The dream clung to him like a shroud.In it, he had seen his father, King Thorgrin, standing alone on a barren plain encircled by towering shadows.These were no ordinary foes; they loomed like living monoliths, faceless and immense, their forms shifting like smoke and stone intertwined.Thorgrin wielded the Destiny Sword, its blade glowing with an inner light, but even as he struck, the shadows closed in, whispering promises of oblivion.Guwayne had called out, but his voice was swallowed by the void.Then, just as the shadows engulfed his father, a crack of light pierced the darkness—a breach—and horrors poured forth.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the vision.Dreams had plagued him more frequently these past moons, vivid and prophetic, much like the ones his father had described from his own youth.Guwayne wondered if it was the Sorcerer's Ring, passed down to him on his thirteenth name day, that amplified them.The ring sat heavy on his finger, its black band etched with runes that sometimes seemed to pulse with life.His father had warned him: "It is a tool of great power, but power comes with a price.Listen to your dreams, Guwayne—they may guide you, but they may also deceive."
Rising from his bed, Guwayne crossed to the window, gazing out over the awakening city.Below, King’s Court shimmered with life.The city, rebuilt and expanded to twice its former glory, buzzed with preparations for the festival marking fifteen years of peace since the Shield’s restoration.Crimson and gold banners fluttered from turrets, garlands of summer roses and lilies draped every archway, and the air already carried the scents of fresh bread, roasting meats, and spiced wine.The streets teemed with merchants setting up stalls, children chasing ribboned maypoles, and knights in polished armor laughing over tankards of ale.This was a day of celebration, a testament to the Ring’s prosperity under his parents’ rule—Thorgrin, the King of the Druids, and Gwendolyn, the Queen who had led the kingdom through exile and war.
Yet for Guwayne, the heir to the throne, the festivities felt like a gilded mirror reflecting his father's legendary deeds.Thorgrin had slain the Blood Lord, restored the Shield, and wielded powers that bards still sang of in every tavern.Gwendolyn had rebuilt a shattered kingdom with wisdom, stone, and steel.How could anyone live up to that?
Guwayne felt a chill, as if the dream's shadows lingered.He dressed quickly in his training leathers, buckling on a short sword at his hip.Perhaps a morning spar would clear his mind.
A soft knock at the door broke his reverie.“Enter,” he called.
The door swung open, revealing Reece, his uncle in all but blood, and one of his closest confidants.Reece retained the lean build and mischievous grin of his youth, his dark hair cropped short, and a neatly trimmed beard framing his face.The silver emblem of the Legion gleamed on his tunic, marking him as a commander revered across the Ring."Up before the suns, nephew?”Reece teased, stepping inside.“Or did those dreams of yours chase you out of bed?”
Guwayne managed a half-smile.“Something like that, Uncle.Shadows and breaches—same as always.”
Reece's eyes softened, and he clapped a hand on Guwayne's shoulder.As a child, Guwayne had always referred to Reece, his father's closest friend, as uncle, and it had stuck into his teenage years.Reece and Stara had not had a child of their own, and Reece especially had been only too glad to pour his heart and soul into the nurturing and wellbeing of the King and queen's only child."Your father had his share of visions, too.They don't all spell doom.Come, the Summer Festival awaits, and your mother expects you to shine today."
Guwayne nodded.The festival wasn’t just a celebration; it was a stage where the heir was expected to embody the hope of the Ring.He followed Reece through the castle’s bustling halls, where servants scurried with trays of fruits and pastries, their faces alight with anticipation.Together they grabbed a quick breakfast before making their way outside.The courtyard was a riot of color and sound—jugglers tossing flaming torches, bards strumming lutes, and dancers twirling in vibrant silks.The Day of Seven Weddings, when his parents and six other couples had wed, including Reece and Stara, and when the kingdom had finally been able to put behind the horrors of the prevailing years, was still recounted in every song, and today's festival felt like an echo of that historic joy.
As they reached the main square, Guwayne spotted his parents on the dais.Gwendolyn, her silver hair braided with golden threads, stood regal in a blue silk gown embroidered with the MacGil crest.Thorgrin, beside her, wore a simple druid’s robe over his armor, the Destiny Sword at his belt, his presence both commanding and serene.Their eyes met Guwayne’s, and Gwendolyn’s face lit up with a warm smile.“My son,” she called, descending to embrace him.“You look troubled.Another dream?”
He hesitated, then nodded.“Shadows closing in on Father, and a crack in the world.It felt… so real.”
Thorgrin’s brow furrowed, but his voice was steady.“The Ring amplifies dreams, Guwayne, but not all are prophecy.Today, we celebrate what we’ve built.Join us, and let joy outweigh fear.”
