The sun beat down on the royal training grounds, a cruel and constant presence. Sweat stung Ross's eyes as he gripped the wooden training sword, his breaths shallow and sharp. Dirt clung to his boots, his tunic stuck to his back, and his muscles ached from the morning's drills. The other children—Alben, Rinna, Artemis, and the Hero himself, Pharrex—looked just as worn, but none of them had as much to prove.
Captain Garren's voice barked over the clang of wooden swords. "Pair up. Swordplay drills, second sequence. Ross, with Pharrex."
Ross exhaled slowly through his nose, locking eyes with the golden-haired boy across the ring. Pharrex was smirking already, as if the match were over before it began.
The children circled. Onlookers—squires, knights, and a few robed temple attendants—gathered at the edges, pretending not to care while watching every move.
Ross raised his sword. Pharrex mirrored the stance, loose and practiced. "You sure you're up for this?" Pharrex asked casually, voice just loud enough to be heard. "You've been slipping all week."
Ross didn't answer. He couldn't. He had to focus.
They clashed. Wood struck wood. Ross moved fast, parrying the first strike and stepping inside Pharrex's guard. But before he could press the advantage, his foot caught in the dirt—just a stutter, but it cost him his angle. Pharrex pivoted and shoved him back.
Ross's grip nearly slipped. He growled in frustration.
They reset.
Pharrex lunged again, overextending deliberately, inviting a counter. Ross swung for his side, but his body didn't twist fast enough. His footwork was sloppy, his weight shifted wrong—he knew all the corrections, but his limbs just wouldn't obey.
He used to fight with eight arms. He used to cleave ships in half.
Now, he stumbled.
Pharrex's blade tapped his ribs. "Again," the boy-hero said. "Maybe you'll land one this time."
The smirk returned.
Ross's blood boiled. He pushed forward aggressively. Their blades rang as they struck, and Ross poured raw strength into his swings. But even then, Pharrex was faster—lighter on his feet, more fluid, precise. Ross's strikes were stronger, yes, but always just behind the mark.
"Predictable," Pharrex sneered. "You're all force and no form."
Ross's chest heaved. His arms felt like they belonged to someone else. His balance was off. And worst of all, he knew why.
I've only had this body for nine years, he thought bitterly. The Kraken had millennia to move the way it wanted.
He remembered the deep-sea battles—colliding with the Demon Kings in whirlpools of fury, limbs weaving like ribbons of steel. Every motion perfect, honed by instinct and repetition over centuries.
Here, he was clumsy. Here, he was human.
Pharrex dropped low and swept his leg out. Ross didn't react in time. His feet flew out from under him and he hit the dirt hard.
Laughter.
Not from the crowd, but from Pharrex. "You really are something," he said. "Powerful? Maybe. But you're not improving. Not really. You're stuck. And you know it."
Ross sat up slowly, fists clenched in the dust. His vision blurred—not from tears, but from white-hot frustration. His magic flared unbidden, tingling down his arms.
"Get up," Pharrex said. "Or stay down. Either way, I win."
Something snapped.
Wind shrieked across the ring. A pulse of invisible force erupted from Ross's outstretched hand, raw and unshaped—but strong.
Pharrex was caught mid-step. The air hit him like a warhammer. His body lifted off the ground, hurled backwards. He smashed into a stack of straw training dummies with a dull, audible thump.
Silence fell over the training yard.
Captain Garren strode into the ring in seconds, his cloak snapping behind him. "ROSS!"
Ross didn't rise. He stared at his own hand, trembling. His breath came in gulps. The magic hadn't been shaped, hadn't been planned—it had just been.
Pharrex groaned from where he landed, but he wasn't seriously injured. The captain glanced his way before turning back to Ross.
"Training is over for today," Garren barked, loud enough for all to hear. "Ross, you're dismissed. And if you ever lose control like that again, I'll personally see to it that you don't get the chance a second time."
Ross stood slowly, dust clinging to his knees. He didn't argue. He didn't explain. He just turned and walked away.
No one spoke. The crowd parted to let him pass.
He didn't see the man standing at the edge of the courtyard, in the shade of an olive tree. Devon, his father, arms crossed and jaw tight, watched him go. His eyes held no anger—only worry.
—----------------------------------------
Ross wandered the edges of the palace gardens, where twisted trees grew wild and the sounds of training didn't reach. He found an empty bench near a crumbling statue and sat down hard.
