When I was four years old, I remember the rough wooden sword splintering loudly against the training dummy. The sharp crack echoed in the cold, dimly lit training hall. My small palms burned fiercely with fresh, angry blisters, raw and aching like tiny fires under my skin. Father—Kalen—stood nearby, his face an unreadable mask, eyes sharp and cold as ice. I could feel his gaze piercing through me as I gritted my teeth, fighting the sting without flinching.
"Again," Father commanded, voice low and relentless. "A weak grip invites death."
Though my body was small, fragile almost, my eyes held the unwavering focus of someone who had lived battles before—just as I did in my past life. I steadied myself, adjusting my stance with careful precision, and struck once more. This time, the dummy's wooden head snapped back sharply, splinters flying.
Kalen nodded once, approvingly. "Better. Tomorrow, we use steel."
That night, I pressed my raw, burning hands against the cold stone floor of my dark room, breathing heavily. The chill seeped into my skin as I silently pushed my body beyond every limit it thought it had. My heart pounded fiercely in my chest. I made a silent, burning vow: This time, I won't just be strong. I will be unstoppable.
At five, the war room smelled thick of ink, sweat, and burning ambition. Heavy parchment maps sprawled across the wide wooden table, the dim candlelight flickering off their edges. Small carved figurines marked armies and strategic positions scattered across the continent.
I stood quietly at Father's side, feeling the weight of generals' voices debating fiercely, their words sharp and tense like clashing steel.
"Orcs will attack from the eastern pass," one general insisted with grim certainty.
But I spoke up, my voice slicing through the tense air with calm certainty. "No. They'll flank through the Dead Marsh. Orcs value speed over strength in autumn."
The room froze. The generals stopped mid-sentence, eyes locked on me. Father's lips twitched faintly—a rare crack in his stoic armor.
"Explain," he said, his hand resting heavily on my shoulder.
With determination burning inside, I pointed at the map. "The marsh dries in autumn. Their shamans use thick fog for cover. We should place cannons here."
A heavy silence fell before Father's rare, approving smile touched his lips. "Tomorrow, you'll study artillery."
By six, I found myself in the royal armory—like a cathedral of death. Muskets lined the cold stone walls, their dark metal gleaming beneath the flickering torchlight. Pistols rested behind glass cases, deadly and beautiful as jewels.
Father lifted a rifle—a sleek, cruel weapon named "Widowmaker"—and handed it to me with a grave seriousness.
"Respect this more than your own breath," he said quietly, placing it into my small hands. "It kills before the enemy hears the shot."
My arms trembled under the unfamiliar weight. I raised the rifle slowly, my breath shallow, sighted down the cold metal barrel, held still for a heartbeat, exhaled—and pulled the trigger.
Bang.
The target shattered at its center. My ears rang sharply, but inside me, my blood sang a fierce, new song. This… this changes everything.
At seven, the weight of real death settled heavy on my shoulders for the first time. A prisoner knelt in a clearing, wrists bound tight—a deserter, a traitor to our kingdom.
"Do it," Father said, handing me a pistol with a solemn finality.
The man spat blood, his voice rough and defiant. "Hope you sleep well, boy."
My finger hovered trembling over the trigger, heart pounding loud in my ears. I've killed before, but never like this.
Bang.
The body crumpled silently. Father's voice was low, almost a whisper that cut through the cold air. "Power isn't just taking life. It's bearing the weight afterward."
That night, I dreamed violently of betrayal—Kael's cold blade plunging deep into my ribs. I woke suddenly, gasping for breath. Never again.
By eight, my body was no longer just a child's. It was a weapon—mastered in swordplay, strategy, and gunpowder. Yet beneath the surface, something else stirred deep within my blood—a whisper of magic inherited from my mother's ancient lineage.
One evening, I found Elira humming an old elven tune, her fingers weaving glowing patterns in the air. The light around her shimmered and danced like fireflies in the dusk.
"Can I learn that?" I asked, voice trembling with eager curiosity.
She smiled softly, eyes full of quiet wisdom. "When you're ready."
But already in my mind, I was plotting and planning. Sword and gun and spell—I will master them all.