Guwayne took his place beside them, the crowd cheering as the festival began with a blast of trumpets.Bards launched into tales of the Sorcerer’s Ring—the quest for the Destiny Sword, the exile, the defeat of the Blood Lord.Each story was a reminder of his parents’ greatness, and Guwayne clapped politely, though his heart churned.They sing of legends.What will they sing of me?A prince who trains but never fights?
As the morning progressed, Guwayne excused himself for his training session, a welcome escape from the weight of the dais.He wove through the throngs, passing vendors hawking sweetmeats and children waving flags with the Ring’s crest.The training grounds, on the city’s edge, were a stark contrast to the festival’s revelry—a wide field ringed by stone walls, with racks of wooden swords, shields, and archery targets.Spectators, drawn by the festival’s energy, gathered to watch the apprentices spar, their cheers mingling with the clatter of wood and steel.
Waiting for him was Sir Eldric, his sword master, a grizzled veteran of the Silver with a face scarred from battles alongside Thorgrin.His voice was a gravelly bark.“Late, boy!The festival’s no excuse for tardiness.Grab a sword!”
Guwayne grinned, snatching a wooden blade from the rack.Around him were his fellow apprentices, a mix of noble and common youths training for the Legion or the Silver.Among them was his best friend, Aiden.Aiden was lanky, with a mop of red hair and freckles.He had a casual manner that belied his sharp mind.He excelled at archery and strategy but loved to boast he could match Guwayne in swordplay.“Dreaming of outshining your father again, princeling?”Aiden teased, twirling his sword.“Or just dodging the bards?”
Guwayne smirked.“You talk big for someone who eats dirt every spar.”
Nearby stood Marcus, a burly apprentice from the Southern Isles, built like a blacksmith with a temper to match.His swordplay relied on brute strength, lacking finesse.Beside him was Lila, a quick-witted girl from a merchant family, her red braids bouncing as she practiced archery with deadly precision.Then there was Toren, a quiet boy from the Highlands, whose knack for reading opponents made him a formidable strategist despite his slight frame.These were Guwayne’s closest companions, each a piece of the Ring’s diverse past.
Eldric paired them off, his voice booming.“Today, we drill the MacGil thrust—your father’s move, Guwayne.Swift, precise, lethal against trolls or men.”
Guwayne’s stomach tightened.Always his father’s shadow.He faced Aiden first, the two circling in the dust.Aiden lunged with a feint, but Guwayne parried, countering with a sweep that forced Aiden back.The crowd of onlookers—festival-goers sipping ale—cheered.It was one of the few days they would be privy to what went on in the training grounds, and though Sir Eldric was not happy to have what he thought of as his space invaded by those not deserving of it, the apprentices always doubled their efforts, knowing they were performing for a crowd and not just their own pride and bragging rights.
“Not bad,” Aiden panted, dodging another strike.“But you’re holding back.Afraid to look too good?”
“Shut up and fight,” Guwayne muttered, pressing the attack.His blade moved faster, fueled by frustration born from that morning’s events.Aiden stumbled, and Guwayne disarmed him with a twist, sending his sword flying.The crowd clapped, but Guwayne felt no triumph.Who would sing a song about what happened on the training ground?
Eldric nodded.“Good form.Now, Marcus.”
Marcus charged like a bull, his wooden sword swinging like a hammer.Guwayne dodged, his mind drifting to the dream.What if peace wasn’t eternal?Marcus landed a glancing blow on his arm, a welt rising.“Focus, prince!”Marcus grunted.
Guwayne retaliated, executing the MacGil thrust—a low feint, then an upward slash that sent Marcus sprawling.The crowd roared, but Guwayne’s victory felt empty.He helped Marcus up, ignoring the sting in his arm.Aiden sidled over, whispering, “You’re better than you think.Stop measuring yourself against myths.”
Before Guwayne could reply, Eldric called a break.The apprentices scattered, grabbing water skins and chatting about the evening’s festivities—fireworks, feasts, dances under the stars.Guwayne sat on a bale of hay, watching the festival beyond the grounds.Musicians played lively reels, couples twirled, and children laughed, their faces painted with joy.The Ring had known only prosperity for his entire life.That should make him happy.So why did it not?Was it because he knew nothing lasted forever?Or was it something else?Something deeper.Something darker.
Aiden plopped beside him, tossing a pebble into the dust."My father says peace is the toughest battle—no glory, just keeping things together," he said, reading his friend's mind."But you're restless, aren't you?Wanting your own epic?"
Guwayne sighed, his gaze distant.“Father fought dragons, Mother led her people through exile.I train, I wave, I wait.What if I’m not enough?What if the legacy dies with me?”
Aiden grinned.“Legacies aren’t inherited; they’re made.That ring of yours?It’s not just a trinket.King Thorgrin says—”
