A tired young boy dressed in battle gear walked through the towering halls of Bastion. A place he lived but would not call home, for this place was nothing but a prison to him.
The sound of iron being repeatedly hit over and over rang out throughout the vast empty space. A hollow of a man who cared not for his survival or well being continued to work on his newest project.
Footsteps echoed, reminding him of drops of rain falling down from a darkened sky, the soldiers hurried past him, from one room to another. A building so full of people living their lives in constant motion, yet its walls felt so empty and quiet.
Another Nightmare Creature had probably attacked a nearby citadel and was requesting help. Every Awakened and Ascended ready to give their life to defend it, to preserve the life and happiness of it, for Valor. Yet someone so physically close to them they had never once thought to save him.
For he was Mordret, the lonely boy of their domain's ruler. While they shared the same jet black hair, a sharp and defined face, and the same recognisable eyes that looked like pools of grey, a cold piercing grey. They were not the same.
Mordret refused to let them be. Both had grown up with fathers who were leaders of humanity.
Trained from a young age to be strong and to want to be proud of their clan, to bring it glory, to bring it Valor. Wardon, his grandfather, taught his son to be strong for Anvil's survival and future, Anvil did not reflect his father's wishes onto his own spawn.
From as young as he could remember he was forced into lessons, how to kill, forage, and survive. These were not from a belief of familiar love, but from the belief that to make the greatest weapon, you must strike while the iron is hot.
So he did. Over and over and over and over again. Mordret would go to a class taught by his elder and learn amongst his peers. The lessons hammered into him, from the break of dawn until the sun was at its highest, casting not a single shadow.
He would then be allowed to eat a meal prepared by the chefs of his house. Eating them while sitting alone, watching the looks they gave him.
Some gave him looks of fear, of envy, of hatred. The more Mordret excelled in his studies the worse the looks got. They would not dare to approach him, let alone hurt him, but it still hurt the same.
He became isolated, he didn't know how to react to them, so he slowly became exactly like them. A reflection looking at them with the same hateful and envious eyes they once looked at him with.
They slowly began to fear him, whispering stories of things that never happened. Concocting reasons why they believed he was scary. 'His dad is the strongest around', 'He killed his mother himself', 'He fought a nightmare creature by himself with just a dagger'.
While they started off as nothing more than lies, scary stories to tell each other they slowly blossomed. Isolating a child is cruel and wrong, but a monster? That, now that was normal.
As much knowledge as you could teach someone, something as simple as speaking to others, joking about with them, calling them out, could never be taught, only learnt. Perhaps if he had a father who loved him he would've learnt. Maybe if people treated him like a person he could've learnt.
There was a chance that if his grandfather, mother or uncle was here to show him the care he needed he could've learnt, but they were gone. A grandfather who died before he was born.
Uncle Madoc was around but never enough, his presence was calming for Mordret, someone who would stand against his father was always welcome, until he changed.
He had a mother too, but her death was something he was too young to remember. Whispers of it heard through the classroom was all he ever heard.
He had a sister, and her birth killed his mother. While they told stories about how Mordret hated his sister for it and how he would never be allowed to see her because of it. It wasn't true.
Mordret was truly saddened about his mother's death. He often sat staring into a fountain in the school's courtyard until it was lit only by dim streetlamps. Wondering about what his life could've been with her, but he never once blamed his sister.
He knew she was the same as him. Lonely. He would've loved to see her, someone in the same situation as him, but he never could.
He was kept on a tight schedule and required to be at every classroom lecture, every afternoon sword training and a strict meal plan.
He was never told his sister's schedule. He asked his professor for it once during his free time but was demanded to not speak about it again. So he did not dare to ask again.
As the twelve year old walked towards the training area the guards outside stood outside and looked at him. After they nodded at him and he nodded back they opened the door. Mordret was a child who at the very least could understand basic respect.
He had spent years practicing how people acted, copying them. The basic nods, a hello in the hallway as they walked past, a good morning when he entered a room were easy enough.
He had spent most of his life in the waking world, interacting with both mundane lecturers and awakened swordsmen, but today was different. For his twelfth birthday his father had given him a gift, the same gift he had always received. A trial.
Every year since he could remember, Anvil had him do the same thing. Go into the hallowed halls of the grand building and fight. This was what Mordret had always been training so hard for. The chance to show his father what he could do.
The trial was always the same, some questions followed by a duel with his dad. This year he was determined to show his dad what he could do and finally hear his praise even if he felt more tired than usual.
The huge mahogany doors creaked open, scraping across the floor, moonlight shining through the hall, illuminating a single man. Anvil of Valor. Mordret smiled and called out to his father in joy
"Hi Dad! Thanks for coming to see me"
Mordret called out, his high pitched voice riddled with excitement. The man standing there unmoved simply pointed at a desk. His cape, held down by his iron armour, billowing against the flow of air the child had let in.
The small kid quickly scurried over to the desk and picked up the pen and began to take the test.
Hastened scrawling of the pen against the page rang out throughout the baron room. He could feel weight bearing down on him, the invisible presence that followed his father, the pressure was incredible.
Every question felt like an attack against him, and everyone he did not know was a forceful blow. After what felt like hours he finally sat up and wiped the sweat from his forehead, its glistening reflection showing a fraction of his face on his hand. Despite it all he was smiling.
He lifted the papers from his desk and handed them to his father, who immediately handed them to one of his professors. Then a sword came flying towards him, Mordret instinctually grasped it in his hand. Anvil pulled another before simply declaring
"Begin"
He barely had time to think before attack after attack came flying towards him. He parried the first blow before dodging the second and blocking the third, immediately trying to understand the flow of the attacks.
A flurry of varying swings and thrusts were sent towards him, to be countered in quick succession. The continuous assault didn't let up, a silver blur on his peripheral was evaded by a swift jump, before he had a chance to land another blur came towards him from the right, raising his sword to attempt to parry it he realised it was too late.
Quickly adapting the defence was changed to a block to lessen the damage. Pain washed over the boy as he was sent violently across the room.
Clutching his side in agony another blade came down from above Mordret quickly rolled to the left to avoid the hit, slamming against the wall of the room as he watched the blade hit the ground inches away from him sending chips of wood rocketing everywhere.
Standing up he prepared to go on the offensive, taking a lunge forwards while twisting his torso, his arm accelerated with incredible speed as he angled it towards his target.
A sharp reverberating sensation was sent through the arm, vibrating his whole body loosening his grip. Steeling himself as he tightened his hand gripping the sword as hard as he could, he prepared to continue the blow. But it didn't move.
It felt like it was frozen in place, immovable. Mordret paused and looked towards the blade of silver, it was no longer a sword so sharp he could see the world in it, but instead chipped and damaged. His gaze drifted to the left, noticing his father's blade broken in two.
A piece embedded into the floor a couple feet over and the rest still held in his dad's hand. A wave of exhaustion hit Mordret as began to relax and breathe normally. He heard a deep sigh come from his fathers voice before hearing him say in a quiet sullen tone
"Stronger than I expected"
Mordret's face instantly lit up, before asking his dad
"Am I really?!"
Looking away from the sword, the sullen, sunken, grey eyes looked down on Mordret, towering over him, before saying
"The sword"
His heavy footsteps thundering as he began leaving the building began to resonate in Mordret's head. Years of trying his hardest, living with all the hate he received from his class mates, the bruises, everything. In the end what had it been worth? Nothing? Nothing at all?