The King's Guard

Chapter 40

(Flashback)

The halls of House Varion did not echo. They absorbed sound, swallowing every step into silence. The stone floors were polished black, the walls lined with banners older than the city itself. At ten years old, Jared already knew that silence meant one thing: his father, Lord Eryndor was waiting.

The training yard behind the estate was stripped bare of ornament. No flowers, no colour, only sand and stone. A rack of blunted blades stood beside the wall, each gleaming from constant oiling. His father stood in the middle of the yard, arms folded behind his back, a figure cut from the same sharp lines as the house itself.

“You’re late,” his father said.

Jared bowed his head. “Yes, Father.”

“Say it properly.”

“I was late, my lord.”

His father gave a single nod. “Pick up a blade.”

Jared did as told. The wooden practice sword was heavier than it looked, but he didn’t let the strain show. His father’s eyes were sharp, always searching for weakness.

“Ready yourself.”

Jared raised the weapon. His stance wobbled. His father’s cane struck the sand.

“Wrong.”

Jared tried again. Feet wider. Grip firmer.

“Again.”

He adjusted once more, heart thudding.

“Still wrong. Do you want to embarrass me before the Council? Is that what you want?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then hold it correctly.” His father stepped behind him, pushing his shoulders down, twisting his wrist until the weight of the sword bit into his arm. “You will not drop it. If your bones break, you will not drop it.”

Jared swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”

His father circled him, cane tapping the ground. “Swing.”

He obeyed. The wooden edge cut through the air clumsily.

“Again.”

He swung.

“Again.”

The cane cracked across his leg. Jared bit back a cry.

“Faster.”

He swung harder, the sword slipping in his sweaty hands.

“Again.”

Another strike. This one across the back.

“Do you think battle waits for your comfort?” his father asked.

“No, my lord.”

“Do you think House Varion’s name survives on pity?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then why are you weak?”

Jared froze. The answer stuck in his throat.

“Speak.”

“Because… I have not trained enough, my lord.”

His father leaned close, eyes cold. “No. Because you are soft. And soft men die beneath harder ones. Do you want to be buried nameless in the dirt?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then swing until you forget how to breathe.”

The practice continued until Jared’s arms trembled, until the sword slipped from his fingers onto the sand. He bent to retrieve it, but his father’s cane pinned it to the ground.

“Look at me,” his father said.

Jared raised his eyes.

“You are not here to live.” His father’s voice was quiet now, deliberate. “You are here to surpass. Do you understand?”

Jared’s lips parted. “Yes, my lord.”

“Say it.”

“I am here to surpass.”

The cane lifted. “Good. Now again. Until your hands bleed.”

Later, Jared sat on the stone steps outside the yard, clutching his palms. Splinters lined the skin, tiny cuts forming where the wood had dug in. His mother appeared briefly at the doorway. She held a tray with a bowl of water and a strip of linen.

“You should wash,” she said softly.

Jared kept his head down. “Father will be angry.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

“He always knows.”

Her eyes lingered on him, sadness hidden but not erased. She placed the tray beside him anyway. “Then wash quickly.”

He dipped his hands into the water. The sting made him flinch, but he kept them submerged.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then remember it. Pain teaches.”

“That’s what Father says.”

She hesitated. “Yes. But sometimes pain only leaves scars.”

Jared looked up at her, searching for something in her face, but she turned away before he found it.

The next morning, training began before dawn. His father paced the yard, cloak heavy on his shoulders.

“You will fight me today.”

Jared’s breath caught. “Yes, my lord.”

His father tossed him a steel blade, dulled but still weighty. Jared barely caught it.

“Attack.”

He hesitated.

The cane lashed out, striking his wrist.

“Attack!”

Jared lunged. The strike was wild, clumsy. His father stepped aside easily, cane rapping his shoulder.

“Again.”

Jared attacked. Blocked. Struck. Pushed back. Every movement answered with pain.

“Again.”

Hours blurred. By the time he collapsed into the sand, sweat soaking his tunic, his father stood over him, expression unchanged.

“You are not fast enough. Not sharp enough. Not ruthless enough.”

Jared gasped for air.

His father crouched low, voice almost a whisper. “Do you think I care if you like me?”

Jared shook his head.

“I don’t. I care that when you stand before the Archon, no one will see weakness in my bloodline. That is your only worth. Surpass. Or be nothing.”

Jared forced himself to nod.

“Say it.”

“I will surpass.”

That night, Jared lay awake in his bed, staring at the carved ceiling beams. His arms ached, his skin burned, but it was not the pain that kept him from sleep. It was the words. Surpass. Be nothing.

He repeated them under his breath until they no longer sounded like words, until they were the only thing that filled his head.

Weeks passed. Training never slowed. His father drilled him on weapons, strategy, even etiquette before the Council. Every mistake was punished. Every hesitation called weakness.

At twelve, Jared sparred with older cousins, each ordered to defeat him without restraint. He lost, again and again, face bruised, ribs cracked. Each night he swore he would not lose again.

By fourteen, he stopped swearing. He simply fought until victory came.

When he finally struck one cousin down hard enough to draw blood, his father clapped once.

“Better. Do you feel it?”

Jared’s chest heaved. “Yes, my lord.”

“That is what it means to surpass.”

His cousin groaned on the ground. Jared looked at him, then at his father. Something in him tightened, a knot that would not loosen.

“Yes, my lord,” he repeated.

Years later, on the eve of his admission to the Academy, his father stood with him in the great hall. The banners loomed overhead, shadowed in torchlight.

“You will not speak of our house’s business,” his father said.

“No, my lord.”

“You will not falter in their tests.”

“No, my lord.”

“You will not forget who made you.”

“No, my lord.”

His father placed a hand on his shoulder, grip iron. “They will not like you. They will not trust you. That does not matter. You are Varion. You are here to surpass. Say it.”

“I am here to surpass.”

“Good. Then go. And do not return until you have proved me right.”

Jared bowed, but inside, a different voice whispered, one that sounded too much like his father to ignore.

Not here to live. Here to surpass.

And he carried it with him into every blade drawn, every order defied, every mocking smile that hid the weight of years.

(Present)

The memory fractured as Jared blinked awake in the Academy dormitory, the lamplight flickering against the stone walls. He stared at his hands: steady, unscarred now, but he could still feel the phantom sting of cane strikes across his skin.

Reyna’s voice drifted from the other side of the room, speaking quietly with Kael. Jared listened without moving, the knot in his chest tightening again.

What we inherit, he thought, is what we become. And he had inherited nothing but iron.