Forsaken Legacy: The Exiled Swordsman’s Path

"In the heart of the continent stood the Kingdom of Aetheria, a realm known not for its size, nor for the vastness of its lands, but for the power that resided within its borders. Aetheria was a kingdom shaped by its people—by warriors, scholars, and sorcerers of unmatched talent. It was a land where strength dictated fate, and only the worthy could carve their names into history."

"At the center of this kingdom ruled King Lucius VIII, a sovereign both feared and revered. His reign was one of order and ambition, for Aetheria thrived not through conquest but through the brilliance of those who swore loyalty to it. Under his rule, ten great families stood as the pillars of Aetheria's might, each wielding influence that could shake the very foundation of the kingdom."

"The Draegorath, wielders of infernal magic, their flames capable of reducing armies to cinders. The Silvershade, masters of illusion and espionage, their very presence elusive as shadows. The Frostweavers, whose icy dominion turned battlefields into frozen wastelands. And then, there was the Veldrath—swordsmen whose blades danced with a speed and precision unmatched by any in the kingdom."

"Each family held dominion over their respective strengths, yet none could stand alone. Aetheria flourished in the delicate balance of their power, a harmony maintained by both fear and respect. To bear the name of one of these families was to inherit both privilege and expectation. Yet, for some, that name could feel more like a curse than an honor."

The air in House Veldrath was heavy with history. It hung in the hallways like an invisible force, the very walls seeming to whisper the names of ancestors who had carved their place in Aetherian legend.

The Veldrath name—one of the ten great families of Aetheria—was spoken with a mix of reverence and fear. There were those who whispered the name in awe, for it was synonymous with unmatched strength, precision, and swordsmanship.

It was said that Theodric Veldrath had been the mightiest swordsman to ever walk the land. His blade, Vehemar, was forged with such skill that it was as if it had been born to cleave through the very fabric of fate. In every battle, every skirmish, Theodric had been a force of nature. His strikes were so precise, so powerful, that it was said the wind itself would alter its course to follow the arc of his blade.

The people of Aetheria feared him. The warriors of other nations trembled when they heard the name Veldrath. The kingdom's enemies knew that if they crossed the family, they would meet death, swift and sure.

And yet, the greatest strength of House Veldrath was not in their physical prowess alone. It was in their legacy—a bloodline of warriors who had never failed, never faltered, always standing as pillars of strength for Aetheria. The house had been untouched by defeat for centuries, a symbol of Aetheria's unwavering might.

The expectation was that every descendant would live up to the unimaginable heights of their ancestors. Anything less was failure. Anything less would dishonor their name.

"And so, within the walls of House Veldrath, where warriors were born and legends were forged, one boy sat among giants—unseen, unheard, and unwanted."

Eryndor Veldrath, one with no magic to fuel him, no natural talent in swordsmanship. The name Veldrath had become a symbol of his own inadequacy, a constant reminder of the impossible standard he could never hope to meet.

Thegrand dining hall of House Veldrath was alight with golden chandeliers, their soft glow reflecting off polished marble floors. The long, ornately carved table stretched across the room, filled with lavish dishes—roasted venison, buttered vegetables, and aged wine poured into crystal goblets. The air was thick with the scent of spices and slow-burning incense, yet beneath the luxury, the atmosphere was suffocating.

Seated at the head of the table was Valdric Veldrath, the patriarch of the family, his presence commanding without effort. His cold silver eyes, reminiscent of tempered steel, scanned the table with quiet authority. Beside him sat Elaine Veldrath, his wife, regal yet distant, offering only soft smiles to her favored children.

The occasion? Lyanna Veldrath, the youngest of the siblings, had been accepted into the prestigious Aetherial Academy—a feat that was expected, but nonetheless celebrated.

Across the table, Darius, Kaelen, and Selene raised their goblets in a toast to their younger sister.

"To Lyanna," Kaelen said, his deep voice carrying a trace of amusement. "Another prodigy of House Veldrath, as expected."

Lyanna grinned, her violet eyes shining with pride as she clinked her goblet against theirs. "I'll make sure our family name stands above the rest at the academy."

A chorus of approval followed, praise flowing easily.

Then, as if on cue, the shift occurred.

From celebration—to scorn.

