Morlowe and Rayliar

As Morlowe's arm finished its arc, he shot forward, closing the distance between him and his opponent in a heartbeat.

With the speed of a viper, Morlowe extended his arm, thrusting the wooden rapier toward Rayliar's eyes. The wooden blade sliced through the air, its tip nearing Rayliar's face.

But Rayliar was equally fast.

Twisting his broadsword in a well-practiced arc, Rayliar caught his opponent's strike on the side of his blade, allowing the rapier to bounce harmlessly away.

Tock.

A sharp sound echoed in the room as the weapons clashed.

Without wasting a second, Rayliar allowed his broadsword to continue its natural swing. He bent his knees, feeling his muscles tense, and spun on his heel, bringing the sword upward in a powerful arc aimed directly at Morlowe's ribs.

But Morlowe wasn't easy prey. With a swift sidestep, he avoided the blow by a hair's breadth, feeling the wind from the broadsword brush against his side.

Shoom.

A faint gust followed the sword's movement, stirring up bits of dust and wood chips on the ground.

"Not bad, little brother," Morlowe said, a cocky grin spreading across his face, his breathing barely strained.

Rayliar rolled his eyes. "Little brother? I'm the older one, idiot," he shot back, though a hint of amusement flickered in his eyes.

The two locked eyes, an electric tension thickening the air as they returned to their stances, swords raised. It was as if the last exchange hadn't even happened; the battle was nowhere close to ending.

Then, Rayliar made his move.

Drawing a deep breath, he launched himself forward, closing the distance with a single powerful stride.

"Are you serious?! With a sword that big, you think you can do anything at this range?!" Morlowe shouted, his face a mix of concentration and frustration.

But Rayliar didn't stop. His muscles tensed, his right foot sliding behind his left as he shifted his weight.

The next moment, his arms swung back and then down, his torso twisting in a fierce swing as his sword cleaved through the air like an enormous hammer.

The blade raced toward the ground, picking up speed.

Cronk.

The weapon embedded itself in the floor for a split second.

Come on… Rayliar thought, his eyes fixed on the weapon, willing it to move. He tensed his small muscles, drawing on all his strength, and yanked the broadsword free. With a swift swing, he brought the blade up in an arc that was less precise and more pure force.

The dirt clung to the blade as it came up, flying directly at Morlowe's chest.

Boom.

A solid impact—at least, that was the intention.

Morlowe, his eyes widening at the sight, braced himself, bringing his own sword up to catch the strike. His arms strained as he locked his stance, feeling the tremor in his wrists.

The two weapons met in a thunderous clash, and Morlowe's feet left the ground as he was flung backward. He soared through the air, spinning, before he adjusted, landing with feline grace on a beam above.

He shot Rayliar a grin. Then, with a push, he dove down, resuming the fight.

And so, the sparring continued, their fierce exchange echoing through the training hall.

___________________

In the end, the match ended in a stalemate, each twin's sword pointed at the other's throat. They held their positions, breaths heavy, gazes locked, acknowledging the narrow margin by which either could have won.

Is this a sparring match between twelve-year-olds? thought Glasgow with stunned disbelief.

In all his years training young fighters, he had never witnessed skill like this from children who hadn't yet gone through the Choosing.

Chmm-chmm.

Glasgow cleared his throat, forcing himself to keep a neutral expression.

"Alright, those who've fought, line up over there. The rest of you, come forward, two at a time… Yes, you two. Let's get moving!" he barked, doing his best to maintain authority amidst his amazement.

Within an hour, each student had had their turn, showing off their skills, some clumsily, some with promise. But none held a candle to the two twins, who had already won the respect, envy, and curiosity of their peers.

____________________

Ding-Dong.

Ding-Dong.

The bell signaled the end of class.

"Alright, that's it for today," Glasgow announced. "The sun's setting, so get home and stay out of trouble!"

"Yes, sir!" the students chimed, a collective sigh of relief rippling through the group.

