TWO SONS, ONE BLOOD

Years passed.

The kingdom, once choked by whispers of curses and bad omens, found a new hope in a single name: Johnquis.

Born of the King and his elven queen, he was more than a prince—he was a sign of mercy from the gods.

The people called him Johnquis the Vanquisher—a promised prince, believed to be destined to end the terror of the Twisted and restore peace to the land, a gift from the Dragons themselves.

Even before the Rite, before the dragon's blood ever touched him, the people believed he was chosen.

He began his training early.

At four, he already wielded a sword, but it was his golden flame—magic inherited from his mother's blood—that caught the attention of everyone at court. It wasn't a flame of destruction, but something softer. Brighter. Sacred.

"Your golden flames carry the fire of the elves who came before you," his mother whispered once, gently touching his forehead. "Always remember, your flames can also burn you…"

But Johnquis didn't grow powerful by miracle alone.

The King himself taught him to fight—patiently, not harshly. He trained beside him in the garden yard, correcting his form, teaching him when to strike and when to hold back.

His father was shocked—at such a young age, Johnquis could dodge with ease, his strikes were strong, and his senses were too sharp, too refined, for a boy so young.

"You're a natural, my son," the King said with a proud smile, watching Johnquis move with ease. "You're already stronger than I was at your age… and one day, you'll be stronger than I am."

And when the sword was put down, his mother took over.

She taught him how to read runes from ancient elven scripts, how to speak with dignity, and listen with his whole heart.

By seven, his golden flames burned brighter, fiercer. He could summon them at will—whether to heal or to strike.

By nine, he had perfected his swordsmanship and mastered his golden flame magic—trained both in the castle and in the hidden elven village.

But what truly won the hearts of the people wasn't his power. It was him.

He was curious, kind—quietly stubborn in the ways that mattered most.

At the age of ten, his curiosity got the better of him.

"I want to see everything," he told the court one evening.

The councilors stiffened. "What do you mean, Your Highness?"

"The world. The people. All of it," he said. "How am I supposed to protect people if I don't know what their lives are like? If I don't see what they go through?"

They told him it was risky. That it wasn't safe for a prince. That he didn't need to get his hands dirty.

He left anyway.

Dressed in simple clothes, with no guards and no ceremony—just a boy and a heart full of quiet kindness.

He crossed rivers, trudged through muddy farms, and sat beside beggars and broken-hearted innkeepers. He used his fire to heal the sick and light candles for the grieving.

He even fought off wild beasts twice his size—protecting villagers with nothing but courage and love.

People didn't expect a prince to kneel beside them.

But he did.

He didn't go to be worshiped. He went to learn.

Not far behind him, in age, another boy was raised.

Born the same night. Of royal blood. But kept hidden.

No songs were sung for him. No banners hung in celebration.

Where Johnquis was raised under sunlight and praise, Gravier grew up in the dark halls of silence and bruises.

His father—the King's brother—was not a gentle man. He did not smile. He did not comfort. He did not teach with kindness.

He was afraid.

Afraid that the boy in front of him would grow into something weak.

Something soft.

Something like him.

So he made Gravier strong the only way he knew—through pain.

Every morning came with bruises. Every night with blood. He swung wooden blades like they were real, taught with fists, and punished hesitation with silence. His voice was always sharp, but beneath it—fear.

Fear that his son would fail. That he would be forgotten. That he would not be enough.

"I won't let you become what I am," he muttered once, hands trembling after another brutal spar. "I can't."

Gravier never understood if it was a warning—or a plea.

After the beatings, his mother would speak. Not to heal. But to prepare.

She whispered that the throne was meant for him. That his father and she were shaping him for the Rite. That all the pain had purpose.

That one day, he would succeed… and claim what was rightfully his.

And once, as she wrapped a bandage around his bleeding arm, she whispered: "Fate is not something the gods hand you, my son. You will not follow it—you will make it."

They did not raise a boy.

They forged a weapon.

Where Johnquis was taught by kings and queens, Gravier was taught by fear and obsession.

Where Johnquis played, Gravier bled.

Where Johnquis helped others, Gravier helped himself.

And over time, the light in his eyes began to fade. And in its place—something cold began to grow.

Two sons. Same blood. Same night.

One raised by love. One shaped by fear.

And when the Dragon Rite arrives, only one truth will remain—

Power is not given. It is taken.

But before fate could divide them, a single moment passed unnoticed.

Gravier wandered deep into the woods that night, far from home, far from bruises. The summer air clung to his skin. The night was quiet—too quiet.

That's when he saw it.

A white stag, caught in a snare beneath an old tree. Its leg was twisted, its breathing shallow. Blood in the dirt. It didn't cry out. Didn't flinch. Just watched him.

He crouched beside it, silent. Staring into its eyes.

"I know that pain," he muttered. "You want to die."

Because that's what he saw. In the way it didn't struggle. In the way it accepted the suffering. A reflection of himself.

And yet—something stirred in those eyes. Beneath the agony.

A quiet defiance.

It still wanted to live.

Then—light.

A warm, golden glow broke the dark. A boy stepped into the clearing, barefoot, calm, his palm glowing with fire.

He didn't speak. Just knelt beside the stag, touched the wound, and let the light flow. The stag shuddered. The snare snapped. The wound closed. It stood. Alive.

"Why… help it?" Gravier asked quietly.

The boy looked up. "Because it still had something to live for."

The stag turned—and only then did Gravier see the fawn. Small. Shaking. Hidden in the brush. Waiting.

It ran to its mother.

Gravier's breath caught. He hadn't seen it before.

The stag hadn't given up. It had endured—all for the child waiting nearby.

Then he felt something—gentle fingers brushing against his forearm.

The boy had noticed his bruises. Cuts hidden under his sleeves.

"I can help," the boy said softly.

Before Gravier could stop him, golden flame touched his skin.

It didn't burn. It soothed.

The pain melted away. The warmth ran deeper than flesh—into bone, into places Gravier thought were long frozen. The magic, yes—but also the sincerity. There was no judgment in the boy's eyes. No pity. Just… care.

Gravier looked away, jaw clenched. "Tch. Didn't ask for that."

"I know," the boy said, smiling. "Still worth doing."

Gravier swallowed something bitter—and sweet.

That warmth... it lingered.

And for the first time in his life, he smiled. Just barely.

He made sure the boy didn't see it.

"What's your name?" the boy asked.

Gravier hesitated. "No one."

"What's your name?" the boy asked again.

Gravier hesitated. "No one."

The boy grinned. "Alright, No One. Nice to meet you!"

Gravier scowled. "Wha—That's not my name!"

But the boy only laughed. "Haha, sure it isn't. See you around!"

Then he vanished into the woods, just like that.

Gravier stood there, a little pissed… but also smiling. Just a little. Just enough to forget the weight he always carried.

That night, the prince who carried light didn't just heal a dying stag—

He healed a broken boy.

And the weapon forged in silence felt something close to hope. Just once. And never again.

Because the next time they met— One of them would bleed. And this time, the wound wouldn't heal.