His magic surged just beneath his skin, begging to be used. He clenched his fists to still it.
You've gotten better, he told himself. Your spells are sharper. You have more control.
But that was the problem. He had more control with magic than his own body. That was backward.
Because I'm not human, he thought bitterly. Not really.
He'd lived for millennia as Cenlurz—the Kraken. No armor, no weapons, no swordplay. Just flesh, instinct, and elemental dominance.
The Demon Kings had fought him personally in duels under the waves. And it had been fun. Every battle with them pushed him. Their strength, their cruelty—it made them worthy opponents. Even as enemies, they respected his power. They acknowledged him.
Pharrex didn't.
Pharrex saw a child who couldn't swing a sword right.
And he wasn't wrong.
Ross's grip tightened on the bench's edge until the wood cracked beneath his fingers.
Why did it have to be this body? This fragile, awkward form with too few limbs and too many rules? His magic bent to his will, but his muscles didn't. He was haunted by the memory of perfect control and damned by the limitations of a body that refused to move the way he knew it should.
And yet, even knowing all that—he had lashed out. With real power. Uncontrolled.
If Pharrex had been closer… or weaker…
Ross exhaled shakily.
Footsteps approached from behind. He didn't look up.
"Not the outcome you were hoping for," a familiar voice said.
Ross stiffened. "I'm not in the mood for a lecture, Marcus."
Marcus didn't sit. "Good. Because I didn't come here to lecture."
Ross glanced over his shoulder.
The old storyteller stood with his hands tucked behind his back, eyes thoughtful. "You lost control."
"I know."
Marcus's gaze was level. "And why?"
"Because…" Ross clenched his jaw. "Because I hate being weak."
A long silence.
Then, quietly: "You're not weak, Ross."
Ross laughed bitterly. "Tell that to my body."
"I'm telling it to your mind," Marcus replied. "Which still thinks like a god and forgets that it's in the shape of a child. That's not weakness. That's dissonance."
Ross turned away again. "That's not helpful."
"It's not meant to be. It's meant to be true."
They stood in silence for a long moment. Then Marcus said, "The sea remembers you. And your magic flows like tides, not fire or stone. Let the wind guide your steps. Let your instincts adapt."
Ross didn't answer.
"You have an edge he doesn't. Not your past. Not your magic. But your willingness to learn."
Ross looked down at his hand, still faintly tingling with wind magic. Then, slowly, he smiled.
Not because he had won.
But because he had something to work with.
And for the first time in weeks, that felt like enough.
—----------------------------------------
Marcus lingered under the crumbling statue after Ross left, the breeze brushing against his long cloak. A rustle behind him didn't surprise him.
"You gave him advice," said Devon, stepping out of the shade.
"I did," Marcus said. "He needed it."
Devon exhaled. "I feel useless. I watched my son fall apart today, and there was nothing I could do."
Marcus studied him. "You're wrong about that."
Devon gave him a flat look. "Then tell me what I'm doing. Because I'm not training him. I'm not guiding him. I haven't even tried to figure out what makes him so different from other kids. Because it wouldn't matter. He's my son. That's all I care about. But that doesn't help him, does it?"
"It does more than you know," Marcus said. "You treat him like Ross. Not a puzzle, not a weapon, not a prophecy. Just a boy. That gives him something solid to stand on."
Devon looked away. "It doesn't feel like enough."
"That's because you're trying to measure love with a sword," Marcus said softly. "You don't have to understand everything about him to be what he needs."
Devon was quiet a moment, then: "The king asked you to train them, didn't he?"
Marcus nodded. "Officially, I'm here to oversee the magical instruction of the Hero's party."
"That's going to rattle a lot of cages."
"It already has," Marcus said with a thin smile. "The Temple thinks I'm a threat. The Obsidian Circle's hissing in its robes. I couldn't care less. I didn't come here for them."
He looked Devon square in the eye. "I came here for Ross. Just like I once came for you."
Devon smiled faintly. "You never did know how to stay out of trouble."
"Says the boy who tried to spar with his teacher using two swords and no armor."
Devon laughed quietly.
Marcus laid a hand on his shoulder. "Let me teach him. You protect him. That's how we do this. That's how he survives what's coming."
Devon nodded.
And the two old warriors stood together in the fading light, watching the path Ross had taken, each silently promising the same thing: We won't let you walk this alone.