"Again," Bryanard said, gazing down at the young man panting on one knee before him. "You'll never land a clean hit swinging like that—your form's too soft."
The boy stood back up, sweat clinging to his brow but his grin undeterred.
"Sir Bryanard, how am I supposed to hit you?" he asked with a laugh, dragging his wooden sword up onto his shoulder. "Feels kinda wrong smacking around an old man."
Bryanard scowled. "I'm thirty-eight, you insufferable brat!"
Brenton just shrugged, his bright eyes teasing. "Could've fooled me."
Bryanard let out a long sigh, straightening his back and setting his hands behind him in the stance he'd repeated a thousand times. "Anyway. Brenton. You need to act more knightly," he said, tone shifting to lecture. "We have a way of speaking. A way of carrying ourselves. It should always be—"
"Boring. Sounds like old-man stuff. I'll pass." Brenton waved a hand dismissively, already turning away.
Bryanard's jaw clenched. "Listen here, you little shi—"
But Brenton was already jogging off, laughter trailing behind him as he dashed toward the other squires.
Bryanard exhaled sharply. "Ugh. What an annoying little bastard."
A firm hand landed on his shoulder.
"You should ease up a bit, Sir Bryanard," came the calm voice of Sir Ameer.
Bryanard turned, still fuming. "But Sir Ameer, he's training to be a knight. And he's my squire. He should carry himself with discipline. With respect."
Ameer gave a quiet chuckle, giving Bryanard's shoulder a gentle shake before letting go. "He's also young, Bryanard. Let him be young."
He walked a few steps forward, folding his hands behind his back as he glanced around the courtyard of the Grand Knight Academy. Veteran knights stood at various corners, guiding their initiates with quiet correction or booming orders. The clatter of practice swords echoed through the open air.
"We've already had our wars. Let us older knights shoulder the heavy fights," Ameer said, gesturing between himself, Bryanard, and the others watching from the shade. "Let them carry a lesser burden. Let them fight to protect those close to them—not the entire world."
He started walking off, his voice drifting back one last time.
"Let them shine a little brighter."
Bryanard stood there, arms crossed tight. His wooden sword dipped from his fingers, forgotten at his side.
"Maybe he's right..." he muttered. "...Maybe I am too rigid."
He closed his eyes and drew a long, tired breath.
"Alright. I'll ease up. Brenton… he deserves to be something more than just a warrior."
That was the decision that would haunt him forever.
It wasn't long after that day that war erupted between Haldoria and the Free Cities of central Aetheria. The cause didn't matter—ideology, borders, pride, it all melted into the background. What mattered were the lives it consumed. One of them was Brenton's.
Unlike the other initiates, Brenton had been granted the right to fight. He was a squire, Bryanard's squire, and that status placed him one step closer to the battlefield. When the call came, he answered it without hesitation. Bryanard had been stationed elsewhere at the time, leading a unit of knights on an assault deep behind enemy lines. He wasn't there when it happened.
Brenton made a decision. A reckless one. One born from heart, not mind.
A nearby village had come under attack. His friend's family was trapped there. He disobeyed orders. Rallied a few others. Charged in without a plan, without a formation, without thought.
They managed to save the civilians—but Brenton didn't make it out.
Bryanard returned to the aftermath. Smoke still lingered in the air, the iron scent of blood thick on the wind. Brenton's body had already been recovered, laid on a cloth, arms crossed over his chest. A single clean wound—straight through the heart from a spear. It must've been fast. Mostly painless.
But he was dead.
He died without Bryanard. He died because Bryanard hadn't taught him enough. Because he hadn't been strict enough. Because he'd let him run wild.
Because of...
Bryanard left the camp without a word. His fellow knights tried to call out to him, to pull him back. He ignored them. One tried to grab his arm—he jumped, high, far, vanishing into the woods before they could stop him.
When he returned, the sun had long since fallen. Night cloaked the horizon.
His warhammer was drenched in blood and bone. His armor sagged under the weight of gore. He didn't say a word until he walked straight to the command tent.
"The Haldorian forces in the west and east have been dealt with," he said, voice level. "Stragglers are retreating north. We should press the siege immediately."
There was no grief in his tone. No trembling sorrow. Just a cold, methodical cadence. He spoke like a soldier on assignment. Like a knight with a war to finish.
Like a man who hadn't just buried his squire.
The war lasted seven years.
It was that war that carved his legend into stone. That war that earned him the name The Warhammer. And throughout it, Bryanard never spoke of Brenton again.
He and Ameer didn't cross paths once during those long years. They'd fought on opposite fronts. But after the final battle, once the blood had dried and the banners fell, they found themselves in the same city again.
Ameer smiled, offered him a hand, a word, a greeting.
Bryanard stared at him.
"He died because I listened to you."
That was all he said.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't true.
But it was the only thing he could say before turning and walking away.
For a long time after that, he was nothing more than the legend they'd made him.
Until he met Calvinel.
Until he saw that same spark again—that brightness, that lightness, that damn easygoing energy.
The same kind that had gotten Brenton killed.
And he was not going to let it happen again.