Chapter 21: The Path of the Strong

Julius had always been distant. Not cruel, not unkind—just cold, logical, and relentless. He was the perfect heir, the son molded in their father's image. Even as children, Julius had trained harder than anyone, practicing until his hands bled, until exhaustion forced him to the ground.

And yet…

Lorin had always beaten him.

It wasn't fair, really. While Julius spent every waking moment perfecting his form, Lorin barely trained at all. He was a natural, someone who picked up a blade and simply understood it—how to move, how to strike, how to win.

Julius hated that.

Their youngest brother, Yeager, had none of their skill with a blade, but his mind was sharp—razor-edged like a well-forged rapier. He had a natural gift for strategy, for reading people, for playing the game of nobles and politics. If Julius was their father's blade, then Yeager was his mind.

Then there was Oliver.

The third son. The disappointment.

He was neither a warrior nor a scholar. He had no gift for combat, no genius for strategy. By their father's standards, he was nothing. It was no surprise that Oliver had left the noble courts behind, settling far from the borders, choosing the quiet life of a merchant instead of the battlefield.

For years, Lorin had never really understood why Julius resented him.

Now, after last night's fight, he finally did.

Work defeats talent.

Julius had spent years breaking himself apart and putting himself back together—stronger, faster, better. He had climbed the ranks, reached Vanguard level, and surpassed Lorin not through natural skill, but through sheer, unrelenting effort.

And now?

Now, Lorin was the one playing catch-up.

The realization settled in his chest like a stone.

If he wanted to stand on the same battlefield as Julius again, if he wanted to prove that his strength was real, he would have to do what he had never done before.

He would have to work for it.

With a slow breath, he sheathed his sword and turned toward the stables.

He was planning to leave at first light, but staying even a moment longer in this house felt like defeat. He wasn't going to sit opposite Julius at breakfast, nor was he going to kneel at the bedside of his dying father.

This place wasn't his home anymore.

By the time Lorin reached the stables, the air was cold, mist curling at his feet. The scent of hay, damp earth, and leather mixed in the air.

Sitting in a rickety wooden chair, Gregor, the stable master, was hunched over, half-asleep. His body was bent from years of work, his tunic smelling of sweat and horsehair.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Gregor stirred, blinking blearily. Then, as his old, tired eyes settled on Lorin, a small, knowing smile crossed his wrinkled face.

"Heh. About time."

Lorin raised an eyebrow. "You knew I was leaving?"

Gregor let out a slow, amused sigh as he pushed himself to his feet. "Boy, I knew the moment you walked through those gates yesterday. You never did belong here."

Lorin smirked. "And you're just going to let me take a horse and ride off, no questions asked?"

Gregor chuckled, shaking his head. "I taught you boys how to ride, remember? I know a man ready to leave when I see one."

Lorin's smirk faded slightly. He hadn't thought about it in years, but the memory was there—Gregor guiding him, Julius, and Oliver through the fields as children, correcting their grips, laughing when they fell.

"Sit up straight, Lorin! Unless you want to ride like a sack of potatoes!"

"That mare ain't a damn warhorse, Julius! Stop trying to control her like she's a soldier!"

"Oliver, boy, the reins, not the saddle! The reins!"

Lorin found himself chuckling softly. "I remember."

Gregor hummed. "Good times, weren't they?"

Lorin exhaled. "Simpler times."

The old stable master nodded, his expression softening. "Aye. Before you boys were burdened with all this noble nonsense. Back when riding was just riding and a chore, and not a symbol of status."

For a moment, there was only silence between them. The quiet understanding of two people who had seen the same world from very different positions.

Then Gregor sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "So, you got permission for this, or am I sending a letter to the lord explaining why his son ran off in the middle of the night?"

Lorin snorted. "Do I look like I need permission?"

Gregor smirked. "Figures."

Lorin turned toward the stalls, running his eyes over the horses. He wasn't looking for the biggest or strongest. He needed something fast, reliable.

Then, he saw her.

A sleek black mare with piercing amber eyes, standing perfectly still, watching him. Unlike the other horses, she didn't shy away. She didn't stamp her hooves impatiently.

She simply waited.

"That one," Lorin said, nodding toward her.

Gregor followed his gaze and chuckled. "Heh. You always did have a habit of picking the wild ones."

Lorin smirked, already unlatching the stall. "I like a challenge."

Gregor watched him with a look of quiet fondness, then exhaled. "You know, Oliver… he wrote to me and Dante a while back."

Lorin blinked, pausing as he adjusted the mare's saddle. "Oliver wrote to you?"

Gregor nodded. "Said if you ever came back, if you ever needed to leave… he could help you atleast financially."

Lorin stared at him.

Oliver.

The forgotten son, the one their father dismissed. The one who never belonged, just like him.

Lorin exhaled. "That idiot."

Gregor chuckled. "He's a good brother."

Lorin mounted the horse, the leather creaking softly beneath him. "Send him a letter. Tell him to cover the cost of the horse."

Gregor shook his head, a small, amused smile still on his face.

Lorin smirked and nudged his mare forward, guiding her toward the exit.

The road ahead stretched into the darkness, the cold wind biting at his skin.

He didn't know exactly where he was going.

All he knew was he couldn't stay here.

And for the first time in years, he was ready to carve his own path.

Without his family. Without his title. Without his past.

Just himself.

And that, he decided, would be enough.