Darius leaned back, his sharp gaze flickering toward the one silent figure at the table. "It's ironic, really," he mused, swirling the wine in his goblet. "Lyanna, the youngest, already surpassing someone who has had years to prove himself yet remains utterly useless."

Eryndor.

He did not react, his grip on his fork steady. His food sat untouched before him.

Kaelen smirked. "You should take notes, little brother. Watch how a real Veldrath carries themselves."

Selene chuckled, her tone laced with venom. "Notes won't help him, Kaelen. He was born defective."

More laughter. More words—sharper than any blade.

Eryndor listened. He always listened.

Eryndor remained silent as his siblings' laughter grew louder, their voices filled with condescension. The weight of their gazes pressed down on him, but he didn't flinch. He had endured this for years—he had learned to endure.

Darius smirked, setting his goblet down with a deliberate clink. "Honestly, I still don't understand why Father hasn't disowned you yet. You contribute nothing to this family."

Kaelen chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Because it would be an embarrassment to admit we ever had a failure like him in the first place. Better to just pretend he doesn't exist."

Selene, ever sharp-tongued, tilted her head with a mocking smile. "Maybe he thinks he's above us. He never speaks, never argues. Just sits there like a ghost at our table." She sighed dramatically. "Then again, ghosts have more presence than he does."

Lyanna, the youngest, twirled her fork between her fingers. "Maybe if you beg the academy, they'll take you as a servant, Eryndor." Her tone was syrupy sweet. "That way, you can at least watch what true warriors look like."

The words cut deeper than any blade.

Kaelen (snorting): "Tell me, Eryndor, does it sting when you realize that even Lyanna—your little sister—has more promise than you ever did? You've truly set a new low for the family."

Eryndor's expression remained still, though the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed the weight of the words. His gaze stayed fixed on his plate, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but the rest of his face remained impassive—an emotionless mask he had perfected over years of insults. If anyone were to look closely, they would see the faintest tremor in his hand as he gripped the edge of his goblet, his knuckles white with the effort of holding back the storm brewing within him.

He said nothing, of course. He never did. But inside, a voice screamed. A voice that reminded him—again—that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much effort he put in, he would never be enough for them.

But the worst was yet to come.

His father, Valdric Veldrath, who had remained silent through it all, finally spoke.

"I have trained countless warriors," his voice was calm, unreadable, yet it commanded the room. "Men and women who have carved their names into history." He set his knife down, folding his hands together. Then, he looked at Eryndor.

It was the first time in a long while.

And for a moment, just a brief moment, there was something in his eyes.

Disgust.

Disappointment.

Resignation.

"You are the first to disgrace the Veldrath name."

The room fell silent.

Eryndor felt something in his chest tighten. His fingers curled into fists beneath the table.

"Of course."

"Of course, this is how it is."

He said nothing. He never did.

Instead, he stood. His chair scraped against the polished floor as he turned and walked out of the dining hall.

No one called after him.

No one stopped him.

 Because in their eyes, he wasn't even worth that much.

The night air was cold, sharp against his skin. The training grounds lay before him—silent, empty, and unyielding. Unlike the walls of House Veldrath, there was no judgment here.

Only effort.

Only pain.

Only the proof of his existence.

Eryndor grabbed one of the wooden training swords from the rack. He didn't need mana. He didn't need talent. He just needed his body to move—to push past the weight pressing down on his chest.

And so he swung.

Once.

Twice.

A hundred times.

His arms burned. His grip ached. His breathing grew ragged. But he didn't stop.

He never stopped.

"Weak. Useless. A disgrace."

His father's words echoed in his skull, fueling every strike.

His footwork faltered. His stance broke. His movements weren't clean, weren't precise. But he forced himself to keep going. Because if he stopped, if he let himself rest, those words would swallow him whole.

Hours passed.

His body screamed for rest, but he ignored it. He had trained like this countless nights before—alone, unseen, unheard.

Until, at last

His legs gave out.

He collapsed onto his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His hands trembled, raw from gripping the training sword too tightly.

And for the first time that night, he allowed himself to breathe.

"I won't let them be right."

"I won't let this be my story."

As exhaustion pulled at his limbs, a single thought burned in his mind:

I'll find a way. No matter what it takes.