Rowan was seven now.
A year had passed since he joined the common knight training ground inside the Vexlaar estate. This was where children from cadet branches or lesser lines trained.
Before that, Rowan had tried to enter the main lineage training ground—the one meant for direct descendants of the house. But he was denied. They said he wasn't allowed. Rowan had expected it, but there was no harm in trying.
So he came here instead.
Training itself was fine. The instructors mostly ignored him, but he still learned what he could—sword basics, stamina drills, body control. He took it all in quietly.
But the biggest problem wasn't the training.
It was the bullying.
And it happened almost every day.
The main reason wasn't just that Rowan had no magic potential.
It was that he was the son of a Nirathali princess.
The Empire of Vareth was at war with Nirathal, and these kids had grown up hearing only one side of the story. To them, Nirathal was cruel, weak, and a threat. That belief was planted early and fed often.
Even if some of them knew it wasn't Rowan's fault, they didn't care. He was an easy target.
And he came from the main bloodline—the top of House Vexlaar. Kids from cadet branches were used to being looked down on by the main family.
So they vented their frustration on him.
Rowan was weak. He had no power. And no one to stand up for him.
To them, bullying him wasn't wrong.
It was fair.
Their way of feeling strong.
It was late afternoon. The sun hung low behind the tall towers of the estate. Training had ended, and Rowan walked alone, heading back to his small room in the east wing.
His arms ached. His legs were sore. The wooden sword strapped across his back felt heavier than usual.
And then he heard them.
"You walk like a peasant, Nirathali," said Gaven, stepping in front of him.
Two others—Jorren and Malik—blocked the path behind.
Rowan stopped. He knew the drill.
"Still pretending to be noble?" Jorren sneered.
"You think just because you don't have any magic potential, you can become a knight? Quit dreaming. You're useless."
Malik added with a fake thoughtful look, "Maybe his mother gave birth to a rat, not a man."
The others laughed.
Even though they crossed the line and talked about his mother, Rowan stayed silent.
Inside, he wanted nothing more than to rip them to shreds. But he didn't respond.
Because he knew something they didn't.
If he fought back—even with words—it would only make things worse. For him and for his mother.
So he endured.
"Say something, Nirathali," Gaven said, stepping closer. "Or has your foreign tongue forgotten how to speak?"
Rowan's jaw tightened, but he kept his face calm.
"Excuse me," he said softly, stepping to the side.
Gaven blocked him again. "You think we're done?"
A hard shove hit Rowan in the chest. He stumbled back, slamming into the stone wall near the garden gate. The others closed in, laughing.
But he didn't cry.
He didn't yell.
He just waited.
Eventually, they got bored.
Gaven spat at his feet before turning away. "Keep walking, trash."
Rowan watched them go. Then he straightened his back and walked on.
He wouldn't tell his mother.
She was already tired, always coughing at night when she thought he wasn't listening. Her body was getting weaker.
She didn't need one more burden.
He would carry this pain alone.
A pain he would return one day—a hundredfold.
That night, Rowan lay on his small bed, staring at the ceiling.
Moonlight slipped through the window, casting a pale glow on the room.
His hands were sore from training. His arms ached. But he didn't mind anymore. He was used to it.
His thoughts drifted—like they often did when he was alone.
He thought about his old world. Earth.
He had been an orphan there too.
No parents. No family. No one to care if he lived or died.
He was twenty when he died.
No accident. No big moment. He just went to sleep one night… and never woke up.
Instead, he opened his eyes in this world. A world of magic. Of nobles and knights.
Of monsters, war, and power.
At first, he thought maybe this life would be better. Maybe he would be special.
Maybe things would finally change.
But this world had been just as cruel.
Born into a noble house, but treated like he was nothing.
No magic. No talent. No one who cared—
Except one person. His mother.
She didn't look at him with pity or hate.
She smiled at him. Held his hand when he was scared.
Even when she was sick and tired, she still made time for him.
She was the only one who made this new life feel real.
He blinked up at the ceiling, holding back tears.
He wouldn't cry. Not now.
"I'll get stronger," he whispered to the dark. "For her… and for me."
Rowan had turned eight a few months ago.
Life hadn't changed much. His mother's condition had only gotten worse. She coughed more often now, her body growing weaker by the day.
The small allowance they received from the family was almost gone, spent on medicine that did little to help.
He had stopped going to the training grounds. His mother needed him too often now—he couldn't leave her alone.
So he trained alone, in the small backyard behind their quarters. Morning and night, swinging his wooden sword in silence.
Today was the same. The sun was high, and sweat rolled down his back as he practiced his forms. His arms burned, but he didn't stop.
Then, something changed.
A strange warmth stirred in his chest.
He froze, confused at first.
The feeling grew stronger—gentle, steady, alive. It spread through his body like a quiet fire, filling his limbs with strength.
Rowan's eyes widened.
He knew what this was.
Aura.
He was awakening.
A slow smile appeared on his face.
This was it. The first step to knighthood. The moment every warrior waited for.
From now on, he would be able to use aura—to strengthen his body, to fight, to protect.
Unlike mages, who could only awaken at twelve, knights had no fixed age. Aura awakened through effort, training, and will.
Rowan was only eight.
And he had done it.
It wasn't unheard of—but it was rare.
He looked down at his hands. They were shaking—not from fear, but from excitement.
Rowan ran through the halls, heart pounding. His chest felt warm—alive. He had awakened. He was sure of it.
He stopped at his mother's door. It creaked open softly.
She lay in bed, eyes closed, breathing faint and shallow. Her face looked pale under the fading light.
He walked in and sat beside her, careful not to wake her too quickly.
"Mama," he whispered.
Her eyes opened slowly. A weak smile formed. "Rowan…"
She tried to sit up. He helped her gently.
"I felt something," he said, voice low. "In my chest. Like warmth spreading through me. I think… I awakened."
Her eyes widened, a light sparking in them.
"You did?" she whispered.
He nodded, then took her hand and placed it over his heart. "I can feel it. The aura… it's real. I really did it."
Tears filled her eyes. "I'm so proud of you…"
She pulled him into a trembling hug.
Rowan held her tight, pressing his face into her shoulder.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Her touch told him everything.