Fight and Dream

The morning sun cast long shadows across the stone-paved training grounds of House Dorne. Caelan walked with calm footsteps toward the open yard where dozens of young men trained.

The clang of wooden swords echoed across the training ground as Caelan approached, his cloak fluttering in the wind. He wasn't here to train—not today. He had one goal.

"Did you see the way that cripple cried when his leg broke?"

Tannis snorted. "Should've just died like his pathetic mother."

Riken chimed in with mock concern. "Yeah. What kind of weakling dreams of becoming a knight like Commander Veyon? He couldn't even protect his own family."

Jaro laughed. "He's only here because Veyon dragged him in like some orphaned dog. That brat should've stayed broken."

Then came the final line—like a knife to Caelan's ears.

"If that piece of shit Caelan hadn't interfered, things would've been better for everyone."

Caelan stepped into view, shadow stretching long across the training ground.

The laughter died.

The three bullies turned sharply, their grins fading as they saw him.

Riken narrowed his eyes. "How long've you been standing there, Dorne?"

Caelan's voice was calm. Cold. "Long enough."

Tannis sneered. "What? You heard us? Gonna cry to Daddy now?"

Jaro chuckled, arms crossed. "You've got no proof. No one else heard anything."

Caelan smiled—a small, crooked smirk that never reached his eyes.

"Three of you," he said, stepping forward. "Nearly twenty. All failed to even become regular guards. Meanwhile, Luken—fifteen, with a broken leg—and still more of a man than any of you ever were."

Silence. That line hit like a hammer.

Riken growled, rage bubbling over. "You little—"

He charged.

The training sword he held came down in a wild arc, clumsy and full of anger.

Caelan didn't even flinch.

With precise footwork, he slid sideways, the blade grazing air. In one fluid motion, he drove his elbow into Riken's ribs.

Crack.

Riken gasped, eyes wide, before Caelan swept his legs clean off the ground.

Thud.Riken landed hard, clutching his side, coughing blood.

"Riken!" Tannis roared, charging with his own weapon raised.

Caelan met him head-on.

He caught the wooden sword mid-swing, twisted it out of Tannis's grip like tearing a leaf from a branch, then jammed the hilt into his throat.

Thump. Tannis staggered, choking violently—only to slam backward into Caelan's rising knee.Snap. A wet crack echoed as he collapsed, screaming, his kneecap buckling beneath him.

Jaro froze.

His face pale.

Then, with a scream more out of fear than fury, he lunged, throwing a wild punch.

Caelan ducked low. His hands moved with precision—one driving into the pressure point under Jaro's armpit, the other twisting his arm violently behind.

Pop.

The shoulder dislocated cleanly.

Jaro dropped, convulsing on the dirt, sobbing.

"He stood tall, surrounded by broken bodies. Not a scratch on him.""Blood dripped from their lips. Arms and legs twisted wrong."

He looked down at them, eyes colder than steel.

"Luken may have been broken... but he got back up."

"You? I just broke you—and none of you will ever walk the same again."

With that, Caelan turned his back and walked away.

None of them dared speak.

"That evening, as Caelan approached the Hall of Dorne..."

"As Caelan faced a situation where he desperately needed the tools of a surgeon, he strengthened his willpower, determined to reach the Hall of Dorne."

The great hall of House Dorne was silent.

Only the soft echo of Caelan's boots filled the chamber as he stepped through the doors. Cold stone walls, a candle flickering weakly on the massive oak desk. Shadows danced in every corner.

Lord Armath Dorne sat behind the desk—broad-shouldered, still as a statue. His eyes, a cold gray, followed Caelan's every step.

"Caelan," he said at last, voice low and unreadable.

"Father."

"I've heard… unusual things."

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. His words were like the slow turning of a blade.

"A boy. Luken. They say his leg was shattered beyond repair—yet he walks."

"Yes," Caelan replied, voice calm.

Armath stood. The chair scraped softly against the stone floor.

"For over a year, you've changed. You barely left your room for months—then you dove into magic. Kael Rhogar says you broke into the Second star mastery in sword in under a month."

He stepped out from behind the desk, circling Caelan like a hawk. Slow. Calculated.

"Seren, your brother, took a year. He's a prodigy of the century. And now… you've done what no healer in this fortress could?"

His footsteps stopped.

"So I ask you now—one time, and one time only."

His aura surged like a rising storm, crashing down on the chamber.

"Are you truly my son? Or some spirit wearing his skin?"

Caelan's knees buckled slightly under the weight. His chest tightened, breath shallow. The invisible force pressed against his ribs.

But he didn't fall.

He raised his eyes.

"I am Caelan Dorne."

The pressure stopped. Silence returned—tense, sharp.

Lord Armath studied him long and hard, eyes narrowing like drawn blades.

"Then explain this miracle."

Caelan's voice was quiet, but clear.

"Because I have a dream. One that no knight, no noble, no mage dares to speak aloud."

Armath's brow twitched.

"What dream?"

Caelan took a breath.

"To become a healer. A true one. I want to understand the body—its wounds, its sicknesses, its pain. I want to treat more than battle scars. I want to fight disease, infection, slow deaths... the things that took Mother."

His fists trembled. "I want to wield both sword and scalpel. Not for glory. Not for power. But to save those no one else can."

His voice cracked, just slightly. "I don't want people to die helplessly anymore."

A gust of wind blew through the high windows. The candle on the desk flickered wildly.

Caelan stepped forward.

"I don't want the title of heir. Seren is everything a future lord should be. But I… I need something else."

Lord Armath's eyes narrowed again. "And what is it you ask for?"

"I need a forge. A master blacksmith. Someone who can craft tools—delicate blades, fine as needles. Not weapons for war. Instruments for surgery."

The words hung in the air, foreign, almost blasphemous in a hall built by generations of warriors.

Caelan didn't flinch.

Armath turned away. He looked out the tall window over the lands of House Dorne—cold, strong, unyielding.

Minutes passed.

Then—

"You sound like her," he said softly. "Your mother. She spoke of dreams like this."

Caelan's eyes widened.

"She once asked me why the strongest always fight to destroy. Why none of them fight to save."

He turned back.

"I never had an answer."

The silence was heavy again—but not empty. Something warm flickered beneath the weight.

"You'll have your forge. And the blacksmith. Whatever you need."

Caelan opened his mouth—but no words came.

Armath stepped closer, voice like a blade sheathed in stone.

"This path… it will not be easy. This world does not praise those who save—it only fears those who destroy."

Caelan didn't look away.

"Then I'll be both — the saviour they pray for, and the destroyer they fear."