(KBTCM) Ch 31: Brother Vs Sister, I Wont Give Up!

(The Past)

The boy's footsteps were quick and uneven, echoing in the cavernous halls of the palace as he struggled to keep up with his father. Theron's small fists were balled at his sides, his cheeks still wet from tears he tried—and failed—to blink away.

King Allaric walked with the calm pace of a man used to carrying the weight of a kingdom. His stride was long, measured, but he didn't miss the sound of his son's sniffles.

"You and your sister had another argument, huh?" the king asked, his voice even, though tinged with amusement.

Theron's lip trembled. "She's nothing but a big bully," he blurted. "She doesn't respect me at all, even though I'm older!" His words tumbled out in a rush, his small boots scuffing the polished stone. "If only I were bigger—if only I were a giant—then I'd show her. I'd pick on her the way she picks on me!"

King Allaric slowed, resting a heavy, calloused hand on his son's shoulder to steady him. "So you think size is what determines the outcome of a fight?"

Theron scrubbed his eyes with the back of his sleeve and looked up, his pout unshaken. "It sure helps."

The king chuckled, a deep rumble that filled the hallway. He reached down and tousled Theron's dark hair, his touch both rough and affectionate. "It sure does," he admitted with a grin. "But it isn't everything."

Theron frowned, confusion etched across his young face. "Then what is?"

The king stopped, turning fully to face his son. He bent down slightly, so his imposing frame didn't seem quite so far above. His eyes softened, though they still held the steel of a man who had seen and survived too much.

"It wasn't size that made me king," he said. "Nor was it my strength."

Theron tilted his head, curiosity winning out over his sulk. "Then what was it?"

King Allaric's mouth curved into a smile—one tinged with pride, but also with something heavier, harder to name.

⸻

(Theron)

The echo of those words lingered like a phantom years later.

Theron now stood in the training yard, his armor polished and his sword steady in his grip. All around him, knights of Vaeloria had gathered, murmuring with uneasy excitement as they formed a wide circle. At the center of it stood Theron—and towering above him, his sister Sylara.

The shadow she cast was enough to swallow him whole. She crouched slightly, her golden hair spilling like a waterfall over her shoulder, her grin wide with mischief. "Well," she said, her voice playful and thunderous all at once, "if you're so eager to prove yourself, I'll make it easy. I'll use a single finger." She raised her hand, wiggling one massive digit as though to taunt him.

Theron didn't answer. He set his jaw, lifted his steel sword—the blade dulled for training—and held it ready. A wooden one would've splintered the moment it struck her skin.

Sylara's grin widened at his silence. With a theatrical sigh, she lowered herself onto the earth. The ground quaked beneath her as her immense body settled, breasts and stomach pressing into the dirt with such weight that the earth itself cracked in protest. Dust puffed up around her as she rested her chin on her hand, her massive blue eyes glittering down at her brother.

"Well, come on then," she purred, a single finger already poised.

The knights shifted uncomfortably, watching the impossible mismatch unfold. But Theron never broke his stance. His father's words rang in his head, steadying him: It isn't everything.

Theron's boots dug into the dirt as he charged forward, the weight of his dulled steel sword balanced in both hands. His breath came sharp, his heart hammering—not from fear, but from the thrill that came with finally facing her.

Sylara's shadow fell over him as her massive hand began to lower, her palm outstretched, only her index finger extended like a spear. She moved with lazy confidence, her grin wide as she tracked his steps.

Theron swung his blade in a clean arc, his training honed into muscle memory, striking upward toward the finger that descended like the point of a lance.

The world seemed to slow in that moment—the glint of steel, the rush of his breath, the enormous finger closing in.

Steel met nail.

Sparks flared where the dulled edge scraped against the hard, smooth surface of her fingernail. Theron braced, muscles straining as he pushed forward with all his strength.

Above him, Sylara didn't even shift her stance. She merely pressed back with the tip of her finger, her grin turning smug. "Is that all you've got, little brother?" she teased, her voice carrying across the training yard.

Theron gritted his teeth, his shoulders screaming with the effort to keep his sword steady. For a moment, he thought he might hold her—but then with a casual flick of pressure, Sylara shoved the blade aside.

The force nearly tore the weapon from his hands. Theron stumbled backward, hopping quickly to regain his balance as her massive finger drew back.

His stomach dropped. He knew what she was going to do.

He lifted his blade, planting his boots, bracing himself with every ounce of strength he had.

Sylara bent her finger, mischief dancing in her sapphire eyes. "Let's see if you can handle this," she purred.

The finger shot forward, faster than he expected, slamming against his sword with a resounding clang. The impact ripped through his arms like a hammerblow. Theron was flung backward, rolling across the dirt, his grip slipping until the blade nearly flew from his hand. He clutched it tight at the last second, his palms stinging from the shock.

Above, Sylara let out a small laugh, tilting her head as she peered down at him. "Oh dear. Was my little flick too much? Maybe you should give up."

Her words were honeyed mockery, but Theron barely heard them.

He pressed his hand into the dirt and pushed himself to his feet, his chest rising and falling. He stood there for a long moment, silent, staring up at her.

Then—slowly—he smirked.

Sylara blinked, her expression faltering just slightly as her little brother looked back at her with defiance in his eyes.

Memories rose unbidden. The echo of boots in the palace hall, his small hand in his father's. The warmth of King Allaric's palm on his head. The words spoken that day, words he hadn't fully understood until now.

What made me king... was the fact that I never gave up. Not even when times got rough.

Theron raised his sword again, his grip steady despite the trembling in his arms. His voice carried clear, ringing with stubborn fire.

"I won't give up."

For the first time, Sylara's smirk softened into something else—not mockery, but recognition.