The summer air was thick with the sounds of clashing wooden swords and boyish laughter as I watched from the shaded pavilion. My son, Alaric II, parried a thrust from Prince Theron II, his movements quick and confident for a twelve-year-old. The boys had been at it for nearly an hour, their faces flushed with exertion and joy.
"Your form is improving, Theo," my son called out, using the prince's nickname as he sidestepped an attack. "But you're still telegraphing your moves."
The young prince grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. "And you're still too predictable with your counters, Ric."
I couldn't help but smile at their banter. Watching them was like seeing ghosts of the past—my father Duke Alaric I and his lifelong friend King Theron I had shared this same bond. Now their namesakes continued the tradition, perhaps even more closely than their grandfathers had.
