He gestured gracefully toward the line of masters. Deezo stepped forward, his robes catching the torchlight with faint glimmers of silver thread. His calm smile spoke of someone who had rehearsed this moment countless times.
Deezo shook the Duke’s hand firmly, bowed, and turned to face the crowd with practiced ease.
“Let us begin,” the Duke declared. “Those with prearranged apprenticeships—step forward.”
A ripple moved through the youths. Four figures emerged from the crowd, weaving through the rows like arrows loosed from a bow.
Timmy leaned toward Spud, whispering, “That’s Jerome.”
Spud gave a small nod. Jerome moved with measured grace, his tunic immaculate and still. But his eyes flicked nervously through the crowd—searching for a sign, a nod, some reassurance.
At the dais, the Duke raised a hand. Jerome stepped forward.
“Young man,” the Duke said, his gaze sharp and steady, “speak.”
Jerome bowed low. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice clipped but steady. “I seek apprenticeship under my father, Jaryd Blasmite. His work is more than craft—it is a calling. It would be my honor to carry it forward.”
The Duke’s expression remained unreadable for a moment, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Then a softening touched his eyes.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡca1PjTfZNY
“Your father’s craftsmanship is renowned throughout Convota,” he said. “And your house has served with distinction. You have my permission—and my blessing.”
Jerome exhaled quietly and bowed again. A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd.
The Duke turned to the next youth.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjoKDrR22eT
“And you?”
One by one, others stepped forward—some trembling, others confident—offering their appeals with lifted chins or shaking hands. The Duke received each with the same calm precision, his gaze seeming to pierce beyond words.
In the shadows beyond the crowd, Timmy and Spud watched quietly.
“He remembers them all,” Spud murmured.
Timmy nodded, eyes locked on the Duke.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqfBByGfK27
“He truly sees them.”
When the last apprentice returned to the line, Deezo stepped to center stage. His voice rang out over the hush.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡI7THIypnd0
“Welcome, all. From here, the process is simple. I will call upon our masters, one by one. Each will step forward and announce those they choose to teach.”
He gestured toward the seated masters.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCINTE7CS7g
“If your name is called, step down and stand behind your master. Do not gather on the platform—stand where they stood. Understood?”
A wave of nods and nervous murmurs rippled through the crowd.
“Excellent,” Deezo said with an easy grin. “First—please welcome Mistress Izza, Master of Pottery.”
Polite applause fluttered as Mistress Izza glided up the steps. Her robe shimmered with beads like drops of glaze, clicking softly like rain. Silver strands threaded through her tied-back hair. Her hands—scarred, steady, strong—rested calmly at her sides.
She faced the youths, a smile warm as morning sun on damp clay.
Hearts below stuttered into new rhythms. Names would follow. Futures would be forged. And not everyone would be called.
Her first name was Violet—a shy, slender girl who stepped forward as if waking from a dream. Her eyes glistened with disbelief and quiet joy.
One by one, five more youths followed—some grinning wide, others blinking back tears. Each joined the growing circle behind the dais, shoulders rising with dawning pride.
Deezo stepped forward, smiling broadly.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkYCze6lUuB
“Many thanks, Mistress Izza. You’ve chosen wisely.”
Izza bowed slightly and descended the steps, her chosen pupils trailing behind like fledglings chasing their first gust of wind.
Without pause, Deezo raised his voice again.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJ2yhSX9GRD
“Now—let us welcome Master Fronan, Swordmaster of the Royal Guard!”
Applause broke out, louder than before. This was no polite welcome. This was respect—earned, not given.
Fronan stepped onto the platform.
*
As they resumed their tentative steps around the room, Spud couldn't help but ponder the twists of fate that had brought them to this juncture. The swamp hadn’t broken them. It had made them. He recognized Alexi as a friend turned brother through adversity.
The door slid open with a hush, and in stepped Micah, his calm presence shifting the air like a change in the wind.
