"Not all battles are fought to win. Some are fought to be seen."
— Caladryn Proverb
So many eyes. The court. The noble families. Commoners pressed shoulder to shoulder beyond the sun-drenched banners. My brothers. And even Caladryn's king—my father—stares in my direction.
I can feel the weight of their judgment like chainmail beneath my skin. They believe I will lose. That I'll falter or surrender. Because I always have. Because I am the fourth prince—the bastard prince. The one whose bloodline doesn't glitter in the light. The one whose mother wore no crown, only calluses on her palms and sea salt in her braids. They do not expect victory from me. They expect obedience. Silence—a well-placed bruise and a bowed head at supper.
Across the sand-ring, Kaelen rolls his shoulders, casual as ever. My second brother. The kingdom's golden sword. His armor gleams. Not from polish, but pride. He was born for this—praised for his footwork before he could speak in full sentences. Every tilt of his chin is a lesson in lineage.
The crowd chants his name. Not as a cheer. As prophecy. Kaelen will win. He always does.
I lift my blade. Let them look. Let them see. Today, I do not fight to win. I fight to be remembered.
Kaelen comes in fast. He always does—blades flashing like mirrored flame, every strike a reminder that he's trained by Caladryn's best. He has nothing to prove, only a legacy to maintain.
But I have changed.
Two years ago, I would've stumbled. Would've hesitated on the pivot. Would've swung too wide, too late, too desperate.
Now—I parry. Not once.
Again. Again. Again.
Our blades ring like thunder between silences.
Kaelen comes at me in swift, slicing arcs—shoulder angled, stance tight. He moves like a man who's never doubted his place in the world.
Steel hisses toward my ribs. I shift, feet sliding in the sand, and deflect it with a grunt.
His next strike is faster—high feint, low sweep. I catch the edge of it too late. Metal kisses my thigh. Heat blooms through fabric. I grit my teeth and twist, elbow snapping back to break the follow-through.
He grins. "You're faster."
"And you're predictable."
The grin falters.
He charges. I don't retreat.
Our swords clash—hard, jarring, too close for elegance. His breath hits my face. I shove with my shoulder and pivot under his guard, blade flicking toward his exposed side. He jerks back, barely in time, boots scuffing sand.
The crowd gasps. They weren't expecting this. He wasn't expecting this.
He comes again, slower this time, more careful. He thinks I've spent my strength.
I haven't.
I block high, twist low, drag the fight toward the edge of the ring. Sweat drips into my eyes. My chest heaves. My limbs burn. But I don't stop.
Kaelen growls, blade slashing harder now—frustrated, rattled. The ring of steel becomes rhythm. My arms scream with the effort of meeting it. The crowd is no longer cheering. They're watching. Measuring.
Every noble, every courtier, every soldier in the stands can see it now. I'm still standing. Still fighting. And Kaelen… he's not winning. Not easily.
We lock blades again, face to face. His brow is damp, mouth drawn tight.
"This what you've been doing the last two years?" He asks, panting.
I murmur. "While you were feasting and parading."
A flash of heat lights his eyes.
This time, I could end it. I feel it in my stance, in the angle of his grip.
I feel Father's stare burning the crest of my neck. And I dare to look. Disappointment. Etched cleanly across his face. Not hidden. Not masked. As if he already regrets not stopping me from getting into the ring at all.
One mistake. One opening. But I don't take it. Instead, I loosen my guard. Kaelen's blade sweeps wide—connects hard against my shoulder. I stagger. Stumble. Drop to one knee.
The crowd erupts.
Kaelen raises his sword. Performs the victory. Accepts the cheers like he was born to.
I rise slower than I need to. Let the weight settle in my limbs. Let the performance finish. Then, I look at the king. He's already turning away, the fur-lined cloak shifting as he moves. But for a heartbeat, our eyes meet. And in that flicker—brief as lightning—I see it. Not pride. Not concern. Disappointment.
Because I didn't lose fast enough. Because I wasn't another shadow under his sun.
The crowd is still murmuring when Kaelen approaches. He doesn't swagger, but his steps carry the ease of someone who's won so many times he doesn't question it. The applause is still fading behind him. A courtier calls his name. A girl throws a ribbon. He stops just short of me.
