Sarios stood tall in the center of the training ground, his longsword gripped in his gloved hand, its sacred white blade reflecting the morning sun. Across from him, his mentor—a seasoned knight with a jagged scar under one eye—rolled his shoulders, preparing to spar.
"Mentor," Sarios said, his voice steady. "I'm ready."
The older knight smiled faintly, lifting his own blade.
"Good, good. Let's see it then."
His tone was low and measured, like a man who's seen many blades rise and fall.
But as Sarios adjusted his stance, his eyes drifted—drawn not to his opponent, but somewhere distant.
A memory.
He was seven again.
Sitting cross-legged by the wooden window of his home. Outside, the wind rustled gently through the trees. Inside, the smell of iron filled the air—his father was sharpening a sword on a whetstone, rhythmic scrapes echoing through the humble room.
His father glanced at him with quiet curiosity.
"Why do you want to be a hero, son? Why Not just a regular knight?"
