“Cael, you’re sure about this? My arm still aches from yesterday’s parries,” Elian grumbled, rubbing his shoulder as he paced the edge of the clearing. “The goats won’t herd themselves, and the woodpile looks like it lost a fight with a badger.”
“Ach, the goats can wait. And the wood, it’s not going anywhere, lad,” Cael grunted. The steady thwack of his wooden sword echoed as it struck Elian’s practice shield. “What good is a strong back if your wit’s as dull as a butter knife? Come on, eyes up! You’re watching the blade, not the man. Remember what I told you? A foe’s eyes betray his intent, but the blade—it’s a song of honest steel.”
“The blade’s the truth-teller,” Elian muttered, adjusting his grip. The practice sword felt heavier today, or maybe that was just his mood. “But what truth is there in chasing phantom shadows in the forest, Uncle? We’re shepherds, not soldiers. What’s the point of all this… discipline?”
Cael paused, his lined face unreadable. “Discipline, Elian, is the backbone of a man. It teaches you to stand firm when the wind howls. And the world, lad—it howls often. Now again! Quickstep, feint left, pivot right! Hup!”
Thwack!
The clash echoed again, a dull thud between wood and wood.
“Too slow! You’re thinking, not doing! Instinct, Elian. Instinct!” Cael’s bark rang through the clearing. “Remember the stories I told you about the old kingdom? The knights? They moved like water, flowed like wind. They didn’t think.”
“And then the kingdom fell, didn’t it?” Elian shot back, panting. “All those grand knights and their flowing water… the whole thing still burned down. Maybe thinking would’ve helped.”
Cael’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing at first. Then: “Some fires, lad… no amount of thinking can put out. Only steel.”
His voice lowered, carrying an old, buried sorrow. “Now. Enough talk. Again!”
Later that day, the quiet murmur of the village had shifted into a low buzz of curiosity.
“Have you seen him, Cael?” Elian asked as they walked past a cluster of gossiping women. “The painter? Mirin, I think. From the capital. What’s he doing all the way out here?”
“Aye, heard he’s here to restore the mural in the village hall,” Cael replied, whittling a piece of wood near their cabin. “Something about royal lineage, forgotten history. Doesn’t concern us, lad. Just fancy city-folk nonsense.”
“But the mural’s been covered for years,” Elian said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Grandma Elara used to say it was cursed. A reminder of… well, whatever happened back then.”
“And Grandma Elara was a superstitious old crow,” Cael muttered. “Now fetch water. The goats are thirsty.”
The next morning, Elian found himself standing at the doorway of the village hall, drawn in despite Cael’s dismissals. Inside, a thin man with clever eyes and a paint-splattered tunic was gently brushing grime from the wall.
“Ah, good morning, young man,” the painter greeted without looking up. “Come to admire the work? It’s quite the masterpiece. A window into a forgotten age.”
“I’m Elian,” he said, stepping closer, eyes widening as the colors of the mural emerged like ghosts from beneath the grime. “I’ve never seen it before. It was always covered.”
“Indeed,” Mirin murmured. “A tragedy, really, to hide such beauty.” His gaze moved from the mural to Elian—and froze.
His breath caught. He dropped the brush.
Clatter.
The sound echoed off the stone.
“By the Stars…”
Elian’s brow furrowed. “Is something wrong?”
Mirin stumbled back a step, his face suddenly pale. “The eyes… the jawline… the very set of your chin…” he stammered, pointing from the mural to Elian. “It’s… it’s impossible. You’re the mirror image. The spitting image of… of the lost prince of Aerlyn.”
Elian turned sharply to the wall. The painted figure—barely older than him—stood regal and proud, hand on the hilt of a shining sword. The face…
It was his face.
Or his face was its.
A chill crept down his spine, ancient and cold.
“What… what are you talking about? I’m Elian. Just a villager. An orphan. My parents died in a fire—years ago.”
Mirin shook his head, stunned. “No, young man. This… this is Prince Aerlyn. The heir. Believed dead seventeen years ago in the coup. The one they said perished in the fire at Castle Ardent. But… it’s you. It’s undeniably you.”
Panic surged in Elian’s chest. “You’re mad! That’s impossible! I… I need to go.”
He turned and bolted from the hall, the painter’s words chasing him like echoes of a life he never lived.
He burst into the cabin, chest heaving.
“Cael! We need to talk. Now.”
The older man looked up from the fire. Elian’s voice trembled.
“The painter said… I look like the prince. That there was a coup, a fire… and that I’m the spitting image of the lost heir. What is he talking about? Who am I, Cael?”
Cael froze.
He turned slowly, eyes heavy, weary.
Then, without a word, he reached into his tunic and pulled out a silver medallion. It was old, tarnished—but its crest still gleamed. A soaring falcon above a burning tower.
The same crest from the mural’s sword.
“Sit down, Elian,” Cael said quietly. “There are truths you were never meant to know. But it seems the time has come.”
Elian sat, heart pounding.
“Seventeen years ago,” Cael began, “the kingdom of Aerlyn fell. Not to outsiders—but to betrayal. Lord Varyn, once trusted, led a coup. Castle Ardent burned. Blood stained every hall.”
He paused, voice rough. “Your parents—King Theron and Queen Isolde—they were good rulers. Kind. But unprepared. They trusted the wrong man.”
“My… parents?” Elian whispered.
“The fire was real. The death, the chaos—real. But not everyone died.”
Cael took a shaky breath. “I was one of the King’s Guard. That night… I failed to protect them. But I didn’t fail you. Your mother… she entrusted you to me. You were barely a year old. She knew Varyn would destroy the royal line. She begged me to take you, hide you, raise you far from the bloodshed.”
Elian’s throat tightened. “So… you’re not really my uncle?”
“I am your uncle,” Cael said firmly. “Not by blood. By love. By choice. Every story, every training session… it was to prepare you. To protect you.”
He held out the medallion. “This was your father’s. You are Prince Elian Aerlyn. Heir to a fallen throne.”
Elian stood, his breath ragged. “All those years. And you never told me? My whole life… it was built on a lie.”
“No,” Cael said softly. “It was built on hope.”
ns216.73.216.82da2