"You held back," he says.
I reach for the leather tie on my bracer, loosening it. My shoulder aches where his blade struck. "So did you."
He huffs a breath—not quite a laugh. "I didn't have to."
"No. You didn't."
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The sand at our feet disturbed, a swirl of marks and half-buried intentions. Sweat drips down Kaelen's temple. He doesn't wipe it away. He studies me for a moment, as if weighing something. As if seeing, truly seeing, that it takes more than a match and a name.
"You're not who you were," he mutters.
"I never was," I breathe. But I want to tell him, 'You just never saw me.'
"They'll be watching you now."
I shrug with the good shoulder. "Let them."
Kaelen's gaze shifts—past me, toward the king's dais.
"His Majesty didn't seem pleased."
"No." I meet his eyes. "He never is."
Kaelen opens his mouth, then closes it again. He presses two fingers to his sword in salute—respectful, not entirely warm.
"Well fought," he says.
I nod. "Next time, don't blink."
He almost smiles. Then he turns and walks back to the applause.
I take my leave as the crowd moves again, the nobles distracted, the banners fluttering, the sun dull behind clouds. I retreat, quiet and bleeding, into the shadowed halls of Caladryn's palace.
No one stops me. No one dares.
The torchlight flickers along the stone corridor, casting long shapes that bend like ghosts. My boots scuff softly over the inlaid mosaics—lions and laurels, victories etched in tile. None of them mine.
The pain in my shoulder sharpens with every step. It's not deep, but Kaelen knew where to hit—where the flesh is thin, where the bruise would bloom brightest. Not for damage. For a message.
I strip off my outer tunic as I walk—the fabric damp with sweat and blood. My fingers fumble at the collar, but I don't stop. Not until I reach the castle's western wing—the one no one else uses. No guards. No pages. Just stone and silence.
The door is simple—old wood. No crest on the frame. Just the faint scent of sea salt in the grain, lingering even after two years. It opens into silence. Vast, familiar, aching.
This side of the castle is quieter—older. Built from rougher stone, without the polished marble or gilded arches. The royal wing flaunts like armor. Ceilings are high, but shadow clings to them like ivy. The windows face the cliffs rather than the gardens, and when the wind rises, it moans through the narrow halls like something mourning.
No tapestries here. No court portraits. Just cool walls and salt-stained air.
My mother's chamber sits at the end of the hall. She never asked for more than this. Never wanted the silks, the courtiers, the crown. She told me once that sea air keeps you honest.
I reach for the door and press my palm to the wood. Breathe in. Then push.
Inside, everything is as she left it. Mira—Mother's maid—has kept everything frozen in time. The low table with the chipped rim. The carved shell she kept by the window. The folded shawl that still holds her shape.
I sit on the edge of her bed and exhale, slow and long. The kind of breath you don't know you've been holding. My tunic slips down my arm. The fabric clings to my shoulder—red and drying. I lift the sleeve all the way up. The cut is already darkening around the edges. A bruise will follow. I should bind it.
But I don't move.
Because this is where I come to remember who I am. Not a prince. Not a weapon.
Just Velasyr.
Just her son.
I rest my hand on the worn blanket. Fingers trailing along the stitching she made when she could still mend things.
A memory stirs—quiet like tide foam.
I was twelve, maybe thirteen. Angry. One of my brothers had knocked me down during a sparring match and laughed when I stayed down.
I came here to this room, fists bruised and pride worse. She was by the window, watering the fern that never grew quite right. She didn't look at me when she said, "Power isn't the same as worth, Vel."
I remember freezing—thinking she'd heard the whole thing.
"You can win every battle," she went on, gently, "and still lose yourself in the wanting. So, choose what you want. Not what they want for you."
At the time, I didn't understand.
Now… I think I do.
I move to the left side of the bed. I press a hand to the old table beside me. The grain is smooth, worn down from years of use. There's a faint notch where she used to set her teacup—always at the same angle.
The pain in my shoulder throbs in rhythm. But it's the ache in my chest that lingers.
"I miss you, Mother," I say to emptiness.
Then, quieter—because it's a question only silence can hold—"What do I do if what I want… is what they choose to want for themselves?"