Embers of Defiance

"Do you understand me?"

Silence.

Caelith's nails dug into his palms. His heart pounded like war drums against his ribs, but his glare never wavered.

"No. I refuse."

The words left his mouth like a blade unsheathed, cutting through the oppressive stillness of the chamber. His father's eyes darkened, the candlelight carving jagged shadows across his scarred face. Alaric Stormont did not blink.

Defiance. A flicker of memory of her defiance, those same obsidian eyes pleading before guards dragged her away. Alaric's jaw tightened sentiment was a weakness he'd carved out of himself decades ago.

A sharp laugh shattered the silence. "It seems he's finally lost it," Alaric sneered, reclining back on his grand lacquered throne. 

The dire wolf sigil etched into its back seemed to snarl with him...

Mocking laughter erupted. His stepmother, Elowen, draped in gold-stitched velvet, swirled her wine lazily. "A servant's fate suits him. Like mother, like bastard."

Vaerin leaned against the marble pillar, grinning. "At least the dogs won't complain about his stench."

Selphira tilted her head, golden eyes glinting. "Do howl for us when you scrub the floors, half-breed. It'll be amusing."

Alaric sighed as if Caelith's rebellion were a fly to swat. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned the guards. "Take him away. He's nothing more than a servant now."

Caelith's father turned back to his wine. Elowen's laughter slithered through the air like a serpent.

The guards advanced, boots thudding.

Caelith's breath hitched. His fists trembled. No…Not.. like this.

Something snapped.

"You think this is the end for me?!"

His voice rang out. The chamber stilled.

Vaerin straightened. Selphira's smile sharpened.

Caelith's gaze burned into his half-siblings. "I swear—I'll surpass you both. I'll pass the academy exam and leave this hell!"

Vaerin barked a laugh. "You? A bastard with no blessing? The gods themselves spat on you!"

Elowen's lip curled. "What a wretched mother, raising such a fool. Then again, whores breed pests, not heirs."

Caelith lunged, but the guards seized him. He thrashed, their grip iron.

Alaric watched, silent. Stubborn. Just like — He crushed the thought.

"If I fail," Caelith snarled, "I'll serve. But if I succeed, I walk free."

Alaric's smirk didn't reach his eyes. "You wish to humiliate yourself? Very well". 

"You have one year until the academy's entrance exam. Fail and You will serve your siblings the true heirs as their loyal servants attending to their every need".

"If by some miracle you succeed," he scoffed, "you're free to leave this family or crawl to the academy. Not that the academy will take a bastard—but this house will always have use for a servant."

Vaerin cracked his knuckles. "I'll break you myself."

Selphira sighed. "Do beg prettily. It's the only skill you'll master."

The guards twisted Caelith's arms, dragging him backward.

Alaric's voice chased him, cold as a grave. "Pray to the Gods you scorned, boy. You'll need more than rage.

But as the grand chamber doors slammed shut behind him, sealing him away from their mockery, Caelith's resolve burned hotter than ever.

This was no longer just about survival. This was war.

The guards sneered as they shoved him forward. "You're digging your own grave, bastard."

Caelith said nothing. He barely even noticed when they threw him into his cramped quarters.

Because sitting on the edge of his bed, her head buried in her hands—was his mother.

His chest tightened. In all the chaos, he had almost forgotten…

"Mum?"

Caelith's mother lifted her head. Tears stained her cheeks. She wiped them hastily with a threadbare blanket, but her hands still trembled.

"I… I've failed you." Her voice was barely a whisper.

Caelith's stomach twisted. "What are you talking about? You're the best mother I could ask for."

"No, I'm not." She shook her head, unable to meet his gaze. 

"You are so bright, so full of potential… and yet, all the world will ever see you as a bastard. That is my fault."

Her voice broke. "You would be better off with another mother."

Caelith didn't hesitate. He pulled her into a tight embrace, her trembling hands clutching the back of his threadbare shirt.

 "Don't say that. Ever."

