Nivandor Palace was not the grandest building I had ever imagined, but its elegance was undeniable. Marble pillars soared upward, reflecting the morning sunlight that had just begun to pierce through the tall windows. The walls were adorned with historical paintings, ancient weapons, and royal emblems that loomed like eternal reminders to anyone who dared enter.
And there I stood now, in the center of the banquet hall, side by side with the King himself.
"Not everyone is summoned into this room, Alexander," said King Nivandor, his voice heavy yet composed. He leaned on a golden staff adorned with a sapphire at its tip. "Only those who have matured. Like you."
I bowed my head, hiding the storm in my chest. All of this felt unreal. I, a shepherd armed only with an old anvil and half-formed courage, was now being treated like nobility. But I knew—nothing in this world came free.
"Your Majesty, what is the meaning of all this?" I asked at last, breaking the silence.
The King glanced at me briefly, then looked out toward the small garden beyond the stained glass window. "I thought… perhaps it's time I harvest the fruit that's grown patiently."
He paused, as if weighing his words. "You're not just skilled at forging swords, Alexander. You are the sword itself. Sharp. Clear. And very dangerous—if pointed in the right direction."
I swallowed hard. "You mean… you want me to become a soldier?"
"Not just a soldier. The front line. The first face the enemy sees when war arrives. A leader who doesn't just strike, but moves others to strike."
I turned my gaze away. The thought of my uncle drifted back to me. He despised war—avoided it completely. I remembered the sound of hammering steel in our forge, not the thunder of drums on the battlefield.
"I can't give you an answer right now, Your Majesty."
"You don't have to answer now." The King gave a faint smile. "Stay here for a few days. This palace is your home. Eat well. Reflect on everything. I'll be waiting."
I nodded slowly. But inside, a storm had already begun to brew.