“Well,” Micah said, surveying them with quiet pride. “Looks like you two are on your feet again.”
Alexi straightened slightly. “We figured it was time to move.”
Micah smiled. It wasn’t the broad, careless grin of youth. It was tempered, almost cautious. “Good,” he said. “Because I just asked the doctor if you’d be allowed a short walk—with me.”
Spud and Alexi exchanged a glance. Surprise. Suspicion. Hope.
“A walk?” Spud asked, eyebrow raised. It felt like a lifeline—fresh air, open sky, the chance to feel like boys again.
Micah caught the flicker of doubt in Spud’s eyes and nodded toward the corridor. “Don’t worry. We won’t go anywhere without permission. Miluna’s on her way now.”
Spud eased back onto his bed. Micah had been kind, fair. Still… there was something in his eyes. Not deception, but depth. Plans beneath the surface. Things unsaid.
As if summoned by thought, the door opened again and Miluna entered, trailing calm like a cloak. Her sharp gaze flicked to both boys, then to Micah.
“You’ve got them upright already?” she asked dryly.
Micah lifted his hands. “Not guilty. They were up before I got here.”
Miluna clicked her tongue, but her mouth twitched with a smile. “Of course they were.”
She stepped closer, her warmth filling the room like sunlight after storm clouds. “Well, that confirms my suspicions,” she said, inspecting them both. “Healing well, the pair of you.” A mischievous glint danced in her eyes. “Off for a stroll, are we?”
She turned first to Alexi, her fingers working deftly across his bandages. Though he winced beneath her touch, there was a gentleness in her manner that eased the pain. Then she faced Spud, her expression sobering, her hands moving with the efficiency of someone who had spent years turning hurt into health. She said nothing as she worked, yet her silence spoke volumes—a kind of reverence, perhaps, or quiet pride.
After a final nod, Miluna stepped back, her eyes flicking between the boys. “You’re both mending nicely. A short walk should do you good. Just don’t get ambitious. The body remembers pain more fiercely when it's ignored.”
Micah dipped his head in thanks. “We’ll be careful.”
With her blessing, the door eased open. Outside, guards fell into formation without a word, flanking the trio as they stepped into the sunlight. The transition from the dim room to the open world made the air feel brighter, sharper—like waking from a long dream.
*239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLXYClxUCrT
He was shorter than most, but built like a stone wall. Each step felt deliberate, as if the stage had to accept his weight before letting him pass. His cloak hung plain and heavy. At his side, an old sword rested in a scuffed leather sheath. The hilt was worn smooth.
They said he’d never replaced it. Said a sword should age with its master.
Timmy stood straighter, eyes locked on him.
“Do you think we have a chance?” Spud whispered, eyes flicking toward the man. “I know you’ve always wanted him.”
Timmy said nothing. He couldn’t. His mouth was dry, throat tight.
This was it—the man he’d modeled his dreams on. Not a knight from fairy tales, but a living force. Timmy had trained in secret with sticks and stones, copying Fronan’s stances from borrowed training scrolls. This wasn’t just a master—it was the possibility of proving himself worthy.
Fronan’s eyes swept the crowd of hopefuls. The silence deepened—not empty, but thick with breathless want. Then, with a voice like grit dragged across granite, he began to speak names.
Each one hit like a bell tolling the hour.
Four names. None were Timmy’s.
His shoulders drooped. The years of practice, the quiet hours of pretending he mattered—of pretending he could one day stand among warriors like Fronan—began to feel like a child’s dream.
Then—
“Timothy Raspin.”
It didn’t seem real.
Timmy blinked. The name echoed strangely in his ears, like it had been plucked from someone else’s story.
Spud gave him a shove between the shoulder blades. “Go!” he laughed, almost stunned. “You idiot, that’s you!”
The platform swam before him, the steps rising like a mountain. But with each stride, his breath came steadier. This wasn’t a dream. The ground was real beneath his boots. The sun was warm on his face.
