Shadow Prince

The morning sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the training yard as William stepped onto the packed dirt. The chill of dawn still lingered in the air, but the scent of metal, sweat, and magic was already thick, the sounds of clashing wooden swords and murmured incantations filling the space.

It was finally here.

The day when he—Prince William Alpin—was expected to prove his worth.

To the instructors.

To his father.

To the kingdom.

And though no one would ever say it aloud—to prove that he belonged among his siblings.

His stomach twisted slightly, but he ignored it. He was used to expectations meaning nothing.

Around him, other students gathered—mostly noble-born children, each clad in tunics and training gear that bore the colors of their houses. There were a handful of commoners, chosen based on skill alone.

William didn't know most of them.

Not that it mattered.

The nobles had always overlooked him, assuming he was unremarkable—a shadow among his more prominent siblings. And the commoners? Most were too nervous to speak freely around royalty.

Most.

Not all.

Because standing just a few feet away, grinning like a fool, was Roland Fenwick.

Unlike the neatly composed nobles, Roland looked like he'd already fought a war before breakfast. His brown hair stuck up wildly, his tunic was wrinkled, and his boots were half-covered in dirt.

The moment he spotted William, his grin widened.

"There he is! Thought you might've run off and left me to suffer alone, Will."

William barely had time to brace himself before Roland threw an arm around his shoulders, shaking him slightly.

No regard for rank. No hesitation. Just… familiarity.

William rolled his eyes, but for once, the tension in his chest loosened slightly.

Their instructor, a battle-hardened knight named Ser Gavron, strode onto the field. He was a towering figure, arms crossed, surveying them with the intensity of a war general assessing soldiers, not children.

"We begin with the blade," Ser Gavron announced. "Magic will come later. First, we see if any of you can survive a real fight without breaking into tears."

Roland leaned toward William, muttering, "I feel personally attacked."

William snorted quietly.

Their instructor's eyes snapped to them.

"Something funny, Fenwick?"

Roland immediately straightened, hands behind his back. "Not at all, Ser! Just admiring your fine battle-hardened wisdom."

A few nobles snickered.

Ser Gavron narrowed his eyes but moved on.

"Pairs. Now."

Of course, William and Roland ended up against each other.

"Think you can handle me, Will?" Roland teased, spinning his wooden training sword in his hand. "I'd hate to embarrass a prince on his first day."

William raised an eyebrow.

"You do that on a daily basis just by existing."

Roland grinned. "Fair."

The two faced off.

Roland was faster, stronger, and more aggressive, while William was calmer, more precise, more controlled.

The moment Ser Gavron called "Begin", Roland rushed forward.

His strikes were quick, relentless, forcing William to immediately step back, deflecting each blow.

"Come on, Will! I thought you were supposed to be a noble! Fight like one!"

William didn't react.

Instead, he watched. Studied. Roland's stance was aggressive, but not reckless. His swings were fast but predictable.

A few more seconds of dodging and blocking, and William saw his opening.

As Roland went for a wide swing, William sidestepped—quick, smooth—and with a swift strike to the side, knocked Roland's blade clean from his hands.

Roland blinked.

The nobles watching fell silent.

Then, Roland grinned.

"Well, shit."

William stepped back, lowering his sword.

"You're too impatient," he said simply.

Roland rubbed his ribs, still grinning. "You're too quiet."

Ser Gavron watched both of them closely.

"Again."

After an hour of sparring, the trainees were called to the magic circle.

A Mage Instructor, robed in deep indigo, waited with an array of magical artifacts. Unlike the knights, the mage spoke with a tone that was calm but expectant.

"Magic is a tool," she explained. "It can be taught, trained, mastered. Each of you will have an affinity—some strong, some weak. Your first test is simple."

She gestured toward a stone tablet, etched with Aether runes.

"Place your hand here. The stone will respond. Show us your gift."

One by one, the trainees went.

Some produced sparks of fire. Others made the stone glow with soft blue light.

A few barely elicited a response.

Then—Roland's turn.

The moment his hand met the stone, a warm golden light flared outward, filling the training yard with a soft radiance. Then, from his fingertips, small embers of fire flickered to life before vanishing.

"Fire and light magic," the instructor nodded, impressed.

Roland blinked. Then, grinning, he turned to William.

"See that, Will? I'm basically a hero already."

Then—it was William's turn.

The moment his hand met the stone, everything changed.

The lanterns around the training ground flickered.

Shadows rippled, stretching unnaturally long beneath him.

A deep cold curled around William's fingertips—different from the others, different from anything else.

The stone itself remained unchanged.

But the air around him shifted.

The instructor's gaze sharpened.

Ser Gavron and the Mage Instructor exchanged a glance.

William pulled his hand away immediately.

The shadows snapped back to normal. The lanterns stilled.

It was over in seconds.

But someone had noticed.

Before the instructor could move on, a slow clap echoed across the yard.

William's blood ran cold.

Jackson.

The golden-haired prince strode onto the field, his smirk dripping with amusement.

"Fascinating," Jackson mused, eyeing William. "You barely made the stone react, and yet… everything around it did."

William said nothing.

Jackson's smirk widened.

"Let's see if your swordplay is just as unusual."

He drew a wooden practice sword, flipping it once in his hand.

"Fight me, little brother."

Silence fell over the training yard.

William met Jackson's gaze, knowing there was no easy way out of this.

Roland muttered beside him, "Well… shit."