He leaned back, gripping her shoulders, his obsidian eyes blazing. "I'll train harder than anyone. 

I'll pass that exam, leave this hellhole, and take you with me. I swear it."

His mother's tear-stained face softened. 

She cupped his cheeks, her calloused thumbs brushing away his fury.

 "Then I'll do anything and everything in my power to help you, my son. Even if it costs me breath."

That night, Caelith lay awake on his straw mattress, her tears seared into his mind. Every stifled sob, every tremor in her voice, coiled like a whip around his heart. I'll make them regret it. All of them.

The next morning, before dawn's first light clawed through the clouds.

 Caelith stood in the peasant courtyard—or what remained of it.

 Once a simple training ground for the lesser servants, it had long been reduced to a forgotten corner of the estate, choked with hay and reeking of horse dung. 

The actual courtyard—the polished marble one, lined with statues and high walls—belonged to his 

"siblings."

They trained under renowned tutors, surrounded by sparring partners and magical tomes. Caelith, however, had nothing but the filth beneath his feet and the biting wind tearing through his threadbare clothes.

His breath misted in the frigid air, curling like smoke before vanishing.

The frost-bitten dirt felt like shards of ice against his bare soles, each step a reminder of his place in this household.

He ignored the cold, the hunger clawing at his insides, the stiffness in his limbs from nights spent on a thin straw mattress. 

None of it mattered.

Training began now.

He dropped into his first push-up. His hands sank into the damp earth, knuckles scraping against scattered pebbles.

The sharp scent of hay and manure clung to his skin, filling his nostrils with every breath. One push-up. Then a second. Then a third. His arms trembled beneath his weight, muscles aching from neglect. But he pushed through.

Each motion sent fire through his shoulders, a warning of exhaustion, but he refused to slow down.

The nobles trained in luxury, yet he would train in the filth, in the pain, in the raw, unyielding reality of suffering. If he wanted to surpass them, he could not afford weakness.

When his arms could no longer hold him, he surged to his feet and broke into a sprint. His feet slammed against the hardened dirt, kicking up dust and bits of hay.

Each step jarred his bones, but he forced himself forward, faster, harder. His lungs burned, breath coming in ragged bursts, but he refused to stop.

A battered half-rotted wooden post stood at the edge of the courtyard, a remnant of years of neglect.

 The noble courtyard had pristine dummies woven with enchanted fibers. Caelith had splintered wood and rusted nails jutting from its surface.

He didn't hesitate.

He drove his fist forward.

Pain exploded up his arm as knuckles met wood. He hissed through clenched teeth but struck again.

 A dull crack. 

Then another. 

Then another.

 Blood smeared the post, thin and uneven, seeping into the grooves of the splintered surface. His hands screamed, but he relished the pain. 

Pain meant progress. Pain meant proof.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard servants murmuring and guards scoffing as they passed. He could almost picture his siblings lounging in the warmth of the estate, laughing at the very idea of him trying.

Caelith let them.

He would carve himself from the dirt they spat on.

And like that, 2 weeks had passed.

Caelith had remained consistent in his training, improving his strength and endurance tenfold.

"Forty-eight"

"Forty-nine"

"Fifty"

Caelith breathed a sigh of relief as he drove his fist into the wooden post one final time. 

The impact shuddered up his arm, fresh blood smearing over the dried brown streaks already caked into the splintered wood. 

Two weeks of this—two weeks of splitting knuckles and gritted teeth—had transformed the rotting timber into a gnarled, crimson-stained monument to his rage.

Unable to resist, he lay back down on the hay chest breathing, gazing up at the clear blue sky.

By now, his nose had become accustomed to the pungent smell of horse manure surrounding him.

He decided to rest his eyes for a moment.

However, as Caelith began to drift off, a shadow loomed over him

He opened his eyes to see.

A man standing there, arms crossed. His presence was imposing, his armour emblazoned with the insignia of House Stormont's elite guards. 

It was the vice-captain, Kaden Vaelwyn.