In a flash, the kids bolted out of the training hall, eager to return home. All except one dark-haired boy who remained, diligently repeating his moves with the heavy broadsword in hand.

"One... two... three…" Rayliar muttered to himself, his gaze steely with focus.

I have to get stronger if I'm going to protect anyone, he thought, pushing himself past the point of exhaustion.

Sweat poured down his face, masking the silent tears that blended into the grime on his cheeks.

_________________

Twins.

That's what people called them.

But Rayliar knew what they whispered behind his back.

The Bastard of House Deligt.

Though they were born on the same day, at the same hour, their lives couldn't have been more different. Rayliar was a collateral of House Deligt, a mere shadow in comparison to his half-brother, Morlowe.

To the nobility, Rayliar was just the son of his father's mistress, a stain on the family's honor. Even if he and his half-brother shared the same father, the divide between them couldn't have been greater.

"One thousand nine hundred ninety-eight… one thousand nine hundred ninety-nine… two thousand," Rayliar murmured, letting the sword fall with a thud.

He looked down at his hands, palms marred by thick, painful calluses. To think they once bled at every practice…

He took a shaky breath, relishing the ache in his arms, the pulse of blood beneath his skin, a reminder of his own determination. With difficulty, he picked up his sword once more.

"Two thousand more, then I'll call it," he whispered and resumed swinging, the heavy blade cutting through the air with relentless precision.

__________________________

It was two hours later when Rayliar finally returned home. The small wooden shack he shared with his grandfather was cold and unadorned, the bare essentials scattered around. No luxuries, no trinkets—only necessities.

"Where have you been?" an elderly voice called as soon as he stepped through the door.

Rayliar turned to see his grandfather, a grizzled old man with long white hair pulled back in a ponytail and a wild beard that framed his weathered face. Despite his age, his physique was solid, a life of hardship carved into every muscle. His thick eyebrows gave his face a somewhat humorous look.

"I was training, Grandpa. Is dinner ready?" Rayliar asked, his stomach growling.

"Of course. Go ahead and si—"

But before he could finish, his grandfather shot forward, throwing a swift left hook at Rayliar's face.

Rayliar leaned back, dodging the blow by a hair's breadth, feeling the old man's knuckles graze his skin. Without thinking, he countered with an uppercut, stopping just shy of his grandfather's scruffy beard.

"Mmm... better… much better," his grandfather grinned.

"Now sit down and tell me about your day," the old man said, settling into a chair with a proud smile.

_____________________

Dimitrov.

No last name, no title. Just Dimitrov.

In all the years Rayliar had lived with him, his grandfather was the only family he'd known. After his mother passed, Dimitrov had taken him in, raising him in the only way he knew: with grit and an unyielding sense of discipline.

Rayliar lay awake that night, staring at the wooden ceiling of their modest shack.

One day, Grandpa, I'll make you proud. I'll get a good role and take you out of this shack. I promise.

With these thoughts fueling his determination, he drifted into sleep, knowing that tomorrow would bring new challenges.

___________________

The next morning, Rayliar woke before dawn. He splashed his face with water from a small basin, washed up, and dressed.

"Grandpa, I'm off," he said, closing the door as he headed toward the training grounds.

___________________

When he arrived, the students were already gathered, and Glasgow, their instructor, stood before them, his stance rigid and composed.

"As you know, the king's envoy will be arriving today. Tomorrow, some of you will face the Choosing. Four of you, to be precise."

Glasgow's gaze fell on Rayliar, among the others. His tone was sharper than usual, a hint of pride seeping into his voice.

"This afternoon, each of you four will meet with the envoy. Keep in mind that he's one of the king's most trusted knights. Make a good impression, and you might just make something of yourselves," he said, fixing a pointed look on the group.

Rayliar's heart pounded with a mix of anticipation and nerves. He could already feel the mana in the air, faint but heavy with power.

They are here...