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Shannan was not easily startled.
Every day since he was a boy, he trained both body and mind in the art of swordplay. His goal: to be prepared for any situation, to be unflinching in battle no matter the threat, no matter the odds…
To never fail anyone ever again.
Shannan tightened his grip around his sword. A bead of sweat rolled off his chin as he channeled all his energy into the ancient power dwelling in his blood, calling forth the sword technique known to his family and his family alone. He swung the blade in five consecutive flashes, one for each of the people he had lost, for each of the people he would avenge.
One: for his father.
Two: for Aunt Ayra.
Three: for Uncle Lex.
Four: for Lady Deirdre.
Five: for Lord Sig—
“That was so cool, Dad!”
Shannan stumbled, losing his grip on the sword. The weapon went flying from his hand, striking the wall of the training grounds and chipping off a piece of stone. A hit like that had surely damaged the blade, if not ruined it entirely.
But his sword was not what had him concerned.
He whipped around to find Seliph grinning up at him, eyes sparkling with admiration. The four-year-old held a short stick proudly above his head, as though he were wielding a Holy Weapon himself.
Shannan was not easily startled, but the young lord under his care always seemed to have a way of surprising him.
“S-Seliph, what did you just say?” Shannan asked. He must have misheard the boy, or maybe it had been a trick of the wind on his ears.
“I said you’re cool!” Seliph swung the stick a few times through the air, trying to imitate Shannan’s technique. “You were like, wham! Bam! Whoosh!”
“Oh…” Shannan exhaled a long sigh of relief and scooped up his fallen sword. “Sorry, I thought you called me—”
“Dad!”
The sword slipped from his fingers again. “D-dad?”
“When I was playing, Lester said that dads are strong people who protect their kids.” He poked Shannan’s knee with the stick. “Like you!”
“…But I’m not, Seliph,” he said with a frown. “Lord Sigurd is your father, not me.”
Seliph scratched his head. “Why?”
“Um…” Shannan curled and uncurled his fingers as he fumbled for an explanation. The boy wasn’t old enough for that talk just yet. “He just is.”
“But where is he?”
Shannan’s whole body froze. The question was like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from his lungs. It was so innocent, so pure, yet it stung worse than any battle wound ever could.
“He’s…he’s gone, Seliph,” he managed to get out.
“When is he coming back?”
Another harmless question, another blow to break his very soul. With trembling legs, he lowered himself to one knee, matching the boy’s height.
“He’s not,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“But why?” Seliph balled his tiny hands into tight fists around the stick. “If he’s my dad, he should be here with me.”
Shannan placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, drawing a shaky breath. “You know those stories about the Crusaders, and the gods who granted them their magical weapons to defeat the evil dragon?” Seliph nodded, his eyes wide. “Your father is with them now, in the sky. At…peace.”
“In the sky?” Seliph tilted his head up, squinting, standing on the tips of his toes as he searched the great blue expanse above them. “But that’s so far away.”
“I know.”
“How can he be my dad if he’s up in the sky?” Seliph’s chubby cheeks twisted into a pout. “Can’t you be my dad instead?”
Shannan sighed, shoulders slumping. “That's not how it works, Seliph.”
“Why not?” The boy grinned again, showing off a missing tooth in between the otherwise bright smile. “You and Oifey can be my dads, and Lady Edain can be my mom! Like a big—”
“No!” Shannan snapped.
Seliph recoiled away from him, clutching his stick close to his chest. His smile drooped into a quivering lip.
“Your father is Lord Sigurd. Your mother is Lady Deirdre.” Shannan scrunched his face, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Me and Oifey and Lady Edain, we’re just watching over you for them, until you’re ready to take your rightful place as the heir to House Chalphy and the Kingdom of Grannvale.”
The boy said nothing. He only stared at the ground, sniffling and scrubbing at his eyes.
Perhaps it was harsh, but it was the truth. Shannan had failed to prevent Deirdre from falling into the clutches of that cursed dark mage. Shannan was the reason Seliph was without his mother.
For that reason, among all his many other failures, Shannan did not deserve such a special place in Seliph’s heart.
“I’m sorry, Seliph,” he sighed. “I know it’s hard to understand. I know it’s not fair, but that’s the way it is.” Shannan slowly rose to his feet, gently tousling the boy’s hair. “I can’t be your dad, but I’ll always be here to protect you, okay?”
