A Worthless Crown

I wake up to the words of my butler, Jorno. An old man with little hair on his head.

"The Lord is on strict buisness today, he says you should ensure the young mining hero is settling in well."

It wasn't like I had anything else to do. I had visited the boy a few times before, out of curiosity. Now would probably be the last time.

He was in my family's training grounds. The grounds were damp with morning dew, the faint rustle of autumn leaves carried on the breeze.

I leaned against a tree, arms folded, watching Alcors train with that old soldier James. My clothes were immaculate, as always—fine silk embroidered with gold patterns that shimmered in the sun. I enjoyed watching the world pass. I didn't need to let everyone know who I was: Fraero Vista, heir to wealth and power.

Alcors, though? He looked like a slave that had been worked to the bone. Sweat dripped from his brow, his shirt clung to his back, torn in places. His wooden sword rose and fell with a rhythm that spoke of exhaustion rather than skill. Yet, there was something there—grit, maybe. Or stupidity. Likely the latter.

James was relentless. Every time Alcors slowed, he punished him. A strike to the ribs, a tap to the knees—always precise, always sharp. Alcors grunted, but he never complained. He just adjusted his stance and went again. Eventually he got lower and lower, until he was suffocating on the ground.

"He's still so slow," I muttered under my breath, though no one was around to agree with me.

James called for a break. Alcors collapsed onto the ground, panting, chest heaving. I wandered closer, hands clasped behind my back like some noble inspecting his estate.

"Still getting beaten like a dog, I see," I said, flashing a smirk.

Alcors didn't even look at me. He was too tired. James glanced my way but said nothing. I liked the old man—he respected my family, as he should—but he didn't fawn over me like the others. That spoke of his foreign origins.

A week passed. I kept watching. Every few days, I'd show up, leaning against my favorite tree. Sometimes I mocked Alcors. Sometimes I asked questions about swordsmanship, though I'd never admit I was curious. James left after a few months—some duty called him elsewhere. Alcors kept training alone, though. Poor bastard didn't know when to quit, saying something about 'it's all up to me now!'

His sword spirit never looked astounding, it couldn't take a tree off it's feet. It was barely visible over the steel of his blade.

Two months after James left, I found him in the same spot. His swings were sharper now, more precise. He was starting to look like a proper swordsman. That annoyed me. So, I decided it was time.

"Alcors," I called, striding into the field. "Let's duel. Show me what that old man taught you. I heard you killed monsters, so you must be more than you show."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't refuse. He never did. That was another thing I both admired and hated about him. He never backed down.

We took our positions. My grip tightened around the wooden sword. I felt the weight of it—awkward, but manageable. I was confident. I was Fraero Vista. I had watched enough to know what I was doing. Some learnt through brute force, I learnt through the mind. I was confident in victory.

I lunged first. Quick, aggressive. He blocked it and pushed me back with ease, makign me feel like I was a child swinging a stick. Annoying. I pressed forward, slashing and thrusting, but he matched me—every move, every step. I gritted my teeth.

Then he struck back.

His sword found my ribs—hard. I gasped, stumbling back. He didn't stop. His next blow hit my thigh, then my shoulder. I swung wildly to push him away. He sidestepped, and his sword tip pressed gently against my chest. He then swept my feet and I fell to the ground.

"Dead," he said, breathless but steady.

As I lay on the ground, I smashed his shin in with my right foot, it was a crude attack but unexpected. He must've expected a noble to play clean, now he was the one hurling in pain.

I slammed the edge of my wooden sword onto his head and he groaned out in pain. I repeated this three more times. He fell to the floor.

"No, this is death. Do you have anything to say, months of training all for-."

As I was ready to truly pronounce my victory he swept me off my feet once more.

"Falling for your own trick... That's not very smart of you." He had a smug smirk, it irritated me deeply.

I froze. My chest burned with humiliation. My family name was worth more than his entire existence, and yet he had beaten me like I was nothing.

"Tch. Bad luck," I muttered, brushing him off. "The sun was in my eyes. You're lucky I deal with magic rather than these boorish tools of war."

He didn't argue. He never did. That annoyed me even more.

I rubbed my ribs as we walked toward the village. I suggested getting bread, acting like nothing had happened. He agreed because he was simple like that. Bread and water were all he needed. I preferred wine and roast, but today, I felt undeserving of such luxuries. Bread was something to fill the void in my pride.

The bakery sat near the old mines. We could smell the bread before we saw it—fresh, warm, with that golden crust that made you forget the troubles of the day. I was halfway through imagining butter melting on a loaf when I saw them. Father said the bakery was positioned to remind the miners that hard work would be rewarded. Whatever that meant.

A group of adventurers stood near the mine entrance. They weren't from around here. Their armor was too polished, their swords too sharp. The way they stood—ready, alert—it screamed danger and purpose. They looked of the kind in fairy-tales, although I knew many existed in the real world, just that they rarely travelled to a place like Alto Mora unless it was a pit-stop.

I elbowed Alcors. "Look at that. A group of young adventurers in the middle of Alto Mora, perhaps a dungeon has apeared."

His eyes narrowed. He didn't like what he saw. I could tell. Just from the lump in his throat.

The leader was a tall man with a broad sword strapped across his back. His grey hair was cropped short, face weathered by battle. Beside him, a woman in dark robes whispered to another warrior. There was tension in their stance—like they were hunting. The last of the four was a young man, with gleaming golden hair. He had a well-worn face that still proved handsome, his gear was of the highest quality and his sword was the one I had read of in books, the Dragon-Slayer.

"Oh my, these people mean buisness. They have a mage, two warriors and even a dragon-slayer. Perhaps there really is a new dungeon here..."

"I think they're here for something else.." Alcors gulped, as he massaged his right arm for whatever reason.

As we passed, I heard a name.

"The Exiled King. I can't sense his presence anymore."

The words chilled me. I glanced at Alcors. His face turned pale. His hand twitched toward his right arm. I noticed that, too. He thought I didn't, but I saw everything.

I laughed, too loud. "Exiled King? Sounds like one of those drunk tale villains. Probably just some old bandit in fancy rags. Why would a person like that be in Alto Mora?"

Alcors didn't laugh. That made me uneasy. He knew something I didn't, else he should be laughing with me.

We bought our bread. It was good—warm, soft—but it tasted different now. I kept sneaking glances at Alcors as we ate, crumbs falling onto the dusty path. He was lost in thought. The tension in his shoulders hadn't eased since we saw those adventurers.

"What is it?" I asked, trying to sound casual, trying to discern his mind.

He shook his head. "Nothing."

Liar.

I let it drop, but my mind raced. The Exiled King. Alcors's reaction. That twitch toward his arm. There was a story here, and I needed to know it.