Thorne stood outside the heavy wooden door for longer than he should have. He clenched and unclenched his fist twice before knocking.
"Enter," Lord Emberlily said without looking up from the parchment in his hands.
The door opened. Thorne stepped inside, his expression unusually tight, eyes shadowed by thought.
Emberlily glanced up, then raised a brow. "The sparring session. How did it go?"
Thorne shut the door behind him. "How did you know?"
Emberlily paused. "Know what?"
Thorne stepped forward, voice raised, as if begging for an answer. "How did you know about him? About Lucan?"
Emberlily set the parchment down, confused. "What are you talking about?"
"I pushed him," Thorne said, almost breathless. "Tried to draw something out. Anger. Desperation. Anything."
Emberlily narrowed his eyes, rising from his seat. "And?"
"For a moment," Thorne whispered, "just for ten seconds, but the longest ten seconds... he moved like Lance the Steelhand."
Emberlily blinked.
"I'm serious," Thorne went on, voice shaky. "His stance was still off, his power lacking, but it wasn't about the sword. It was his eyes. He saw everything before it happened. My movements, my footing, my intent. Like he'd been studying me for years, he mirrored, countered and predicted like he was in my head."
There was silence.
Thorne stepped closer, almost pleading. "How could you have known he had that in him?"
Emberlily looked at him for a long time, then slowly crossed the room and touched Thorne's shoulder.
"We didn't know, Thorne. But we've always suspected he wasn't ordinary."
Emberlily's voice dropped. "No common boy takes seven stab wounds for a girl he's never met. No low-born walks like that into a hall of lords and analyzes them the way he did."
Thorne exhaled, uneasy. "Then what is he?"
Emberlily's eyes met his.
"There's an old verse," he said quietly. "From the northern seers. It's been forgotten for decades, dismissed as a take. But I remember it, my mother used to read it to me when I was a boy."
Thorne stilled.
Emberlily recited:
From a land not our own, he shall arrive,
Unknown in name, but known by fate.
No bloodline binds him, yet all will follow.
Not for conquest, but for purpose.
Not to rule all, but to mend what's broken.
He will walk where kings do not tread,
And speak where lords stay silent.
When the last bridge falls,
He shall build the first.
He is the gathering storm,
The turning of the age,
The Uniter.
Thorne's jaw tightened. "You think it's him."
Emberlily's eyes were hard now, full of quiet certainty. "I do."
Thorne looked away, breath shallow. "You're planning to make him your heir."
"I plan to prepare him for what's coming," Emberlily replied. "What he becomes will be his choice."
Thorne slowly nodded. "And if you're right?"
Emberlily's gaze lingered on the fire. "Then I can finally see my dream come true."
In realization, "a united continent," Thorne said aloud.
Emberlily sighed, "Many will think me a fool, but that's a price worth paying. Even if the boy is not who I wish him to be."
Thorne excused himself and went to open the door.
"Wait... was it true, did he truly look like Steelhand?" Emberlily's voice came from behind.
Thorne turned back and was caught off guard by the open smile from Emberlily, he looked crazed almost.
He nodded, "Just for ten seconds, but he fought like the best swordsman I've ever seen."
Thorne thought back to the first time he fought Lance the Steelhand in battle.
The clash of steel echoed across the battlefield like thunder over the hills. Mud churned underfoot as men screamed, died, and vanished into the chaos.
But Thorne heard none of it. His world had narrowed to a single figure, cutting through the carnage like a ghost clad in plate and silver.
Sir Lance Morwin.
At the time, Thorne had believed the stories exaggerated, just songs sung by drunk soldiers and fawning lords. The "unbeatable knight," the "Steel Tempest," the man who read blades like books and never took the same step twice.
Then he saw him move. Thorne got to him finally and began his attack.
Lance wasn't fast, no he was inevitable. Every dodge felt decided five minutes ago, every parry arrived a breath before Thorne's strike landed. Their swords met, again and again, Thorne pressing, shifting, trying feints and footwork.
But Sir Morwin fought as if he already knew the outcome.
Their blades locked once, then twice, Lance flowed past him, shoulder to shoulder, like water through cracks in stone. His sword kissed Thorne's side, not deep, more a warning than a wound.
"You're good," Lance had said, calm. "But your feet are louder than your sword."
Thorne pivoted, went low, swept high, trying anything to find a gap in the tempest.
But there was no rhythm to the wind.
Lance understood Thorne's rhythm. He knew each pivot before it came, each breath before it left his lungs.
Thorne then realized something, Lance didn't just read patterns he made them. He shaped his opponent's rhythm and then dismantled it.
So Thorne broke his own.
He fought without flow, without predictability, like a compass caught in a storm. Wild, ragged, an animal backed into a corner. And it worked.
He caught Lance off guard, just once, but once was enough.
Steel rang. A groan tore from Lance's throat as Thorne's sword carved clean through flesh and bone. His hand dropped into the mud, the sword with it.
Lance fell to his knees, eyes wide with pain and disbelief. The crowd had fallen silent long before. This would've been the greatest fight any of them experienced in their lives.
Thorne stood over him, panting, his blade shaking in his grip.
The killing blow never came. To kill such a talent would be a waste in Thorne's eyes.
Lance looked up at him, not with hatred, but respect.
"My mother always told me, careful when cutting roses," he rasped. "I forgot about the thorns."
He glanced at the bloodied stump where his hand had been. Then, despite the pain, he laughed.
"I suppose I can get a new one."
He extended his remaining hand. Thorne hesitated, then took it. He never forgot the weight of that moment. Not the grip, but the grace.
From that day forward, the world called him Lance the Steelhand. He would go on to become just as good if not better with his left hand.
And Thorne? He might never experience a fighter like that again, he hated that.
But now there was somebody, for just ten seconds, who had reminded him of that fight.