Fronan nodded—not a smile, not approval. Just acknowledgment.
Timmy stood in line behind him, trembling with the weight of everything this meant. Of the world he was about to enter. A world of discipline, of expectation, of being shaped into something sharp and useful.
It wasn’t pride in his chest. Not exactly. It was certainty.
He belonged.
Fronan called his final name. The last apprentice stepped forward.
Timmy looked back, heart pounding, to see Spud standing among the others—grinning and clapping with the crowd. But beneath that smile, a shadow flickered in his eyes.
A quiet flame of hope—and something else. Something guarded.
A pause. A question.
Because for all his jokes, for all his rough confidence, Spud had hoped too. Hoped that this day might change his story.
Timmy knew his friend had trained just as hard. Maybe harder. Maybe in ways that couldn’t be seen on a practice field.
Deezo bounded back to the center of the stage.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJHDAmaFLnY
“A fine crop of warriors!” he declared. “Raise your voices for the future shields of the realm!”
The courtyard thundered with applause.
Timmy felt it in his bones. The crowd, the moment, the significance of it all. Every pair of eyes that turned toward him didn’t just see a boy—they saw a path opening, a future unfolding.
Fronan descended the stairs and stopped beside him. He placed a hand on Timmy’s shoulder. It wasn’t warm or kind. It was heavy. Commanding.
Their eyes met.
And in that glance, Timmy didn’t see approval. He saw a standard. One he would now be expected to rise to.
No words. Just the quiet weight of everything that would follow.
As the cheers faded, the edges of Timmy’s joy blurred.
Because he could still see Spud in the crowd. Grinning. Clapping. But behind his smile, the flicker of doubt had grown roots.
And Timmy knew—this was just the beginning. For both of them.
Timmy’s joy dulled for a heartbeat. Would this moment mark a parting? His days would belong to Fronan’s regiment—drills, duty, the forge of combat. And Spud? Would he still be beside him, or pulled onto a different path?
He clung to hope—hope that Spud would be called by Master Chum, the Duke’s famed huntsman. It was Spud’s dream: bowstrings, trails, the scent of earth and bark. If fate aligned, maybe they could still serve side by side—Timmy guarding gates, Spud guarding wilds.
But that was tomorrow. Today held its own weight.
Deezo, ever the showman, returned to the platform.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzJBVZGFsxo
“Now!” he boomed, arms wide. “Our next master is none other than Mistress Magda, head of the Duke’s kitchens—and the only chef whose sweets the Duke hoards like royal treasure!”
Laughter rippled through the courtyard like wind through barley.
Timmy’s lips curved into a softer smile.
Their mother—apron traded for flowing robes—mounted the platform with the same effortless grace she used to stir pots and flip omelets. Her gown shimmered faintly, but it was the scent that struck Timmy most—cardamom, cloves, a hint of vanilla. Home.
As she passed, her fingers brushed his arm—brief, unnoticed by others. But to Timmy, it was a flame in the cold.
She moved with calm poise, a queen of the kitchens.
Magda began her choices—starting with Iris, whose joyful shout echoed off the stone. Their eyes met—brief, understanding. Magda’s kitchen was nearly full; only a few places remained. Neither Timmy nor Spud had ever shown a taste for cooking. Timmy was born to the blade. And Spud… Spud belonged to the trees.
One by one, more names were called.
Mistress Mera followed—her healers in white stepping forward. Then Cyrus, the blacksmith, soot-streaked and broad-shouldered, choosing youths with calloused hands and quiet resolve. Then Arthin, the horseman—his deep voice deliberate as he summoned riders for the Duke’s stables.
And still, Spud waited.
Head high. Shoulders squared. Eyes fixed on the stage like an arrow nocked, waiting for release.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡT8hRoJFPRU
The crowd thinned.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPMaEYDj7BM
So did hope.
Then the air shifted.
