The morning sun rose over the village of Riverton, painting the wheat fields in shades of gold and amber. It was a sight that most villagers had grown accustomed to—beautiful, yes, but also mundane. Just another day of endless labor under the watchful eye of the distant capital.
For seventeen-year-old Aldrin Riverborn, however, the view held something more.
He stood at the edge of his family's wheat field, a wooden sickle hanging loosely in his calloused hand. His dark brown hair was already damp with sweat despite the early hour, and his simple linen shirt clung to his lean frame. But his eyes—sharp and grey like storm clouds—weren't focused on the crops that needed harvesting.
They were fixed on the distant silhouette of Valorhold Castle.
The royal fortress stood on the horizon like a titan of stone and steel, its white towers piercing the morning sky. Somewhere within those walls, the Royal Knights trained—warriors who wielded Aura, the mystical life force that separated legends from common men. Knights who defended the kingdom from monsters, bandits, and threats that ordinary soldiers couldn't hope to face.
Knights who lived with honor, purpose, and glory.
"Aldrin!"
The sharp voice shattered his reverie like a hammer through glass. Aldrin turned to see his father, Thomas Riverborn, marching toward him through the wheat stalks. The older man's face was weathered from decades under the sun, his hands rough as tree bark, and his expression carried the perpetual exhaustion of a man who'd worked every day of his life without rest.
"Daydreaming again?" Thomas's tone wasn't cruel, but it was heavy with disappointment. "The eastern field won't harvest itself, boy. We're already behind schedule."
"Sorry, Father." Aldrin gripped his sickle tighter and moved to begin work, but he couldn't help one last glance toward the castle.
Thomas followed his gaze and sighed deeply. "Still thinking about knights, aren't you?"
Aldrin didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"Son." Thomas placed a dirt-stained hand on Aldrin's shoulder. "I know you have dreams. Every young man does. But dreams don't feed a family. Dreams don't pay taxes to Lord Brennan. Dreams don't keep a roof over your mother and sister's heads."
"I know that, but—"
"There is no 'but.'" Thomas's grip tightened slightly. "You're a farmer's son. I'm a farmer. My father was a farmer. His father before him. It's honest work, Aldrin. Honorable work."
"I'm not saying it isn't," Aldrin protested, pulling away slightly. "But why does being born a farmer mean I have to die a farmer? The Royal Tournament happens every five years. Commoners can enter. If I win—"
"If you win?" Thomas laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Aldrin, thousands enter that tournament. Mercenaries with decades of combat experience. Minor nobles with inherited Aura techniques. Professional duelists who've trained since they could walk. And you think three years of what? Swinging sticks in the forest? You think that'll be enough?"
The words stung because they carried truth. Aldrin had been training in secret—practicing swordplay with wooden branches, running through the hills to build endurance, studying old combat manuals he'd borrowed from the village elder. But compared to real warriors? He knew he was nothing.
Not yet.
"I have to try," Aldrin said quietly, meeting his father's eyes. "I can't spend my whole life wondering 'what if.'"
Thomas stared at his son for a long moment, and something complex flickered across his weathered face—pride, fear, sorrow, all tangled together. Finally, he shook his head.
"Your mother and I will discuss this tonight. For now, we have work to do."
The rest of the day passed in monotonous rhythm—cutting wheat, binding sheaves, loading the wagon. Aldrin's younger sister, Elara, brought lunch at midday: bread, cheese, and weak ale. She was only twelve, with their mother's gentle features and bright green eyes that always seemed to see more than they should.
"You were looking at the castle again," she said, sitting beside Aldrin on the wagon's edge while their father worked a few rows away.
Aldrin took a bite of bread. "Was I that obvious?"
"You're always obvious." Elara swung her legs back and forth. "Father's worried, you know. He thinks you'll get yourself killed chasing impossible dreams."
"Maybe it's impossible. Maybe it's not." Aldrin stared at his calloused hands. Hands that had only known farm work and crude wooden swords. "But I'll never know if I don't try."
Elara was quiet for a moment, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a small cloth bundle. She unwrapped it carefully, revealing a tiny carved wooden knight—no bigger than her thumb. The craftsmanship was crude but earnest.
"I made this for you," she said softly. "So you remember that someone believes in you, even when you don't believe in yourself."
Aldrin felt his throat tighten. He took the small figure gently, as if it were made of glass. "Elara, this is—"
"Don't cry, stupid." She punched his arm lightly, though her own eyes were suspiciously bright. "Just promise me something."
"What?"
"Promise that if you become a knight, you won't forget about us. About home."
Aldrin pulled his sister into a one-armed hug. "Never. I promise."
That evening, after the day's work was finally done, Aldrin sat alone on the hill overlooking Riverton. The village was small—maybe two hundred souls—with simple wooden houses clustered around a central well. Smoke rose from chimneys as families prepared their evening meals. Peaceful. Safe. Ordinary.
And suffocating.
Aldrin pulled out the wooden knight Elara had given him, turning it over in his hands. The setting sun cast long shadows across the valley, and for a moment, he could almost imagine himself in armor, standing against a horde of monsters, protecting people who couldn't protect themselves.
"Foolish dreams," he muttered to himself, echoing his father's words.
But even as he said it, something stirred deep within his chest. It wasn't pain, exactly. It was more like... warmth. A tiny ember of heat that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Aldrin frowned, pressing a hand against his sternum. The warmth grew slightly stronger, then faded. He'd felt this sensation before—random moments over the past few months when his emotions ran high. He'd dismissed it as imagination or indigestion.
But what if it wasn't?
What if it was Aura?
The thought sent a shiver down his spine. Everyone was supposedly born with Aura, the instructor's handbook he'd read claimed, but most people never awakened it. It required intense training, life-or-death situations, or inherited bloodline techniques to unlock.
Commoners rarely managed it. Farmers? Almost never.
"Testing, testing," Aldrin whispered to himself, feeling ridiculous. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on that warmth, willing it to grow stronger.
Nothing happened.
He tried again, concentrating harder, imagining the energy flowing through his body like the books described.
Still nothing.
"Idiot," he said aloud, standing up and brushing dirt from his pants. "Sitting on a hill pretending to have magic powers. Father's right. I'm delusional."
But as he turned to head home, he didn't notice the faint—almost imperceptible—shimmer of white light that had flickered around his clenched fist for just a fraction of a second.
Somewhere in the distant capital, in a dusty tavern where forgotten warriors drowned their regrets in cheap ale, an old man with one arm suddenly looked up. His scarred face twisted in surprise.
"Impossible," Sir Gareth Ironheart muttered, staring at his remaining hand. The faded knight's ring on his finger—an artifact that detected Aura fluctuations—had just pulsed for the first time in five years.
Someone nearby had awakened.
Someone with potential.
The old knight stood abruptly, tossing coins on the table. His instincts, dulled by years of alcohol and regret, suddenly roared back to life. He didn't know who it was or where exactly they were.
But he would find out.
After all, Sir Gareth Ironheart had nothing left to lose and everything to prove. If there was even a chance that someone—anyone—could reignite the honor of true knighthood...
He had to know.
Back in Riverton, Aldrin Riverborn climbed into bed in the small room he shared with his sister, completely unaware that his life was about to change forever. He clutched the tiny wooden knight, staring at the ceiling.
"Three years," he whispered to the darkness. "Three years until the tournament. That's one thousand and ninety-five days."
He'd make every single one count.
Even if the whole world said it was impossible.