It was a soft, cutting sound. "Training is for people who need to learn, Kael. Some of us just… are."
He picked up a towel from the bench and tossed it to Kaelen. "You saw the crowd today. They know the difference between effort and excellence."
Kaelen caught the towel. He wanted to throw it back. "You've never struggled for anything in your life, Alaric. You just wake up and win."
Alaric's smile faltered. For a second, just a second, he looked annoyed. "And you think sweating makes you noble? You think blisters make you a king?"
He stepped closer. He was taller. He always would be.
"Swing as much as you want, little brother. Maybe one day you'll be a decent captain for the guard. But the realm needs heirs. Not projects."
The words hit Kaelen harder than any sword.
Alaric turned and walked away, whistling a tune.
Kaelen stood there, trembling. Rage burned in his gut, hot and sour.
"Again," he said to the empty yard. He swung the sword so hard the air shrieked.
The corridors were quiet. Shadows stretched long across the stone floors.
Kaelen walked fast, trying to outrun the sound of Alaric's voice in his head. His hands throbbed.
"Kaelen."
He nearly jumped. Queen Elyndra was standing by a window, looking out at the moonlit gardens. She turned. She looked like a ghost in her pale robes.
She saw the sword in his hand. She saw the blood on the grip.
"Let me see."
Kaelen hesitated. He felt like a child caught stealing sweets. He held out his hands.
She took them. Her touch was cool. She traced the raw skin, the burst blisters. She didn't flinch.
"You drive yourself too hard," she said softly.
"I have to," Kaelen said. His voice cracked. "Alaric '"
"You are not Alaric."
"Everyone keeps saying that!" Kaelen snapped. He pulled his hands back. "I know! I'm not him! I'm just… me. And apparently, that's not enough."
Elyndra didn't blink. She just looked at him, her eyes steady.
"You are Kaelen," she said firmly. "And that is enough. If you choose for it to be."
She took his hands back. She pulled a small jar of balm from her pocket and started rubbing it into his knuckles. It smelled of lavender and wax.
"They whisper that mercy makes you weak," she said. "They whisper because they are afraid to speak up. The powerful strike in the daylight. The weak strike from behind fans."
She looked up at him.
"Mercy isn't weakness, Kael. It is control. It is a leash. You decide when to pull it. That is power. Real power."
She capped the jar and pressed it into his palm.
"Your father sees it. I see it. One day, they will see it too. You fight with two hands 'steel and heart. Don't let your brother's shadow put out your light."
She kissed his forehead. It was a quick, fierce gesture.
"Rest tonight. Train tomorrow."
She walked away, her robes rustling like dry leaves.
Kaelen stood in the dark hallway, clutching the jar of balm. It was still warm from her hands.
….
The yard was dark. The torches were dying, sputtering in the breeze.
Kaelen was back. He couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard Alaric laughing.
He walked to the weapons rack. He grabbed the longsword.
Too heavy.
He swung it.
Too slow.
He swung again. Harder. Angrier.
Crack.
The wood split. The top half of the blade spun away into the dark. Kaelen stood there, holding a broken stick, staring at it.
He threw it down. He kicked the rack. The swords clattered.
He looked at the mess. And then he saw them.
Two short swords. Standard infantry issue. Boring steel. Balanced for speed, not reach.
He picked one up in his right hand. It felt light.
He picked the other up in his left hand.
It felt… weird. Wrong. Like trying to write with both hands at once.
He took a stance. He felt off-balance. He stepped forward and swung the right blade.
Whoosh.
Fast.
He swung the left.
Whoosh.
Faster.
He started to move. Left foot. Right foot. Short steps.
Slash right. Parry left.
Slash left. Spin right.
The rhythm hit him. It wasn't the booming drumbeat of a longsword. It was a rapid, staccato pulse.
One blade opened the door; the other walked through it. One blade asked a question; the other answered it.
He wasn't dragging the steel anymore. He was flowing with it.
Sweat poured off him. His lungs burned. But he felt… alive. For the first time all day, he wasn't fighting the weapon. He was the weapon.
He spun, both blades slashing in a scissor arc. The air hummed.
The post took the hits.
It was music. Violent, ugly music.
Kaelen stopped, chest heaving. He looked at the two blades in his hands. They felt like extensions of his arms. They felt like him.
A shadow moved by the wall. Deyric.
The old master stepped into the dying light. He looked at the broken longsword on the ground. He looked at the two blades in Kaelen's hands.
He didn't smile. But his eyes… his eyes were bright.
"Again," Deyric said.
Kaelen grinned. It was a fierce, bloody grin.
"Again."
He moved. And the night sang with the sound of twin steel.