His body shook. Crimson blood seeped from his numerous wounds. Godwin felt his eyelids grow heavier by the passing moment. He struggled to stand up again. No matter how much his body begged him to sleep in comfort—embrace the black—he refused to give in.

He was Godwin!

Bastard or not, he was Godwin! They would all revere his name one day. The bards would sing his legends and myths. Nobles would speak nothing but praise. Women would soon swoon at the very sight of his they did to the knights of yore.

They would see him ride a majestic charger—armor glimmering in the unrelenting sun—dreaming as he once had done to be him one day.

Even royalty would plead for his sword in their knightly guards.

Nay, he would ride into the sunset, mighty lance in one arm, and beautiful princess in the other.

Pain brought him back into reality, just to get the last glimpse of a shining sword being swung at him. The blade’s flat grew in size until it smacked him on his raw jaw. It sent him spiralling to the ground for the hundredth time.

He felt all the knights in training around him wince at the same time. Only none jeered or made light of his situation. They all knew well that soon enough their turn would come. This same humiliation and beat down would be theirs to share.

Brunor the Cruel lived up to his given title. Cruel and uncaring, he was in the training field as he was in the battlefield. The man was an unrelenting, unstoppable force of nature that never slowed or tired before his foes.

He always charged head first into spear regardless of who stood in front of him. Somehow the man still stood today, a testament to his great skill and power. A curse to all his student who he terrorized day in and day out.

“Geth up,” Brunor spoke with a heavy lisp, difficult to understand. “Your father will not thave ya from me wrath! Bathtard boy.”

No one dared to comment on what the knight could have said, but the gist of it was clear as daylight to Godwin. It made his eyes burn once more with rage and an unquenchable flame he knew not where it came.

He must have revenge on this blistering hot day. If that was the last thing he did.

What Father?!

He screamed into his head as his eyes let out an unnatural light. It was green, just like his eyes.

As a bastard, they destined him to be an outcast, sent off to die as an unclaimed and dishonoured knight. Lucky were the few of his station that found a home and warm hearth to return to after a day of hard work. Luckier still were those who grew old enough to see their children into adulthood or watch as their wives aged with grace.

Godwin spat a clot of blood. He wielded the flames in his chest to stand. He cared little for how heavy his leaded legs felt or how a scorching pain tore at his muscles.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his training gear; a worn tabard not worth ten copper coins. Without once breaking eye contact with the blue eyed-devil in front of him, he picked up his blunted iron sword, silencing the surrounding crowd.

They begged him to give in to weakness and fatigue. Fear struck at their hearts at what a master like Brunor could do to his students.

But he was not like them!

“Glory will be mine! Honor will be mine! Only the divine shall stand in my way!” Godwin roared to the world. He charged at his Master with crazed eyes like a mad bull. It may not have been a sensible thing to try considering who stood there with all his glory, but what else was he supposed to do against someone so dominating and imposing?

“Yeth!” Brunor stepped forward, his eyes lit up like blue lanterns. “Let it thake ove’, boy!” He charged at Godwin without an ounce of restraint. “Be the thword!”

With a deafening crash, their swords collided, letting out a spray of sparks. They were both sent back a few steps, Godwin more so than the experienced Brunor. But return Godwin did.

The young man let his sword sing for the first time. All the frustrations he held deep in his chest bubbled out without pause. From his supposed father’s indifference to his very existence. To those who would bully him because of his station as a forgotten son of a count.

Strike after strike he met Brunor the Cruel in a show that left his peers in awe. Not once did he hold back, nor was he thrown around like a second before. He stood toe to toe with a mighty knight many would shiver at his mere name.

That was until his legs faltered. He stumbled forward with unsteady legs. The flame that fueled his frenzy had gone cold, leaving only embers for him to grasp at.

There were no more wild emotions. The unseen guiding hand had disappeared. He stood in the middle of the training yard filled with confusion about where he was and what the hell happened.

Only to meet Brunor’s blade's flat face first. Then he met the cold, hard ground next with an audible thud. He couldn’t blink his eyelids from fatigue, much less move his heavy body. He laid on the ground-drool slowly seeping out of his mouth-staring at the scraggly man before him.

Messy beard. Check.

Hundreds of scars covering his face. Check.

Yellow knight attire. Check.

A mean and sinister smile made more pronounced with his spine tingling cackle. Check.

All of it met its required prerequisites. That only made him more confused. What the hell was he doing battling one of the twelve strongest knights in the fort? More importantly, why in the father’s name above did the man use his transcended power on him, a lowly squire (Knight in training)?

Brunor’s mouth started moving, but Godwin couldn’t hear anything except a constant ringing in his ears. The man’s narrow eyes slowly dimmed-still leaving a trail of light-as he walked closer and closer to his downed form, but in a slow and exaggerated pace.

Try as he might, he could not get up and run away. He tried to crawl, but only achieved what a fish flopping on land would look like.

Thankfully, the black finally came. With a relieved sigh, he knew that in a state of unconsciousness, even Brunor would do nothing to him.

But, as his eyes closed, he heard the last words that carried him away.

“...Woth be prouth. Ya finall’ tranthended.”

Godwin had no clue what Brunor said. But he hoped beyond hope it wasn’t a promise for more beatings.