Chapter 2: The kings heir!

The king’s booming laugh filled the marble hall.

“Those are some gallant lungs you have there,” he declared, voice echoing from pillar to pillar. “A roar fit for the heavens themselves!”

He held the child aloft so the gathered nobles could see. Candlelight flared against his silver crown as he spoke again, every word a decree. “You will be groomed and nurtured to become a knight of true worthiness to this throne. Strength in heart, unyielding in honor.” His eyes softened as he looked down into the infant’s wide, searching gaze.“Your name,” he said, a proud smile breaking across his face, “will be Gallan.”

The hall erupted in cheers, the sound of clashing gauntlets and ringing steel. But within the tiny body, the child’s thoughts twisted, sharp and bewildered.

Gallan… the mind echoed.

Is that… me now?

Another faint cry left his lips—just a baby’s wail to all who heard it—while deep inside, the question repeated like a heartbeat:

I'm … Alive..

The king lowered the child into the queen’s waiting arms.

She pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead, soft as a blessing.

“Are you hungry, little one?” she whispered, rocking him gently.

She lifted him playfully, “airplaning” the cooing infant toward her breast.

The marble hall melted into quiet laughter as Gallan nestled close, the new family bound in warmth and candlelight.

Three Years Later

Sunlight spilled across the royal nursery, glinting off toy swords and tiny wooden blocks.

Gallan sat cross-legged on a plush carpet, eyes bright with a focus far beyond his years.

The king strode in, a sheaf of reports under his arm. “Good morning, my son,” he said, expecting a cheerful babble.

Instead, Gallan looked up and asked, clear and deliberate,

“Father, why does the northern trade route bring less grain when the river floods?”

The king froze mid-step.

The queen, sewing by the window, let the needle slip from her fingers.

“Our baby… did he just—?”

Gallan continued, stringing thoughts together with the ease of a seasoned courtier.

“When the water rises, the ferrymen must take the longer path. It slows everything, doesn’t it?”

The king knelt, eyes wide.

“By the gods… our child is no mere heir.”

The queen pressed a hand to her lips, wonder and disbelief mingling in her voice.

“He’s… he’s only three,” she whispered.

Gallan only smiled, the flicker of an older consciousness glinting behind those youthful eyes, as if the mystery of who he once was lingered just beyond reach.

“Father,” Gallan said clearly, each word spoken with confidence, “this chronicle speaks of the First Holy War. Was it truly one hundred and seven years ago?” The king blinked, then barked a laugh. “By the saints—you can read that?”

“Yes,” Gallan replied, voice calm, almost regal. “And the tactics were… inefficient.” The queen, who had entered behind her husband, pressed a hand to her lips. “He’s only three…”

An elderly maid who had been quietly tidying in the corner set down her dusting cloth and bowed low. “Your Highness,” she said, voice trembling with admiration, “the boy speaks with the clarity of a sage. The gods have blessed the kingdom indeed.” By the time Gallan turned eight, his name was whispered with reverence in every hall of the citadel.

Trade routes straightened, taxes balanced, wells dug where none had ever yielded water—each solution traced back to the boy who spoke with the certainty of a seasoned sage. But the very peace he had engineered sowed the seeds of danger.

Across the borders, warlords and restless lords watched a kingdom rich in grain and quiet streets. They saw not a realm of wisdom but of softness. Armies gathered beyond the mountains, counting the kingdom’s soldiers and finding the numbers wanting. The king convened council after council, his eyes proud yet shadowed.

“We have a mind unmatched,” he told the nobles, “but minds alone do not hold walls.” Gallan knew it too. Strategy could be drawn on parchment, but steel had to be wielded. Morning mist clung to the stones as Gallan faced his master-at-arms Drakes at the training yard. The man was a mountain of scarred muscle, blade in hand, eyes patient but unyielding.

Again they circled. Again Gallan lunged.

A flick of the wrist—clang!—his wooden sword spun from his grip, clattering across the yard. “Your head is faster than your feet,” the master said, lowering his blade. “But a knight needs both.”

Gallan clenched his jaw, chest heaving.

He could recite every treatise on warfare, every ancient duel—but when steel met steel, his arms betrayed him.

Day after day, the pattern repeated: a dozen strategies in his mind, a dozen failures in the ring. Brilliance in council, ineptitude in combat. Watching from the balcony, the king’s pride flickered with worry. A Holy Knight of the mind was not the Holy Knight the kingdom needed—at least, not yet.

Night draped the castle in hush and candlelight.

From the corridor outside the war chamber, Gallan pressed his eye to a narrow crack where the heavy doors failed to meet.

The voices within were low but urgent.

The sword master stood with arms folded, his scarred face half in shadow.

“He is not born of the sword,” the man said flatly. “Your Majesty, Your Grace—Gallan is clever beyond his years, yes. But cleverness alone will not keep the enemy from these gates.”

The queen’s voice wavered. “Surely skill can be taught—” “Skill, yes,” the master interrupted, “but not the heart of a swordsman. He lacks the natural gifts every true hero carries.”

He began to count them, each word falling like a hammer on stone.

“First: Instinct—the sense that feels an attack before it lands. It seems like he lacks awarenessof even the faintest of sensations, his auditory ability is the worse.”

“Second: Strength of body—the balance and raw power to drive a blade through shield and mail. His arms tire before the bout is half done.”

