Zephyr woke to the sound of birds chirping. He yawned and sat up, his golden blond hair messy. After changing clothes, he stepped outside his room.
"Good morning, Mr. Zephyr," a maid greeted him with a smile.
Zephyr returned her smile. "Good morning."
"Would you like some tea?" she asked, edging closer.
"Sure, I'll wait in the garden," Zephyr said, making the maid beam. She hurried to the kitchen, excited.
The garden was quiet, the sun just beginning to warm the grounds. Zephyr sat in the shed as the maid returned with tea and cake, placing them carefully on the table.
"Thanks. Please join me... you can have the cake," Zephyr said.
The maid accepted, smiling as she enjoyed a piece. Zephyr sipped his tea, watching her eat, appreciating the calm before the day's training.
Later, he was escorted to the training ground. Today's duel would be three against one. Wooden swords clashed in the morning air as Zephyr crouched, dashed, and countered with precision. The echo of two wooden swords striking filled the space.
Clayman appeared, observing the tension on Zephyr's face.
"Long face, kid?" he asked.
Zephyr straightened. "Nothing, sir."
Clayman raised an eyebrow. "You think this is inconvenient, don't you?"
Zephyr finally let his frustration show. "Every day it's just training and duels. Is that my purpose? Can't I do something… entertaining?"
Clayman's gaze softened. "I once asked the same of life. Not all experiences are fun, but they shape who you are."
He shifted his attention to the setting sun. The horizon burned orange, the clouds reflecting firelight. "Follow me," he commanded. Zephyr obeyed, weaving through streets where vendors were closing and people headed home.
They reached the central church. Clayman led Zephyr upstairs to the bell tower. Leaning on the fence, Zephyr took in the city below, tiny figures moving like ants. The sunset painted the stone and wood buildings in warm light.
"You see this?" Clayman asked.
"It's beautiful," Zephyr murmured, hearing children laugh, seeing smiles among the people. "They're wonderful… peaceful."
"My father once said," Clayman began, voice calm but firm, "a city without its people is a dead city. They are what make a kingdom thrive. It's natural to protect them."
Zephyr looked at Clayman's lined face, tired yet dignified.
"Where is he now?" Zephyr asked softly.
"Died… when I was a child," Clayman replied coldly.
Zephyr's eyes widened. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know."
Clayman touched the hilt of his sword. "It's fine. He died with purpose."
"Thirty years ago," he continued, "I made a promise to a dying man."
Zephyr listened intently as Clayman's white hair glinted in the fading light, the scar on his face rugged but gentle in expression.
"My father was a proud soldier. He led his men to victory, protected the innocent, and earned respect. One night, I saw chaos, fire, bloodshed… yet my father fought with courage. Even when he fell, he smiled and told me to remember the people around me. He asked me to protect them, to pass on his legacy. Since that day, I've trained tirelessly to honor that promise. My pride is seeing children play safely, seeing people smile without fear."
Zephyr glanced at the bustling streets, imagining the lives beyond the violence he'd never truly experienced. Yet he knew, at any moment, danger could strike. He watched the children, innocent and carefree.
"Oh… what pure souls," he whispered. And in that moment, he decided. "Thanks for the insight, Sir Clayman. I'll do my best to meet your expectations. One day, I'll make you proud."
Later, back in his room, Zephyr felt the tension thickening. Ki and Septh were serious, their expressions solemn. Something was coming... he could feel it.