From the shadow of the gate, a figure emerged—cloak fur-lined, patterned like bark and smoke. A longbow slung across his back like a secret. The scent of pine seemed to arrive before him.
Master Chum.
Even Deezo, grand with every word, gave way with a mere nod. No announcement needed. The forest had already done that.
Chum scanned the final hopefuls, eyes cool and gray as riverstone. He paused on each child, gaze lingering just long enough to measure—then pass.
Spud’s chest tightened. A bead of sweat slipped down his temple.
Some said if Chum looked past you, the forest never looked back.
And then—for a breath, no more—Chum’s gaze held Spud’s.
In that single moment, Spud believed.
But belief is a fragile thing.
“I take no apprentices this year,” Chum said. His voice was clipped bark—firm, final.
He turned. Walked away.
No flourish. No echo. Only silence in his wake.
Spud’s fingers curled into trembling fists, the sting of cold sweat slick on his palms. His breath hitched, a sharp knot tightening low in his belly. The world around him blurred—a swirl of sound and silence—while inside, a small, desperate voice whispered, This isn’t how it ends.
A breath caught, hanging fragile in the air—as if the world itself paused to mourn the loss of a dream.
It wasn’t the fall that hurt—it was the sudden quiet after. The path he’d dreamed of, rehearsed, longed for with every beat of his boyhood heart… vanished in a single sentence.
Across the courtyard, Timmy saw it—not in Spud’s posture, but in the absence. The absence of light from his face. That grin, once wide and toothy, now gone. The flicker in his eye—he understood it now. It hadn’t been nerves.
It had been preparation.
The dull, quiet armor of a boy who’d already practiced being forgotten.
And now the question stood, silent and cold:
If the forest would not claim him—who would?
In the thinning crowd, Timmy stood tall behind Master Fronan, his back straight, his tunic sharp. But his eyes—his eyes never left his brother. They tracked every small defiance in Spud’s face: the tight jaw, the stiff shoulders, the flickering stare that refused to lower. And when Master Chum turned away, Timmy’s face cracked.
A single tear escaped. He didn’t hide it. Didn’t wipe it.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeHwsHy1q19
It carved its way down his cheek like a farewell etched in salt.
Across the courtyard, Spud saw. And somehow, that look—just that look—was enough to keep him upright.
Near the stage, their mother—Magda, the Duke’s Master Chef—watched in silence. Her eyes shone, not just with sadness, but with the helpless ache of a mother forced to let her child hurt. Her hands, always busy with knives or spices or spoons, now clenched into quiet fists at her side. She wanted to run to him. But she didn’t. Some pain a boy must wear like a scar that grows into armor.
The cheers around them had dulled. The energy, once crackling, flickered like a dying flame. Deezo’s voice, oblivious in its ceremony, rang out bright and hollow across the stone square.
Each name chipped his hope thinner. Apprentices raised their arms in triumph, families wept in joy, and one by one, futures were sealed.
All except Spud’s.
He didn’t hear the last name. Or maybe he did. Sound came thin, like it passed through water. His limbs felt far away. A slow numbness crept in—not pain, not panic—just the heavy hush of being unseen
He’d heard of those left behind. Hollow Bards who sang to empty inns. Bonehand traders who gave parts of themselves for coin. Mercenaries with no banner, no song, no name. Paths carved not by ambition—but by being unwanted.
Spud felt the dread creeping in like cold water rising in his boots. The idea of leaving Timmy—his brother, his anchor—and the only home he'd ever known turned his stomach. Beyond Convota: hunger, streets that forgot you, and the hollow-eyed stares of the unchosen.
Still, Spud stood tall as Deezo’s voice rose for the final blessings.
Nothing was given to him today—not a name, not a path.
But dignity? That, he would keep.
The square grew quieter—not silent, but hollow. Like music played in an empty room. Spud felt like a stone in a river’s flow—ignored, unseen, forgotten.239Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ4FgDXAbmm
and then Add to home screen.