---
The sun rose the same way it always did—
slowly, relentlessly, without asking anyone if they were ready.
Golden light slipped over the uneven rooftops of the settlement at Aurelion's edge, brushing against wood and stone as if nothing in the world was wrong. From a distance, it looked peaceful. Quiet. Almost kind.
But peace here was never real.
It was borrowed.
And borrowed things were always taken back.
Maxmilian Strauss was already awake.
He stood barefoot in the small courtyard behind their house, the morning chill biting into his skin. The ground beneath him was rough, packed earth mixed with gravel. He tightened the cloth around his hands with practiced motions—too practiced for a man who owned a fruit shop.
His sword rested against the wall.
Not elegant.
Not decorated.
A simple blade with scratches along its length, the kind of weapon that didn't promise victory—only survival.
"Rexor," he called.
The back door creaked open.
A small figure stepped out, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Rexor's black hair stuck out in uneven directions, his body thin, shoulders narrow. At five years old, he was all limbs and curiosity—but his eyes were sharp. Too sharp for his age.
Aurélia watched from the doorway, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
"Stand straight," Maxmilian said.
Rexor obeyed immediately.
Aurélia inhaled slowly. "He's too young."
Maxmilian didn't turn. "He's not."
"Five years, Maxmilian," she said, her voice firmer now. "Five. Let him play. Let him run. Let him be a child."
"Let him grow weak?" Maxmilian asked calmly. "Let him grow blind to the world we live in?"
She stepped forward, the cold ground biting into her feet. "I didn't say that. I said—go easy."
For a moment, Maxmilian hesitated.
Then he picked up the wooden practice blade and placed it into Rexor's hands.
"Grip tighter," he said.
The wood trembled.
Rexor's fingers burned where the cloth rubbed his skin raw. The blade felt heavy—heavier than yesterday. He adjusted his stance the way his father had shown him, feet apart, knees bent.
Aurélia noticed the blood before Rexor did.
A thin red line ran along his palm.
Her chest tightened. "Maxmilian—"
"He's fine."
Rexor lifted the blade again.
It shook. Then steadied.
The sun climbed higher.
---
Training became routine.
At six years old, Rexor no longer complained about waking before dawn. His body remembered what his mind didn't yet understand. His stance grew firmer. His feet stopped sliding in the dirt. He fell less. When he did fall, he got up without looking at his mother.
Aurélia noticed everything.
She noticed the bruises Maxmilian never commented on.
The calluses forming too early on small hands.
The way Rexor stopped asking why.
One morning, as Maxmilian corrected Rexor's posture for the third time, Aurélia spoke again.
"You're turning him into you."
Maxmilian paused.
"That's not what I want."
"But it's what you're doing," she said quietly. "You leave every day knowing you might not return. And now he wakes up learning how to do the same."
Maxmilian looked at Rexor.
The boy stood still, blade lowered, eyes fixed on the ground.
"I teach him," Maxmilian said slowly, "because one day I won't be there."
Rexor didn't understand the words.
But something in his father's voice made his chest feel tight, as if the morning air had suddenly grown heavier.
The sun reached its peak.
Training ended.
---
By the time Rexor turned seven, repetition had replaced novelty.
Sunrise meant training.
Midday meant the shop.
Night meant waiting.
Aurélia sometimes wondered when routine had replaced childhood.
One morning, as Maxmilian tightened the strap across his chest, he asked casually, "How old is Rexor now?"
Aurélia paused.
She looked toward the window, where light filtered softly through worn curtains.
"Since his birth," she said slowly, "the sun has risen and set seven times over seven cycles of nature."
Maxmilian blinked once. Then nodded.
"So… seven."
"Yes."
Rexor adjusted his grip on the practice blade.
---
The market was alive by midday.
Voices overlapped. Coins clinked. The air smelled of earth, fruit, and sweat. The Strauss fruit shop stood modestly among rows of stalls, crates stacked neatly out front.
Some fruits glowed faintly.
Others were twisted, oddly shaped.
All of them had come from the Outer Lands.
Rexor stood beside his mother, handing fruit to customers with careful movements.
That was when the ground trembled.
Hooves.
Heavy. Numerous.
The noise cut through the market like a blade.
People turned.
Down the main road rode knights.
Not a dozen.
Not fifty.
Hundreds.
Steel armor caught the sunlight, flashing like warning signals. Banners fluttered stiffly in the wind. The horses moved in tight formation, disciplined, silent.
Five hundred of them—
too many for ceremony, too quiet for celebration.
Rexor's eyes widened.
"Mom," he whispered. "Look."
Aurélia swallowed. "Knights."
"Why so many?"
She didn't answer.
Around them, whispers spread.
"Border patrol."
"No, that's too many."
"I heard demons moved again."
Aurélia placed a hand on Rexur's shoulder. Her grip tightened unconsciously.
The knights passed slowly, deliberately.
When the last banner disappeared, the market didn't return to normal.
That night, gossip moved faster than fear.
---
Thunder rolled across the sky.
Dark clouds gathered as Maxmilian prepared to leave.
Aurélia stood in the doorway, arms folded, heart pounding.
"Don't go," she said.
Maxmilian paused.
"The weather's wrong," she continued. "Even the birds are silent."
He looked at the sky. He felt it too.
"I'll be careful."
"That's not what I asked."
Silence stretched between them.
Maxmilian stepped forward and rested his forehead against hers.
"If I don't go," he whispered, "we don't eat."
Aurélia closed her eyes.
"Come back," she said. "That's all I ask."
Thunder cracked as Maxmilian turned toward the Outer Lands.
Rexor stood in the doorway, the practice blade still warm in his hands, watching until his father disappeared into the distance.
The sun vanished behind clouds.
---