Aelar's Forge

Brom rose with the first light of dawn, the crisp morning air brushing against his skin like an old rival challenging him to a duel. His muscular frame stretched tall as he stood by the window, watching the sun climb lazily over the horizon, smearing gold and amber across the sky.

"Another day," he muttered, cracking his neck, "another excuse to make everyone else look lazy."

Without hesitation, he launched into his morning routine. Each move—push-up, stance, twist—was fluid and deliberate, honed over years of painful, sweat-drenched repetition. His muscles burned in that satisfying way, like a forge warming before steel met hammer.

"Perfect form is perfect combat," he reminded himself, executing a flawless kata with the grace of a waterfall and the attitude of a man who knew it.

Afterward, Brom stepped into the shower. Steam filled the room as hot water sluiced down his frame, carrying away the exhaustion and leaving only readiness in its place. He closed his eyes, savoring the fleeting peace before the chaos of the day.

Clean and refreshed, Brom headed to the dining table, stomach rumbling like a beast freshly awakened. As he lifted his spoon toward the glorious union of freshly baked bread and seasoned eggs, peace descended like a blessing.

And then it shattered.

"BROOOOTHER!!" came the shriek from somewhere within the house.

Brom froze mid-bite. The spoon hovered in the air. His eye twitched.

"By the gods," he groaned, placing the spoon down with a sigh. "Can't I have one quiet breakfast?"

Moments later, Vey burst into the room like a storm with tangled hair, mismatched socks, and the energy of someone who had both good intentions and terrible timing.

"Brother," she panted, "you won't believe what just happened!"

"Did a dragon eat the roof again?" Brom deadpanned.

"No!" Vey huffed, then added with a sheepish smile, "I washed all your clothes."

Silence.

Brom blinked. "You... what?"

"I washed everything!" she said brightly, clasping her hands behind her back and rocking on her heels like a mischievous child waiting for praise. "Even that stinky uniform you always wear for training."

Brom's jaw tightened. "Vey... I set that uniform aside for today. It was clean. And pressed."

"Well," she offered, "now it's extra clean. And possibly... still damp."

He rubbed his temples. "Why? Why do you do this to me?"

"I wanted to help," she said with a pout. "Besides, you're always acting like a grumpy old bear. Consider it sibling appreciation."

"Appreciation would've been letting me eat breakfast."

"Okay, okay, jeez," Vey grinned, tossing a towel over his shoulder. "Wear my old training clothes until yours dry."

Brom raised a brow. "You mean the ones with the flowers on the sleeves?"

"They're camellias, thank you very much. Symbol of inner strength."

He sighed, but despite himself, a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "Next time, just ask, Vey. Before you raid my wardrobe like a laundry bandit."

Vey beamed. "Deal. And I'll take care of the house while you're gone today."

Brom stood, collecting his gear. "Try not to burn it down."

"No promises!"

As Brom made his way down the hall toward Aelar's dormitory, his mind shifted gears. Breakfast had been sacrificed to the gods of sibling chaos, but his focus now turned to the boy he was assigned to train.

He knocked three sharp times on the dorm door. "Aelar. Your training starts now."

No answer.

He tested the knob—it turned easily. Carefully pushing the door open, Brom stepped inside and blinked.

Spotless. Not just tidy, but pristine. The bed was made with military precision. The floor gleamed. Even the window looked like it had been polished.

"What in the..." Brom muttered. His eyes landed on a bag resting against the wall. Inside were swords. Not store-bought weapons—but hand-forged blades. Each one neatly labeled by year.

"Sir?" A voice came from behind.

Brom turned, caught mid-snoop.

Aelar stood in the doorway, his expression neutral, but his tone edged with curiosity. "May I ask what you're doing?"

"Assessing the situation," Brom replied dryly, stepping back from the bag. "Are these swords yours?"

"Yes, sir. I crafted them all."

Brom arched a brow. "Why?"

"They mark my progress," Aelar said simply. "One every year since I could hold a hammer."

Brom nodded, impressed despite himself. "Dedication. I like that."

He picked up a bundle from a nearby chair. "Here. Put this on."

Aelar unfolded the uniform, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the emblem of Lord Rodel's household guard. "This is... mine?"

"You're being trained as one of us now. The uniform comes with the job—and the expectations."

"I understand," Aelar said, his posture straightening.

"Good. I'll be outside. Change fast. We've got a long day ahead."

As Brom stepped into the hallway, a thought passed through his mind: There might be something special about this one. He wouldn't say it out loud—especially not in front of Vey—but the kid had potential.

A few minutes later, Aelar emerged, wearing the uniform slightly loose on his frame, but carrying himself with quiet pride.

"Sir," he said, standing at attention, "I'm ready for whatever comes."

Brom nodded, motioning for him to follow. "Then let's begin. Today, you'll learn what it truly means to fight under Lord Rodel's banner."

"I look forward to it," Aelar replied.

As the two of them walked through the estate toward the training grounds, the morning sun rose higher, casting light on a new chapter for both master and apprentice.

And far behind them, in the house, Vey was already setting something on fire.

Probably.