Chapter 1 - The Stain of Steel
lThe afternoon sun, usually a benevolent golden blanket over the Barony of Eldoria, felt like a judgmental spotlight on Kaelen. At fifteen, he was already taller than most boys his age, a lanky frame still struggling to fill out, but it was his hair that truly set him apart. A deep, unassuming brown, it stood in stark contrast to the shimmering blonde locks that crowned every other head in the Valerius family. His father, Baron Theron Valerius, a man whose very presence could still chill the blood of veteran Aura Knights, possessed hair like spun gold, now streaked with the silver of age and countless battles. His eldest brother, Elara, had a mane that flowed like a sunlit river, stern yet kind. Gareth, the second brother, boasted a vibrant, almost arrogant blonde, reflecting his fiery talent. Even Lyra, his younger sister by a year, had hair that caught the light like a halo. Kaelen, with his common brown, felt like a smudge on a pristine canvas.
He wasn't hated, not truly. His mother, a gentle woman with eyes the color of warm honey, had ensured that. She was a commoner, a fact whispered in hushed tones by some of the older servants, but his father had married her for love, a rare and scandalous tale in their noble circles. Kaelen was a bastard, yes, but legitimized, given the Valerius name, and treated with an odd mix of acceptance and unspoken expectation. The expectation was the killer.
He was supposed to be a knight. A Valerius. The family was renowned for its Aura Knights, warriors whose spiritual energy manifested as a visible, potent force, capable of rending steel and shattering stone. His father, Baron Theron, had been a legend, his 'Aura Gaze' a terrifying myth that could make even seasoned elites falter. Elara, the eldest, was well on his way to rivaling their father, his aura already a vibrant, steady blue. Gareth, barely a year older than Kaelen, was a prodigy, his sword arm a blur, his aura a nascent, crackling green. And Kaelen? He was… average. Painfully, undeniably average.
His sword practice was a chore, his movements stiff, his aura a pathetic, flickering wisp that barely managed to coat his blade. He tried, truly, but the innate talent that seemed to flow through his siblings like a river bypassed him entirely. He was a wannabe knight, a pale imitation of the glorious lineage he was born into. This made him feel like an outcast, despite the fact that his family, for the most part, treated him with affection. Elara, ever the stoic pillar, would patiently correct his stance. Lyra, with her brilliant mind and gentle hands, would offer words of encouragement, her eyes seeing past his clumsy attempts to the effort beneath. Even his father, though cold and distant, never truly scorned him. But Kaelen saw the disappointment in their eyes, or perhaps, he projected his own self-loathing onto them.
He was, in his own way, funny. Not intentionally, not with witty remarks or clever puns. His humor was born from his bluntness, his deadpan observations, and his tendency to blurt out the unvarnished truth without malice. It often caught people off guard, eliciting chuckles from the servants and even a rare, almost imperceptible twitch of a smile from his father. But it was a side he rarely showed, buried under layers of self-consciousness and a growing, quiet resentment.
Today, the tension in the training yard was thick enough to cut with a dull butter knife, let alone a sword. It had been simmering for weeks, a slow boil between Kaelen and Gareth. Gareth, the golden boy, the sword genius, had always been a bit of a bully, his taunts sharp, his jests designed to sting. He saw Kaelen's struggles not as a lack of talent, but a lack of effort, a deliberate refusal to live up to the Valerius name.
"You're not even trying, Kaelen!" Gareth had sneered earlier that morning, watching Kaelen stumble through a basic parry drill. "You disgrace the family name with your laziness! Father wastes his time on you."
Kaelen had bristled, his usual quiet demeanor cracking. "I am trying, Gareth! It's not my fault I wasn't born with a sword in my hand like you!"
The argument escalated, words flying like poisoned darts. Gareth accused Kaelen of being soft, weak, a burden. Kaelen retorted that Gareth was an arrogant, spoiled brat who had no idea what real effort felt like. It ended, as these things often did, with a challenge.
"Fine!" Gareth had roared, his face flushed with anger. "If you think you work so hard, prove it! A duel! Now! Everyone will see your pathetic efforts!"
And so, here they were. The entire household had gathered in the main training yard. Servants lined the perimeter, their faces a mixture of apprehension and morbid curiosity. Knights, off-duty, leaned against the stone walls, their arms crossed, silent observers. Baron Theron stood at the edge of the crowd, his arms behind his back, his expression unreadable, but Kaelen felt the weight of his gaze like a physical burden. Elara stood beside their father, his brow furrowed with concern. Lyra was there too, her small hand clutching Elara's tunic, her eyes wide and fearful.
