Jarden POV
A full year had passed.
Twelve quiet months in which the world watched the twins of the Runcandel Clan grow.
Not just Jin, the anticipated heir.
But Jarden, the anomaly who refused to be ignored.
Their status was equal—publicly affirmed by Cyron, silently supported by Rosa. No whispers of favoritism were allowed to fester. The halls of the castle treated them as two swords forged from the same steel, destined to clash or converge.
Even their nannies walked different paths.
Ginny, bright and efficient, cared for Jin with structured warmth. She sang lullabies about Runcandel glory and repeated sword chants in rhymed cadence. She enforced discipline early, guiding Jin's strong-willed nature into precise lines.
Utahame, quiet and unorthodox, guided Jarden through dreams and symbols. Her voice was silk wrapped in stone. She whispered old poetry and carried incense woven with forgotten spirits. She taught not with rules—but with rhythm.
Yet neither twin felt neglected.
They trained in parallel: crawling across runic mats, gripping wooden hilts, tracing glyphs in spilled rice as the sun rose over Storm Castle.
In moments of silence, Jarden would glance at Jin—his brother, equal in presence but burning with a fiercer flame.
He didn't envy Jin.
He respected him.
Because soon, they would face their first challenge.
Eve of the Selection. (The Ritual Approaches)
Jarden POV
Footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Sharp. Measured. Intentional.
Jarden sat quietly in his cradle, wide awake—something that startled Utahame more often than it should. She never commented when his silver-black eyes locked on her mid-song or when he responded to abstract syllables in forgotten dialects. She simply watched… and hummed.
Now, he listened.
The door across the nursery creaked open. Rosa Runcandel strode in.
She was imposing in a way few dared emulate. Ebony hair framed her hawk-like eyes, and the way she moved made even polished stone seem uncertain. Her presence alone could silence servants and shift political tides. In another era, she'd have been queen of swords.
'The Black Panther,' Jarden recalled from his memories—from novels, manhwa panels, footnotes on noble rivalries.
"Are the preparations over, Gilly?" Rosa asked curtly.
"Of course, ma'am," came the reply. "Today's the day the young master 'selects'. I've paid special attention to everything."
Jarden blinked.
Today was Jin's Selection day.
He remembered the lore. A ritual performed on a Runcandel child's first birthday. They called it 'Selection'—a ceremony where a baby would crawl toward an item scattered among dozens. A sword, a coin, a book, a grain of rice… each one supposedly revealing a glimpse of that child's destiny.
Superstition. Old as blood.
But in this clan? Superstition was law.
And it meant something.
Rosa picked Jin and jarden up in one smooth motion and turned to leave.
Jarden already knew his turn was coming.
Utahame had told him that morning—just before sunrise, her voice threading through the veil of dreams.
"You will choose a blade with no name, my flame. A history that no one remembers… but you."
The ceremonial chamber gleamed with swordlight.
Dozens of blades, arranged with obsession, awaited small hands. Warding sigils hovered over the selection ring. Servants polished tiles with the care reserved for coronations.
Ginny fussed over Jin's collar, adjusting every fold. "You'll pick true, young master," she whispered. "I have no doubt."
Utahame draped a dark-blue shawl over Jarden's shoulders. Her voice was quieter. "Your path was already watching. You only have to see it."
Cyron entered the hall without fanfare. Rosa followed, her eyes already calculating.
Twelve Runcandel siblings lined the walls, their expressions ranging from amused curiosity to unreadable restraint.
The grand hall was colder than he expected.
Even wrapped in ceremonial silk, nestled within Utahame's arms, Jarden felt the stone beneath him press like judgment. Moonlight seeped through the stained glass, illuminating dozens of weapons arranged in grim reverence.
At the center stood a man.
Arms crossed.
Eyes half-lidded with power restrained.
Cyron Runcandel.
The strongest knight alive.
Father.
It was Jarden's first time seeing him in this life.
The novels had spoken of Cyron in grand strokes—steel incarnate, war-born, distant. And here he was, as still as stone, as heavy as thunder.
'So that's him…'
Jin was already crawling. Tiny limbs powered by monumental will, navigating the forest of blades as if memory guided each motion.
The twelve siblings lined the walls. Not cruel. Not mocking.
Not yet.
They watched with quiet expectation, unsure what to make of the boy zigzagging past obvious choices to reach one specific sword—Barisada.
Jarden blinked.
He remembered what Barisada represented. The Founder's blade. Symbol of patriarchal inheritance. Tied to destiny, history, and weight the Runcandels rarely questioned.
When Jin touched the hilt, blood bloomed on his fingers.
Gasps rippled.
Cyron's brow lifted slightly. Rosa's lips parted—just enough to suggest surprise.
"The boy chose Barisada," Cyron said, voice solemn.
Jarden felt something stir beside him.
Utahame shifted her stance.
"He walks toward fire," she whispered, barely audible.
Jarden said nothing.
His turn was next.
And somewhere near the edge of the blade circle… a different sword pulsed.
No name etched in steel.
No record in the archives.
But its whisper reached him.