(KBTCM) Ch 32: Not By A Long Shot

(Theron)

Theron's chest rose and fell with every sharp breath. His lungs burned, his arms ached, and his sword felt twice as heavy as before. The dirt beneath his boots was torn and scored where he had been thrown. Still, he stood there — back straight, eyes locked upward — staring at his sister.

Sylara loomed above him like a monument of flesh and steel. Her golden hair caught the morning sun, her skin gleaming faintly with sweat. Yet the grin she wore wasn't one of malice anymore. It was softer now — amused, yes, but almost fond. She tilted her head slightly, resting a hand on one shapely hip.

"Look at you," she said, her tone somewhere between teasing and admiration. "Still standing. You really don't know when to quit, do you?"

Theron didn't answer. He simply wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist, keeping his eyes on her.

Sylara sighed, her smile faltering. To the watching knights, it looked like simple exasperation — but behind those deep blue eyes, something else stirred. Guilt, maybe. Worry. She hadn't meant to push him that far. He was her brother — her little idiot of a brother — and even if she made a sport of teasing him, she never wanted him hurt.

"You know," she murmured, bending lower until her massive face hovered close to the ground. Her breath was warm against his skin. "Maybe you should give up. You've proven your point, Theron. Even I can respect that."

Her words came softer now, the edge gone.

But Theron didn't lower his sword.

He just stared back at her, chest heaving.

Sylara began to straighten, brushing dirt from her arm as she muttered, "Let's call it a day—"

"Are you running away?"

The words froze her in place.

Sylara's head turned sharply, strands of golden hair sliding across her shoulder as her eyes locked on him. "What did you say?"

Theron's lips curled into a defiant smirk, the kind that looked almost out of place on his dirt-smeared face. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, knuckles whitening.

"This battle isn't over," he said quietly — his tone steady, unwavering.

Sylara blinked. She'd expected exhaustion, maybe a laugh, but not this. And certainly not that look in his eyes — fierce and unyielding. The ground between them shimmered faintly as the air began to twist, carrying an unnatural heat.

"What in the—" she began, stopping short.

A low hum filled the training yard, subtle at first, like a heartbeat beneath the soil. The knights murmured, stepping back as the air grew warmer, rippling like the surface of a forge.

Sylara's brow furrowed. "Theron?"

Her brother didn't answer. His stance remained firm, though his body trembled slightly. Then — faint but unmistakable — the air around him began to glow.

It started at his feet: a pulse of deep red, like molten metal beneath the dirt. The shimmer rose, curling up his legs, his torso, until a faint crimson aura surrounded his whole body. The heat was real — she could feel it — brushing against her skin like the breath of a furnace.

Sylara instinctively leaned back, one hand lifting to shield her face. "What... what is this?" she muttered, her voice shaking with equal parts awe and disbelief.

Theron's hair fluttered gently in the rising warmth, his eyes burning with that same impossible red light. He raised his sword again, and the metal — dull and battered from before — now caught the glow of his aura, reflecting it like a blade fresh from the forge.

He looked up at his towering sister, that smirk still on his face.

"Not by a long shot."

For a heartbeat, silence blanketed the yard.

Then the earth beneath him cracked — a faint shockwave rolling outward from where he stood, scattering dust and forcing the nearby knights to stumble back.

Sylara stared, her lips parting in astonishment. "Impossible..." she whispered, eyes wide as the heat pressed harder against her skin. She rose from her crouch, settling back on her knees to get a better look. The sight of her little brother — barely reaching her ankle — standing amidst that swirling crimson energy sent a strange chill through her chest.

This wasn't bravado anymore. This was something else.

She swallowed hard, her playful smirk finally gone. "Theron..."

But Theron said nothing. He adjusted his grip on the sword and stepped forward, every movement fluid, sure, and radiating a quiet power that even Sylara — the giant princess of Vaeloria — could feel deep in her bones.

The heat intensified. The dull training sword glowed faintly along its edge.

Sylara found herself smiling again — not the mocking grin from before, but a wide, exhilarated one that reached her eyes.

"Alright then," she said softly, her voice trembling with both pride and anticipation. "Show me what you've got, little brother."

And for the first time, the playing field between them didn't feel quite so uneven.

The next strike wouldn't be a game.

It would be a test — one worthy of a prince of Vaeloria.

