THE LEGACY OF THE SWORD MASTER

Flames painted the night sky in hues of crimson and gold. Screams tore through the air like ragged blades, echoing off the ancient stone walls of the Rivenhart Clan's fortress. Once a sanctuary of swordmasters, it now stood on the brink of ruin.

Kael Rivenhart’s boots skidded across blood-slicked marble as he raced toward the inner sanctum, the sword strapped to his back still untouched. He wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not tonight. But destiny never waited for readiness.

"Kael! Stay back!" his father’s voice thundered across the courtyard.

Kael froze beneath the stone archway, his heart pounding. Through the veil of smoke and sparks of wild magic, he saw two men locked in a brutal clash. One was his father—Haron Rivenhart, the strongest swordmaster the world had ever known.

The other—

“Uncle Dareth?” Kael whispered, disbelief thick in his throat.

Dareth moved like a shadow, faster than Kael had ever seen him. Their blades clashed with explosive force, each strike shaking the ground beneath them. Then came the moment Kael would never forget: a flash of dark magic, a pulse of forbidden energy—Haron’s blade shattered.

Kael screamed.

But his voice was drowned by the blast that followed. His father's body crumpled to the ground, blood blooming across his white tunic. Dareth stood over him, wild-eyed, hand stretched out as a swirling black light siphoned from Haron’s chest into his own.

"No!" Kael charged forward, finally drawing his blade, but a blast of raw Hakana sent him flying against the temple wall.

Pain exploded in his ribs. He gasped for breath. Through blurry eyes, he watched as his father's life—and his legacy—were stolen.

When Kael came to, the fires had dimmed. The once-proud banners of Rivenhart lay in ashes. His father’s body was gone. And so was Dareth.

Everything was gone.

---

A Year After Haron’s Death

They called him cursed after that.

A prodigy without power. A bloodline without purpose.

The elders stripped him of his title. His friends vanished. Servants who once bowed to him now spat at his feet. Kael was sixteen—and utterly alone.

But he trained. Every day. Every night. In silence. In shadow. Among the cold ruins where his clan once stood tall, his father’s teachings echoed in his mind like ghosts.

He couldn’t tell anyone what he saw that night. Couldn’t confess the truth—that his uncle murdered his father—because Dareth was the only family he had left. And for some cruel reason, Dareth accepted responsibility for raising him.

As a servant.

As a lapdog to his son, Rand.

At first, Kael thought he could endure it. Pretend he didn’t remember anything. Keep his head down. Survive.

But pretending did nothing. Dareth made him scrub floors while Rand trained with elite swordmasters. Kael was scrubbing the hallway one morning when he glanced out the window.

He saw Rand training under the rising sun, sparring with precision, surrounded by masters.

His chest ached.

That was supposed to be him.

That power was meant to be his.

Kael’s fingers clenched around the wooden broom handle. He stepped into a stance—one his father had taught him. Slowly, he moved through the motions. Fluid. Focused. A dance he hadn’t forgotten.

A sharp clap behind him broke the silence.

Kael froze.

Dareth’s voice cut through the hall like a blade. “You just broke one of my rules.”

Kael turned slowly, dread creeping down his spine. He remembered the rule clearly: Never draw from the past. Never train. Never dream.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Kael said quietly, eyes downcast.

“I saw what you were doing,” Dareth snarled. “That was no servant’s movement. That was a fighter’s stance.”

Kael bit his tongue. Arguing would only make it worse.

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” he murmured. “I just… I just want to train like Rand. I want to be a fighter.”

Dareth scoffed, stepping closer. “And why should I allow a cursed brat like you to train? Why should I waste a second on the boy who killed his father?”

Kael’s head shot up.

His breath caught.

He stared into Dareth’s eyes. Fury twisted his insides. But he quickly bowed his head again, clenching his fists to keep from shaking.

He knew by now not to talk when Dareth was speaking. Kael was always in the habit of talking back at Dareth.

He remembered the first day head brought home. He had wanted to challenge Dareth to an Agnikai.

A fight between two warriors were the weaker on takes the power of the stronger but Dareth didn't challenge his father to an Agnikai. He stole his Hakana.

He killed my father, Kael thought. He stole his power. And now he dares to call me the murderer.

“I should’ve let them hang you that night,” Dareth growled. “But no… I had other plans.” he said with a grin on his face.

Kael's heart raced. His face changed color and the thought of what Dareth was going to do to him was all he could think about.

He turned to one of his guards. “Bring me the iron.”

Kael’s blood ran cold.

“No,” he whispered, taking a step back. “Please, Uncle… I—I’ll stop. I won’t train again. I swear.” Kael pleased rubbing his two hands together.

He almost felt like the ground would open up and swallow him but then maybe the ground has had it belly filed. He didn't hear his cries nor does it have any reason to swallow Kael.

But the guard returned with a long, glowing iron rod—its tip red-hot, sizzling with heat. The man had a look of sympathy on his face but then, there was nothing he could do.

Kael dropped to his knees, sobbing. “Please! I’ll be good. I won’t ever dream of being a fighter.”

Dareth said nothing.

And then the iron came down.

Kael screamed as white-hot pain seared into his skin.

Then—darkness.

Kael fainted.