“…Okay…” the boy mumbled, dropping his stick and sinking to the ground. He curled into himself, chin resting atop his knees, watching with despondent eyes as Shannan recovered his sword again.
Shannan settled back into his sword stance. A breath in, then out. I won’t fail you too, he promised silently. To Seliph, to himself, to Sigurd and Deirdre and the rest of Jugdral.
He resumed his training.
———
“How much are we taking off today?” Edain asked.
Oifey offered Seliph a hand as the eleven-year-old climbed into Edain’s chair. The boy pulled out the tie holding his short ponytail, watching the blue locks fall around his face and settle right above his shoulders through the mirror before them.
“We should probably cut it short again,” Oifey said, “so it won’t get in the way of his sword lessons.”
Edain nodded, procuring a comb and cutting shears from her apron. She snipped at the air a few times, testing the edges of the shears, then brought her hands to the back of his head.
“A-actually,” Seliph spoke up, leaning forward out of her reach, “I was thinking about growing it out.”
Oifey regarded him with a questioning brow. “Growing it out? Why?”
For the briefest moment, Seliph’s eyes flicked over to the training yard in the mirror’s reflection. Oifey followed his gaze. Shannan stood in the center of the yard, back to them, as he observed a sparring match between Larcei and Scáthach. His sleek hair hung heavy over his shoulder blades, the black strands occasionally blowing against the gentle breeze brought by midday.
Seliph gingerly touched the ends of his own hair. “I just like it longer.”
“…I see…” Oifey rested his hand on the back of the chair. “If that is your decision, sire, then we can leave your hair as it is.”
“Though you should at least snip off those dead ends,” Edain added.
Oifey nodded and stroked the ghost of a mustache beginning to grow above his lip. “And if you have time, Lady Edain, perhaps you could share some tips with him on maintaining long hair? I have a feeling”—he glanced again to the swordsman in the training yard—“that he will be growing it out quite a bit.”
The abbess gave a knowing smile and began to trim the boy’s blue tips. “It would be my honor.”
“Just be sure to mind the time,” Oifey said, turning towards the exit. “I will see you in the council room for your tactics lesson in an hour, sire.”
Seliph’s eyes widened. “Right! The tactics lesson, of course. I’ll be there in…um…” The boy fiddled with his thumbs. “In an hour, you said?”
“…You didn’t forget about it, did you?”
A hint of pink splashed over Seliph’s cheek. “N-no, I would never!”
“Never?” Oifey suppressed a smirk. “I seem to recall you being late to two of your lessons this past month alone. Or has my memory begun to fail me?”
Seliph shrunk his head behind his collar—nearly messing up Edain’s handiwork on his hair—and refused to look him in the eye.
“Punctuality is but one of the many traits that make an effective leader.”
“I know…”
“It shows that you are respectful of the time and effort your allies put forth for your cause.”
“I know!”
“Today’s lesson is an important one, so please, make sure to—”
“I know, Dad!” Seliph huffed. “I won’t be late again, I promise.”
The entire room froze. Oifey’s breath caught in his throat. Dad? The word shot through him like a hot bolt of thunder magic, paralyzing every inch of his body and rendering his mouth useless. Dad?
“U-um…” Seliph buried his face in his hands, muffling his voice. “I’m sorry, Oifey…I didn’t, um…I didn't mean to say that…”
Oifey’s posture softened a bit. It had just been a mistake, that’s all. A simple slip of the tongue. Seliph did not truly think of him as his father, of course not. Oifey was the young lord’s tactician and nothing more. It had been foolish of him to even entertain the thought.
After all, Seliph knew. Seliph knew that Oifey had failed to foresee Arvis’s betrayal, to warn Sigurd that he was marching to an early grave on his journey to Belhalla. Seliph knew that Oifey’s incompetence as an advisor was why his real father was dead.
For that reason, among all his many other shortcomings, Oifey could never take Sigurd’s place in Seliph’s heart.
“Oifey?” Seliph asked. “Y-you’re not mad, are you?”
“Of course not, sire.” Oifey gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Why would I be mad? We all say odd things on accident from time to time. It’s nothing to fret over.”
The boy deflated back into the chair. “Odd…?”
Oifey bowed his head to his young lord, then to the abbess. “Thank you again, Lady Edain. We greatly appreciate your help.”
Edain nodded, but her lips were pressed together in a thin line. She threw him a stern look before returning her focus to Seliph’s hair. The glare made him uneasy. Why did it feel as though he was being scolded?