Gareth, gleaming in his light training armor, stood opposite Kaelen, his practice sword, blunted but still heavy, held loosely in his hand. He was a picture of effortless grace, his body already honed, his movements fluid. Kaelen, on the other hand, felt like a sack of potatoes, his own blunted sword feeling impossibly heavy in his sweating palm. His heart hammered against his ribs.
"Ready, Kaelen?" Gareth's voice was laced with a sneer. "Or are you going to run away again?"
Kaelen said nothing, just nodded, tightening his grip on the hilt. He wouldn't run. Not now. Not in front of everyone.
The duel began. Gareth was true to his word; he was going easy. But "easy" for Gareth was still a whirlwind of steel for Kaelen. Gareth's blade danced, a silver blur, testing Kaelen's defenses, forcing him to parry, to block, to stumble. Kaelen's movements were clumsy, his blocks desperate, his footwork abysmal. He was a wall, not a fighter, absorbing blows, trying to find an opening that never came. Gareth chuckled, a low, mocking sound, as he feinted high, then slashed low, forcing Kaelen to awkwardly twist his body to avoid the strike.
"Is that all you've got, little brother?" Gareth taunted, his eyes alight with a cruel glee. "You call this effort? You're pathetic!"
The words, the laughter, the sheer, effortless superiority of Gareth, snapped something inside Kaelen. A cold, bitter rage, born of years of feeling inadequate, of being compared, of being the brown-haired stain. He stopped defending. He stopped thinking. All he saw was Gareth's smug face, the glint in his eyes.
With a guttural cry, Kaelen lunged forward, abandoning all pretense of form or strategy. It was a wild, desperate slash, fueled by pure, unadulterated frustration. The blade arced clumsily, but with surprising speed, aimed not at Gareth's head or chest, but at his sword arm, the arm that had always been so effortlessly superior.
Gareth, caught off guard by the sudden, uncharacteristic aggression, widened his eyes. He moved to block, a practiced, fluid motion that would have easily deflected Kaelen's crude attack. But then, it happened. Just as his foot planted to pivot, a small, loose stone, dislodged from the packed earth of the training yard, rolled beneath his boot.
His foot slipped. His balance faltered.
The block, intended to be precise and powerful, was a fraction of a second too late, a fraction of an inch too high. Kaelen's blunted sword, propelled by a surge of desperate, unthinking force, met not the flat of Gareth's blade, but the exposed flesh of his forearm, just above the elbow.
There was a sickening thud, a wet tearing sound that echoed unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. Gareth's eyes, wide with shock, stared at Kaelen, then down at his arm. Kaelen's blade had not just cut him; it had severed the limb clean off.
The blunted practice sword, designed for safety, had, in that freak accident, become a weapon of brutal amputation. Gareth stood frozen for a moment, a statue of disbelief, before a guttural scream tore from his throat. Blood, a shocking, vibrant crimson, spurted from the stump, painting the dusty ground a grotesque, dark red.
The silence that had fallen upon the training yard shattered into gasps and cries of horror. Lyra shrieked, burying her face in Elara's side. Elara, his face pale, rushed forward, shouting for healers. Baron Theron, for the first time Kaelen could remember, looked utterly, completely stunned, his cold facade cracking under the weight of the impossible sight.
Kaelen stood rooted to the spot, his sword still in his hand, droplets of Gareth's blood clinging to the blunted edge. His mind reeled, unable to process what had just happened. The rage had vanished, replaced by a cold, nauseating dread. He looked at Gareth, writhing on the ground, clutching his bleeding stump, his screams tearing through the air. He looked at his father's shattered expression, at Lyra's terrified face. He looked at the blood, so much blood.
He had done this. He, the average, clumsy, brown-haired outcast, had done this to his brother, the golden boy, the sword genius.
No one was screaming at him. No one was accusing him. But the silence, the horrified stares, the palpable shock in the air, were worse than any condemnation. He couldn't meet their eyes. He couldn't look at the ruin he had wrought. The guilt, a crushing, suffocating weight, descended upon him.
He dropped the sword. It clattered to the ground, a hollow, metallic sound. Without a word, without a backward glance, Kaelen turned and ran. He ran past the stunned servants, past the horrified knights, past his family, who were too consumed with Gareth's agony to stop him. He ran out of the training yard, through the castle gates, and into the sprawling lands of Eldoria, leaving behind the stain of steel and the shattered pieces of his old life. He was fifteen, and he was running away.