“Third: Killer’s resolve—not cruelty, but the will to strike without flinch when the moment demands. Gallan thinks, Your Majesties. He thinks when he should act.”

The king said nothing, jaw tight.

The master’s voice softened, but only slightly.

“He may become a scholar of war, a mind to guide armies. But a protector with his own blade? No. He was not born with the attributes of a hero swordsman.” Through the crack, Gallan’s small hands clenched against the stone.

The words settled in his chest like cold iron, heavier than any sword he had ever tried to lift.

The boy’s breath caught, every sentence from Drakes his sword master sinking like a blade through armor.

Each trait—instinct, strength, resolve—rang in his ears, sharper than any clash of steel. Something stirred in the back of his mind, a memory without shape. A woman’s voice from another life, clipped and certain: Study, study, study. There’s no time for fun and games.

He couldn’t place the face, couldn’t grasp the details, but the chill of those words pressed against his heart.

Inside the chamber, the king drew in a slow breath, ready to speak.

Gallan couldn’t bear to hear it.

He turned from the door, feet silent on the stone, and fled down the corridor.

His pulse thundered in his head, louder than the echo of council voices.

Behind him, the discussion continued—unaware, except for one.

Drakes had paused mid-sentence. A flicker of instinct.

He stepped toward the doorway, eyes narrowing at the empty hall beyond. Only he had sensed the small presence slipping away, the boy who had heard more than he should and carried those words like a hidden wound.

Gallan ran.

Stone corridors blurred to streaks of gray and torchlight. He knew every turn, every hidden stair; the castle was a puzzle he’d solved years ago. His small boots barely whispered against the flagstones as he slipped past guard posts and shadowed alcoves.

At last he pushed through a narrow servants’ door and into the open night. Cool air hit his face like a wave. The courtyard lay silent beneath a silver moon, the walls rising like dark giants around him.

He kept running until the sounds of the castle faded to nothing.

Only when the trees of the outer garden closed in did he stop.

A hero must never be seen crying.

That was a rule he’d invented for himself—one he believed with the stubbornness of eight years and two lifetimes.

But the words still burned inside him, sharper than any blade.

Not born of the sword… not a protector…

His chest ached. His throat tightened.

“Why… why does it hurt this much?” he whispered to the empty night.

A small sniff escaped before he could stop it.

Then another.

He pressed his back to the cold stone of the outer wall, hiding in the dark where no one could witness the tears sliding hot down his cheeks, and wondered if a hero could ever be more than the shape others demanded of him. He sat with his knees pulled tight to his chest, the crisp white of his tunic streaked with dirt. 

A soft rustle broke the silence.

“Your Highness,” came a gentle voice.

Gallan flinched, then relaxed as the elderly maid stepped into view. Her lantern cast a warm halo that pushed back the night.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she said, her tone more kind than scolding. “But a hero must never be seen crying.” Gallan turned his face away, but the faint shimmer on his cheeks betrayed him.

The maid knelt beside him, joints creaking, and set the lantern down. “Yet,” she added with a knowing smile, “even the bravest hero was once a mere crying baby in my queen’s arms.”

Gallan blinked at her, surprised.

“I held you that first night,” she said softly. “Tiny fists clenched, lungs louder than any trumpet. You roared then, and look at you now—our young scholar, hiding from the world.”

He lowered his gaze. “Sometimes… it feels like I’m not meant to be what they want.”

The maid placed a weathered hand on his shoulder. “Then cry when you must, young master. Just don’t let the world mistake your tears for weakness. Even heroes need the night to gather their strength.” Gallan drew a shaky breath, the weight in his chest easing as the lantern’s glow wrapped them both in quiet light.

The maid opened her arms, her voice a soft invitation.

“Come here, young master. Sometimes a hero just needs a hug.”

Gallan stepped forward, letting himself fold into her embrace. Her shawl smelled faintly of lavender and hearth smoke. For a heartbeat the world felt still.

Then he felt it—a sudden warmth sliding down his forearm.

Then a sudden, searing pressure.

A rush of pain that stole his breath.

He gasped and staggered back. Something hot trickled down his arm.

The maid straightened slowly, a strange glint in her eyes. The pleasant smile she always wore slipped away, revealing a grin that didn’t belong to any kindly servant. “A hero,” she said, her voice low and rough, “must be ready for anything.”

Gallan stared, trembling. “What… what are you?” Her form seemed to shift in the moonlight, shoulders broadening, shadows crawling across her face. “An invasion,” she whispered, “has already begun. By me… a head ogre hidden in your precious kingdom for years.”

The maid’s eyes gleamed in the moon light, no longer kind but cold and hungry.

A bright red sheen traced the corner of her mouth as she watched him, unblinking. Her eyes as sharp as a cat.

Gallan’s breath caught.

Every instinct screamed at once.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t think.

He turned and ran.

Branches whipped at his face as he bolted through the moonlit garden, heart hammering louder than the pounding of his feet. The soft gravel paths he’d memorized as a game now felt endless and strange, each shadow a threat.

Behind him came no footsteps—only the faint crunch of the leaves from each step he was taking and a low chuckle that seemed to follow no matter how far he fled.

He didn’t look back.

He just ran, the echo of her voice—a hero must be ready—twisting through the dark like a curse.