“I’ll…see you in an hour, sire.”
He didn’t wait for a response and took his leave. As he hurried out of the room, he caught one last glimpse of the boy. It was a sight that made his heart wrench, an image he would never forget:
Seliph staring after him in the reflection, a single tear rolling down his cheek.
———
Clack!
Two training swords slammed together, wood straining against wood as Seliph and Larcei struggled to push back against each other’s strength. Larcei gave first, sidestepping out of the deadlock and jabbing her sword at his chest. Seliph ducked under the path of her strike, rolling around to her backside. As she spun around on her heels to follow, he caught her foot with the crook of his ankle and swept her legs right out from under her.
Her back hit the dirt hard. With a smirk, he pointed his weapon at the base of her throat.
“And you’re dead.”
“No fair!” Larcei swatted the sword away. “If I had known you were going to fight dirty, I would’ve whipped out some of my own tricks.”
Seliph chuckled and rested the wooden blade against his shoulder. “Anything’s fair game on the battlefield.”
“We'll see if you’re still laughing when I throw Astra in your face,” Larcei grumbled, pushing herself to her feet and wiping the dirt from her hands. “Where’d you learn that move, anyway?”
“I just combined a few things my dads taught me—”
“Your dads?”
Seliph slapped a hand over his mouth, silently cursing himself. He hadn’t made that mistake in years.
An amused grin spread across Larcei’s face. “Did you just call Shannan and Oifey your dads?”
“N-no.”
“You totally did!” She playfully nudged his side. “You said it so confidently, too.”
Seliph groaned, face flushing against his will. He was seventeen now, nearly a man in his own right. He should have grown out of that silly habit by now. It was childish, it was embarrassing, and all it ever did was make Shannan and Oifey extremely uncomfortable. They weren’t his fathers, and they never would be.
They had made their feelings on the matter clear a long time ago.
“Come on, lighten up. It’s not that weird,” Larcei said. “It’s actually kind of cute.”
“Larcei,” Seliph whined. He was supposed to be the valiant leader of the Liberation Army, a hero worthy of the title “Scion of Light.” Being cute and childish undermined that image. “Can we just drop it, please? I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“If that’s the case, why does your face look like a tomato right now?”
He could feel the heat creeping up to his ears now. “Because you’re making fun of me!”
“I’m not, I swear!” Larcei stifled a laugh, plopping herself down underneath the shade of a nearby tree. “I just don’t understand why you’re so worked up about it, is all.”
“It’s…” wrong, foolish, immature, irrational, “…embarrassing.”
“I don’t think so.” She twirled a finger around a blade of grass, expression softening. “I…I think of them the same way. We all do.”
“But it’s different for you.” Seliph slowly lowered himself until he was sitting cross-legged beside her. “Shannan is your cousin, your blood. It’s only natural that you would see him as family, because he is. Me? I’m just the orphan they got stuck with because they made an oath to my birth father once. They’re bound to me by honor, nothing more.” His blush faded away, leaving a wan smile in its wake. “But it’s fine. I…learned to accept that fact a long time ago.”
A heavy silence hung over them. Seliph plucked half-heartedly at the grass, trying to force back the childhood insecurities that were threatening to reemerge from deep within his heart. Larcei just stared into the empty training yard, uncharacteristically quiet and still.
“…I should probably go clean up,” Seliph said after a while, rising from the ground. “Oifey will return to Tirnanog before nightfall. I need to be ready to receive his reports—”
“You’re wrong.”
He glanced down at Larcei, a crease forming above his brow. “About what?”
“Family isn’t just about blood ties, Seliph.” She leaned back and met his gaze. “I don't look up to Shannan because he’s my cousin, I look up to him because he’s the only father figure me and my brother have ever known. He fed us, clothed us, protected us from harm. He taught us everything we know, as any father should…just as he did for you.”
“But—”
“Oifey is the same way,” she continued, holding up a hand to keep him from interrupting again. “Sure, when you were a baby, he and Shannan vowed to keep you safe, to avenge Lord Sigurd’s death and help you claim your birthright and what not. But that's not why they’re here for you now.” She offered a soft smile as she stood up beside him. “They’re here because they love you. Not as a vassal does his lord, but as a father does his son. As family.”
“How can you be certain?” he asked quietly. He wanted to believe it, but it seemed like every time he had tried reaching out to them as a child, they had pushed him away. Keeping him at an emotional distance that Seliph had been too afraid to even think about crossing again.
