Banner of shame

The courtyard was soaked with the golden hue of early morning, dew still clinging to the stones beneath Jien's boots. He stood silently, his breath steady despite the weight of the sword in his hand. Across from him, his father—Ardain Argrene—watched with arms crossed, eyes like steel. No smile, no praise. Only silence. That was how mornings always began.

"Again," Ardain said coldly.

Jien lifted the wooden blade, his arms trembling. His wrists were already raw from hours of repetition. He stepped forward, mimicking the stance his father had shown him countless times—shoulders square, feet firm, blade angled like a viper ready to strike.

He slashed. And again. And again.

"You hesitate on the second strike," Ardain barked. "In war, hesitation kills."

"I didn't—"

A sharp slap across the arm from the training rod shut him up.

"No excuses. Again."

Jien gritted his teeth and resumed the sequence. Slash, pivot, thrust—each movement burned through his arms, yet he dared not falter. His father's eyes saw everything, every flaw, every weakness.

But Jien was learning. Every mistake branded itself into his muscles, each correction seared into his memory. Pain, he'd realized, was part of the lesson.

As he repeated the sequence, his father finally spoke again—not with anger this time, but with weight.

"You'll never win by being the fastest or the strongest. You win by being the last one standing."

Jien's breath was ragged now. Sweat dripped from his brow. But he didn't stop. Not until Ardain finally said, "Enough."

Jien lowered his blade. His arms hung limp at his sides.

Ardain approached, eyes softer now. "Tomorrow, you spar. No more drills."

Jien blinked. "With you?"

"No. With steel."

The next morning, the training courtyard was silent, save for the soft crunch of boots on stone. Jien stood in the center, blade in hand. Across from him, a knight in full training armor awaited—Sir Calden, one of Ardain's trusted men.

Jien swallowed hard. This wasn't wooden sticks or practice forms. This was steel. Blunted, yes, but still steel.

"Begin!" Ardain's voice thundered.

Calden moved first—fast. Jien barely parried the opening strike, the impact jolting through his arms. He stumbled, corrected his footing, and launched a counter, remembering everything he'd practiced.

The fight was raw, clumsy at times, but something within Jien had changed. He didn't retreat. He endured.

A glancing blow struck his side, and he winced, but didn't fall. His blade met Calden's again and again—resisting, adjusting, growing sharper with each clash.

When Ardain called a halt, Jien was bruised, bleeding slightly from a split lip—but still standing.

He'd survived.

That night, Jien sat beneath the old training tree, his blade resting beside him. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, painting silver patterns across the courtyard. His body ached, but it was a good kind of pain—the kind that meant growth.

Footsteps approached. Ardain stood beside him, silent for a long moment.

"You didn't run," the old general finally said.

Jien looked up, surprised. "Was I supposed to?"

"No," Ardain replied. "But I thought you might. Most boys your age would've." He sat beside his son, a rare gesture.

Jien hesitated, then asked, "Why are you training me so hard?"

Ardain didn't answer immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "Because war doesn't wait for boys to grow. It burns the world while they sleep."

Jien swallowed the weight of those words.

"You'll be more than a prince," Ardain said. "You'll be a weapon. One this kingdom will need."

And under that cold moonlight, Jien understood—childhood was ending.

The dawn arrived with a chill that bit through even the thickest cloak. Jien was already awake, muscles stiff but mind sharper than ever. Today's training would not be with sword or spell, but with words—the language of strategy and command.

In the war chamber, maps of Valmire and neighboring kingdoms sprawled across the ancient oak table. Ardain stood at the head, pointing to key fortresses and trade routes.

"You must understand the land as well as the blade," he said. "Battles are won not just by strength, but by knowing where to strike—and when to fall back."

Jien studied the maps, tracing rivers, mountains, and roads. He memorized the vulnerabilities and strengths of each territory.

"Strategy is the mind's battlefield," Ardain reminded him. "A true warrior wins with both sword and thought."

As the lesson ended, Jien felt a growing resolve. He was no longer a boy playing with weapons—he was a prince preparing to fight for his kingdom's survival.

That afternoon, Jien joined his companions in the castle courtyard—Nora, the sharp-eyed archer; Rook, the towering swordsman; and Sera, the healer with a quiet strength.

Their bond was forged in the heat of training, each with their own scars and stories.

Jien felt a flicker of hope as he watched them. This was no longer a solitary battle.

Together, they would face the shadows creeping over Valmire.

As they sparred and shared stories, Jien's thoughts drifted to the shattered sword resting in his chambers—the symbol of a fallen kingdom and the promise of a new dawn.

The road ahead was steep, but with his friends by his side, he felt ready to face whatever came.

The days blurred into one another, filled with relentless training and whispered warnings. The castle walls, once a symbol of safety, now seemed like fragile barriers holding back the storm.

Jien's father had summoned the generals for urgent counsel. Shadows of doubt lingered in the great hall as whispers of betrayal circulated. Jien knew the weight of their legacy was heavier than ever.

But amid the growing tension, Jien's resolve hardened. He vowed to uncover the traitors and protect Valmire at all costs.

One evening, beneath the fading light, Jien stood on the battlements, sword in hand, staring out at the dark horizon. The battle for their kingdom had only just begun.

The night was thick with silence, broken only by the distant howl of wolves beyond the castle walls. Jyn's mind raced as he replayed his father's words—warnings of treachery within their ranks.

He tightened his grip on the worn hilt of his sword, the metal cold and familiar in his hand.

His friends—Nora, Rook, and Sera—stood close, their faces etched with determination and fatigue.

"We must be ready," Nora whispered, her eyes scanning the shadows.

Jyn nodded. "Valmire may fall if we hesitate."

Together, they prepared for the storm ahead—knowing that every decision would shape the fate of their kingdom.

Dawn broke with a blood-red sky, painting the castle walls in ominous hues.

Jyn stood among his allies, the weight of his father's legacy pressing on his shoulders like never before.

The air was thick with tension, but also a fierce resolve burning in their eyes.

This was more than training—it was preparation for a war that would decide the fate of Valmire and beyond.

Jyn raised his sword, its edge catching the first light.

"For Valmire," he vowed.

And with that, the prince stepped forward, ready to face whatever darkness awaited.