THE LEGACY OF THE SWORD MASTER

Chapter two

"Ah!"

Kael screamed, jolting from sleep. Darkness surrounded him, the chirping of crickets the only sound in the stillness. He winced as pain flared along his face—the searing mark still raw.

He had been branded. He tried to see the mark on his face but then he couldn't. He would have to wait till day breaks to know what was done to him.

Kael knew exactly what that meant. He was now an outsider, stripped of his right to train, to fight—to ever become a swordmaster.

An outcast.

The thought of running away flickered in his mind, but Kael knew the truth: he was alone. And a loner never survived for long. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since morning.

Wiping his tears with the back of his hand, Kael sat up from the dirty mat where he slept. Memories flooded him—memories of laughter, warm meals, and the strong arms of his father promising, “One day, I’ll send you to the finest swordsman in all of Rivenhart.”

Kael tried to recall the name of the man, but it slipped from him like mist.

Gripping the hilt of his blunt training sword, he slung it across his back. With silent resolve, he crept toward the door. It creaked faintly, and he froze. If Dareth caught him sneaking out, the punishment would be brutal.

But Kael was clever.

He had built a hidden passage during his time in the mansion—an escape route only he knew. Slipping through the halls, he checked behind him constantly. Every shadow felt like a threat.

When he reached the kitchen, he paused, listening. No footsteps. He moved quickly toward the cabinets.

Then—

A faint sound. Footsteps. Light, deliberate. Kael's heart beat like a thudding drum, he knew what was going to happen to him if he was caught.

Panic shot through him.

Kael scanned the room and spotted an empty storage drum. Without thinking, he squeezed inside, tucking his limbs tightly. The lid hovered above him, slightly ajar. He held his breath.

The steps entered. Someone was here.

Kael steadied his breathing, remembering his father’s lessons—“Hide not just your body, but your presence. Become the silence itself.”

He heard the familiar heavy tread of Rand. Kael remembered how his father had crafted food rules to keep him in shape. “A warrior doesn’t feast,” his father once said. “He eats only to survive.”

The kitchen lights flicked on.

Then another voice—deep, commanding.

“Out. This instant!” Dareth’s voice thundered.

Kael’s blood turned to ice.

Rand was gone. But Dareth remained.

He could feel his presence, his eyes ever watchful like an hawk, scanning everything in it surroundings.

The old warlord stood still. His eyes scanned the kitchen. Then he saw the drum.

“What’s this doing here?” His voice rasped, thick with suspicion. Kael’s heart pounded.

Then something strange happened.

Dareth clutched his chest. A faint glow pulsed from the center of his heart—Hakana energy. Ancient. Dangerous. And reactive.

Dareth stared down at the glow, frowning.

“You are mine now,” he growled. “You glow for me. Not for some drum or cursed child.”

He began walking toward Kael.

Kael braced himself, every muscle rigid.

Suddenly, a guard stepped into the room. “Apologies, Master Dareth. A message from the king.” He handed Dareth an envelope, bowing deeply.

Dareth paused, eyes flicking from the guard to the drum. “Get that out of here tomorrow,” he muttered, snatching the message and leaving.

The guard remained a moment. His eyes met the drum—but he said nothing.

It was Felix Carman.

He had served the Rivenhart family for decades. Loyal once to Kael’s father, he knew the boy was inside. But he said nothing. Quietly, he switched off the light and walked away.

Kael waited.

When the coast was clear, he climbed out, breathing hard. Using his secret passage, he slipped into the woods, exhaling a slow breath as moonlight filtered through the trees.

He was free—for now.

But he couldn’t stay hidden forever.

He had to train. He had to remember who he was.

Not a servant.

Not a slave.

But a fighter.

The last surviving son of the Rivenhart bloodline.

Kael moved through the dense forest, the moonlight casting eerie shadows through the trees. His heart beat with quiet resolve as the mountain rose before him—its jagged peaks like claws against the night sky.

His father had trained there. And now, so would he.

The climb was grueling. The wind howled. Cold bit into him. But Kael pressed on.

At last, he reached a clearing surrounded by towering trees. A breathtaking view sprawled below. Here, the world felt still. Sacred.

He drew his sword. It was blunt, worn, a shadow of the blade he should have had—but it was his. He moved slowly at first, practicing basic stances and strikes, letting his body remember.

As he trained, he felt it.

A presence.

His father’s presence—like a whisper in the wind, guiding him.

Kael closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

Then—

A sound.

A creak behind him.

Kael froze.

Gripping his sword tightly, he turned slowly, heart pounding.

From the shadows, a figure stepped into the moonlight—silent, hooded, watching.

Kael raised his sword. “Who are you?” he demanded, though his voice trembled.

The man said nothing. He stepped closer, and under the hood, Kael saw a glimpse of weathered skin, sharp eyes, and a scar that sliced through his left eyebrow.

He looked at Kael and saw he was having the same exact sat as him.

Kael’s breath caught. He had seen this face before—painted in his father's art and warrior collection, described in awe.

His father’s stories echoed in his mind:

“He was the only man I could never beat. The only man I trusted to guide you if I was gone.”

Kael dropped to one knee. “Master Veylan,” he whispered.

But Veylan did not move. He simply stared at Kael—eyes cold, unreadable.

Kael waited, heart pounding.

Minutes passed.

Veylan turned.

Without a word, without even a nod, he walked away.

Kael stood frozen, stunned. “Wait—please! My father said—”

But the man disappeared into the forest, swallowed by the night.

Kael stood alone in the clearing.

Rejected yet again.