***

(Kerren)

The forge beside the house was small, but it carried the heat of a mountain's heart. Sparks leapt and died in the air like fireflies, the glow of molten metal washing the cramped stone walls in flickering orange light.

Kerren stood in the center of it, sweat beading down his face, his eyes closed in deep concentration. The hammer in his hands trembled slightly, its head already warm from the heat radiating from his palms.

Across the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, stood his father. The man's face was half-shadowed, his thick gray beard streaked with soot, his eyes hard and unblinking.

"Concentrate, boy," he said, his voice deep and rough from years of smoke and work. "Don't let the power control you. You control it."

Kerren took a shaky breath. "I—I'm trying."

"Trying isn't enough," his father snapped. He pushed himself off the wall, walking closer until his boots scraped against the ash-stained floor. "The Flame of Gold doesn't bend to hesitation. It bends to will. To focus. Now—again!"

Kerren nodded quickly, tightening his grip on the hammer. His arms quivered as he raised it. He could already feel it—heat building in his chest, crawling outward through his veins. It wasn't ordinary warmth; it was alive, like something ancient and divine was stirring beneath his skin.

He drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.

The air shimmered.

A faint golden glow began to rise from his shoulders, swirling like embers caught in wind. His breath hitched as his body began to heat from the inside out, his skin glowing faintly with threads of light.

His father's voice cut through the hum of the forge. "Good. Don't fight the flame—guide it. Remember whose gift it is."

"The Flame of the People," Kerren said through clenched teeth, sweat dripping from his brow.

"The Flame of our God," his father replied firmly.

"The Flame of Gold," Kerren finished, the words barely leaving his lips before the heat flared stronger.

A sudden wave of energy surged through him. The hammer in his hands pulsed like it had a heartbeat of its own, glowing from within. For a brief, breathtaking moment, Kerren felt limitless. His muscles thrummed with power, the fire burning beneath his skin as if his soul itself were aflame.

Then it wavered.

A thought—unwelcome, distracting—slipped into his mind. Rowena's face. Her bright blue eyes, her smile when she'd told him the news: I got you a job in the royal forges.

His grip faltered.

The golden glow flickered, sputtered like a dying torch.

His father's voice barked again, closer now. "Clear your mind! A steady heart, Kerren! No doubt, no fear—nothing!"

But he couldn't. He couldn't push the thoughts away. The excitement, the anxiety, the guilt—all tangled together, choking his focus.

He wanted to tell his father about the job. He wanted to tell him everything. But he knew how that would end—his father's hatred of the royals, of the king who'd married a giant, of everything that came from the palace.

And worse, he couldn't stop thinking about her. The way she'd looked at him—not as a peasant, not as something small or worthless, but as a person she believed in.

The conflict inside him cracked his concentration.

The flames flared wildly around his body, then vanished in a violent puff of smoke.

Kerren gasped, dropping to his knees, his hammer clattering to the ground. The glow around him vanished completely. He was left trembling, his chest heaving as sweat dripped onto the floor.

He'd failed again.

For a moment, the only sound in the forge was the dull hiss of cooling metal.

Then his father spoke, his voice quiet but sharp as a blade. "You let it slip again."

"I... I lost focus," Kerren admitted, keeping his gaze on the floor.

His father's boots shifted in the ash, the faint creak of leather filling the silence. "You always do," he said, his tone flat. "You've got the fire in your blood, but no discipline to master it."

Kerren looked up, the sting of shame tightening his throat. "I'll do better, I swear it."

His father didn't answer right away. He just looked at his son—his only son—kneeling on the ground surrounded by the fading warmth of divine fire. Then, with a slow exhale, the older man turned toward the door.

Kerren watched him go, hoping—foolishly—for something encouraging. Anything.

But when his father reached the threshold, he stopped just long enough to mutter under his breath.

"What a waste."

The words hit harder than any hammer blow.

Kerren closed his eyes, his hands still trembling as the last traces of the golden flame faded from his skin.

He sat there for a long moment, breathing in the scent of ash and iron, the memory of the princess's voice echoing faintly in his mind:

Be here early tomorrow, and I'll show you to the forge myself.

Despite everything—the exhaustion, the shame—a small, stubborn smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He would go.

He would prove himself.

Even if it killed him.