“Are you kidding? I see it every day!” Larcei started counting on her fingers. “The pats on the shoulder, the hair ruffling, the proud smile they wear whenever you step up to lead our strategy meetings or when you win a sparring match…” Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly at him. “When you don’t resort to dirty tricks, that is.”
Seliph rubbed the back of his head, laughing softly. “Dirty tricks Oifey and Shannan taught me.”
“Exactly!” She threw an arm around his shoulder and grinned. “Those aren’t things your standard run-of-the-mill knight does for their liege lord. Whether or not they even realize it themselves, you’re something special to them. A son in all but blood.”
A son in all but blood. A warmth spread throughout his chest, blossoming into a smile atop his lips.
“Though, isn't Oifey technically related to you by blood somehow? A distant relative?” Her finger scratched at her cheek. “I guess it’d be more accurate to say, ‘a son in all but immediate blood’ or something, but it doesn't sound as poetic.”
Seliph chuckled at that. “It's the thought that counts.”
“Mhm. They’re not the most open people with their feelings, but I’m sure they’ll come around eventually.” Larcei pulled her arm away and went for her training sword. “And with that out of the way…it’s time for a re—”
“Larcei! Lord Seliph!”
Seliph’s head snapped to the side to see Scáthach sprinting toward them. His hair was damp with sweat, his steel drawn and held in a tight grip at his side.
“We’ve got trouble!” He bent over, taking a moment to catch his breath. “We’ve been discovered by the empire. A force from Ganeshire is marching to Tirnanog as we speak!”
Seliph’s breath hitched, panic coursing through his veins. The townsfolk, the people who had been risking their lives to shelter and support the Liberation Army, would all be executed for treason if the imperial soldiers reached Tirnanog’s gates.
“Then we need to get out there and meet them in the field,” Larcei said, slamming her fist against her palm. “I say we show those imperial dogs what the resistance is made of! We’ve been training for years now. It’s time to finally put those skills to use and fight back against the empire’s cruel hand!”
Scáthach threw an exasperated look at his twin. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Larcei, there’s nearly an entire army on its way looking to claim Lord Seliph’s head. We don’t have the numbers to face them.” He gestured around to the empty training yard and the near-barren barracks in the distance. “It’s only us two, Lord Seliph himself, and a handful of young recruits. We’ve got Lana, but all she can do is heal. We need to at least wait until Oifey and Shannan return, and in the meantime get Seliph to safety—”
“We can’t run away anymore!” Larcei jammed a finger into Scáthach’s chest. “The empire is hunting down children! Children! We can’t allow it to go on any longer, not when we have the chance to beat back their forces.”
With a grimace, Scáthach shook his head. “I-I know. I want to stop them too, but…”
“Your orders from Oifey and Shannan are to keep me safe, and not engage the enemy unless absolutely necessary,” Seliph finished for him. “Is that right?”
Scáthach sighed. “Perceptive as always, sir.”
It was obvious to Seliph now. Oifey and Shannan were trying to protect them all with that order, not just out of a sense of duty, not just out of a moral obligation, but because they were family. Their sons and daughters to whom they had bestowed their knowledge, their skills, and their honor, risking their very lives every day to do so.
And that was exactly why, in this moment, they needed to disobey those orders.
“Larcei’s right,” Seliph said. “We can’t afford to sit on the sidelines any longer. We’ve been preparing to fight the empire our entire lives, to save Jugdral and all her people from the empire’s oppressive regime.” He pumped his fist. “The time to act is now! Let’s get out there, defend Tirnanog, and take the enemy down.”
“If that is your command, milord.” Scáthach sounded a bit hesitant, but there was an unmistakable glint of eagerness growing in his eyes.
“They won’t know what hit them!” Larcei looked back at Seliph with a wink. “Just like our dads taught us, right?”
“Dads?” Scáthach asked. His sister just waved a dismissive hand at his confusion, the classic I’ll tell you later gesture.
Seliph cracked a grin. After adjusting his headband and tightening his long ponytail, he gave her an enthusiastic nod.
“Just like our dads taught us.”
———
Seliph paced the halls of Belhalla Castle. Every time he passed by the golden doors of the throne room, nervous jitters spiked up his spine, down his arms and legs, through the heart beating heavily against his ribs. Just past those doors sat dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands of people waiting for Seliph to enter the grand chamber, sit upon Grannvale’s throne, and officially take his rightful place as king.
The thought of it nearly made him faint. He staved off the lightheadedness by taking a long, deep breath, then letting it out, then back in again…
“Sire, there you are!” Oifey’s voice came from the end of the hall. The future Duke of Chalphy jogged over to Seliph with Shannan on his heels, both men panting and slightly red in the face, as though they had just been running for miles. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
Seliph stared at his feet and fiddled with the clasps holding his heavy fur-trimmed cape. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”
“The preparations are complete in the throne room,” Shannan said. “All that we're missing is you. Your people are eagerly awaiting the ascension of their new king.”
Seliph’s face began to pale despite his best efforts to keep himself composed. It was a bit embarrassing, really. He had faced enemies of terrifying power on the battlefield, had helped defeat the Dark God himself alongside Julia, had brought peace to a war-torn continent…and yet, the mere thought of appearing before his people to take the throne he had worked so hard to win had him practically shaking in his boots.
“What’s wrong? Have you taken ill?” Oifey removed his glove and pushed aside Seliph’s bangs to feel his forehead. “You don’t feel feverish, but…”
Shannan put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “If we need to postpone the coronation, just say the word and—”
“Thank you for the concern,” Seliph sighed, “but I’m fine. I’m just…nervous, is all.” He lifted his head to meet their gaze, biting his lip, allowing his insecurities to show through on his face. With Oifey and Shannan, with the men who had raised him as they would their own blood, he did not need to pretend. “I don’t know if I can do this. What if…what if I’m not worthy to wear the crown?”
“The fact that you’re asking that question means you’re already more worthy than most,” Oifey said with a smile. “So many kings have sat upon that throne and used their power for nothing but personal gain. But you’re different, sire.”
“You care,” Shannan added. “You care about the people of Jugdral, and you care about doing the right thing. If you hold onto that, you’ll be one of the greatest kings this country has ever known.”
Tears pricked at Seliph’s eyes. The nervous energy that had been bubbling in his blood for so long that day was washed away by the happiness swelling in his chest.
“Well, I learned from the best.”
The soon-to-be-king took a hesitant step towards Oifey and Shannan, arms open. Without missing a beat, the two men scooped him up into a tight embrace. “We’re so proud of you…” they said in unison. Their fingers laced together behind his back and pulled him close to their chests.
“…my son.”
Seliph smiled into their ceremonial clothes, his tears staining the soft fabric.
“If only Lord Sigurd could see you now,” Shannan whispered into his hair. “So much of what I know, I learned from him. Teaching you what he taught me has been the greatest honor I could have ever asked for.”
“And mine as well.” Oifey pulled away, grinning down at Seliph with wet eyes of his own. “Lord Sigurd took me into his home when I had no one else in the world. In many ways, he was like an older brother to me. My greatest mentor…a father.” A few tears dropped onto his cheeks. “To see you here now, embodying all he had strived to be, and more…his very legacy...I can't put it into words…”
Seliph carefully wiped at his face with the underside of his sleeve. “Th-thank you so much. Your words mean the world to me.” He sighed, turning to the golden doors blocking him off from the throne room. “But there is still one thing left for me to do…and I have stalled for long enough.”
“We’ll be right beside you,” Oifey said, grabbing the handle of the first door. Shannan gave Seliph one last smile and took the other side.
“Forever and always.”
Seliph steadied himself and held his chin up high, fingers grazing the pommel of Tyrfing. Even through his thick gloves, he could feel the gentle warmth of the sacred sword kissing his skin. It was a reminder of the love his deceased father had left behind for him, for his mother, for Oifey, for Shannan, and for all of Jugdral. A love that bound them together as one family…a love he would cherish for as long as he drew breath.
With a short nod from Seliph, the doors were pushed open. The three men strode through the chamber to roaring cheers and applause, entering into a new era of peace and prosperity…
Together.
.
.
.
.
.
From high above in the heavens, a spirit smiled down on them.
Oifey, Shannan, the spirit said, though it knew its voice would go unheard, you understate yourselves. Don’t you see? It is because of your tenacity, your desire to fix the terrible world I left behind, your willingness to take Seliph in as your own despite your insecurities and regrets, that he has grown into the incredible man he is today. He is not just the embodiment of my legacy—he is yours as well.
I couldn’t be more proud of him, and of you.
On behalf of our friends and family, on behalf of our great ancestors, on behalf of all of Jugdral…
From the bottom of my heart…
Thank you, for being fathers to my son.