The boy waited until he was certain that his visitors were long gone, before making the trek to Farathun. He brought his training sword and his travel pack, loaded up with what few rations he possessed. His home, and the meadow that he had grown up in, would wait for his return. And he would return. Triumphant, and strong.

He left, and he did not look back.

It was nearly midday, the safest time to travel short distances. The great heat and high visibility dramatically lowered the chances of being ambushed by the local fauna. Most predators were nocturnal, choosing to operate under the soft glow of Selene, rather than the scorching heat of the Twins. Though there was an abundance of prey abound in the daylight, hunting them was a nearly suicidal task.

The Red Road ran the length of the western empire of Athun. Merchant caravans peppered the sides of the massive pathway, plying their trade with enthusiasm. Their guards kept a wary eye on the surroundings, ever-vigilant against threats, man or monster. Hungry desert-dwellers would find no salvation here, only cold steel. And the path only grew safer, closer to the city.

Refugees, workers, merchants, and warriors all lined up outside the great gates of Farathun. The boy waited his turn with the patience that his father had drilled into him. A warrior knows when to strike, his father had said, and waits until that moment arrives. So the boy waited.

Time passed, as the Twins slowly made their way across the sky. His clothes were designed for light skirmishes, not harsh weather. His palms sweated, as he drummed his fingers nervously against the hilt of his sword. The stifling heat beat down upon him, sapping his strength and mood, but still he waited. At long last, he came before the entrance, where the City Watch screened each entry into the city.

"Identification," the Watchman said, holding out a grubby, gloved hand.

The boy passed over a bronze token, signifying his status as a citizen. It was shaped like a thin, tall rectangle, evoking the image of a sword, and pronounced the boy as the son of the Hero. It was out of date, but still valid. The boy's citizenship was one of the few privileges that had not been stripped away alongside his father's title.

"Hmph," the guard grunted, after examining the token. "The traitor's son. What's your business in the city, boy?"

The boy's hand tightened into a fist, clenching around his sword, but he kept his voice respectful. "I've come for a badge of pilgrimage, so that I may spread the glory of All-King Drokken to foreign lands."

The gate guard laughed, a short, sharp bark. "What glory could you possibly bring to Him? Your existence itself is a stain on His Memory."

"I've committed no crimes," the boy replied hotly.

"Yet," the guard scoffed. "Blood runs true. Its only a matter of time."

The boy snarled, but quickly forced control over himself. This man was nothing compared to the misery he had faced this morning. And lashing out at the Watchman would only distance him from his goals. He would control himself. He would let his anger simmer within him until he could unleash it on a worthy target. Not this weak, ignorant man before him.

"On what grounds do you bar my entry?" the boy asked quietly.

The guard frowned. The boy had the right of it. He was a citizen who had committed no crimes. His entry could not be denied simply because of his bloodline, or the crimes of his father. He was to be treated as a loyal citizen until his actions proved him otherwise. To do differently would be to deny the All-King His servant. Not a single soul in Farathun would dare to do that.

The guard stepped aside.

"Make your request quickly, traitor's son, and make it well," the guard said. "The city is darkened by your presence."

The boy clenched his teeth, and entered.

Farathun was broken into three sections. The outer walls upon which the boy had just entered, was where the masses gathered. The markets here made those dotting the Red Road like like children hocking fruit. Armed warriors patrolled the streets, advertising their skills. Weapons and armor hung on display in front of nearly every stall. The noise was constant, grating even. An uninterrupted stream of offers for every service imaginable.

But mostly oriented towards killing things. Farathun was a mercenary city, and its goods tended to reflect that fact.

Further into the city lay another set of thick gates, and yet another checkpoint. These walls were not the blocky, featureless obsidian bulwarks that kept the city safe from roaming monsters or conquering armies. These were dividers, formal and exquisitely crafted. Created for the sole purpose of separating the inner city from the outer. For separating citizens from the rabble. Lovingly engraved on these marble edifices was the entire history of Farathun, beginning in the Age of Founding, and ending in the present time, presented in the form of a massive mural. It was considered the greatest of honors to be granted the privilege of passing through these gates.

"Denied," the guardsman stated blandly, returning to the boy his token.

"What?" His voice was numb with shock. These guards were unlike those at the gate. Their purpose was solely to fulfill their duty. They would not be distracted by personal grudges, nor bribery, nor greed, nor any other failing of men. They were chosen specifically for their strength of character. They would not deny the boy out of spite.

"The new Hero is accepting challenges," the guard explained simply.

It was the law of Farathun that a Hero could be replaced at any time by a superior warrior. The Hero should be second only to the King in strength and skill, and so must accept any challenge to his title. That said, it would be unreasonable to expect the Hero to drop everything that he's doing at any given point in time, just to accept a challenge. The solution was simple. The Hero would announce one day per season, when he would make time to accept challenges. The newly named Hero had chosen today.

These were rarely battles to the death, or even real battles. Only a truly confident warrior would dare challenge a Hero named by the All-King. Losing either participant would be a terrible outcome. Thus, most duels were simple clashes of Memory, with both sides exchanging a brief series of blows. They lasted minutes at most, and that, only if the challenger was particularly stubborn. The boy's father had once told him, a true warrior will understand if he is outmatched, within the first few blows. Every exchange beyond that is just another step on the slow march of inevitability.

The boy's family had held the position of Hero for six generations. Their legends were set in stone. They were widely respected by the warriors of Farathun. There were few, if any challenges. This new Hero lacked that background. He would use this event to cement his own standing, and forge his own legend. One that would, by necessity, have to overshadow that of the previous Hero.

The boy understood the gate guard's refusal. It did not make it any easier to hear.

"I do not intend to challenge the Hero," the boy stated grimly. Yet.

The guard stared stonily down at him. "Intention is irrelevant. Your presence would disrupt the proceedings. There can be no discord within these walls."

"I won't even attend," the boy offered. He hadn't even known about the event until now; it was a small sacrifice. "My goal is to petition the All-King for a badge of pilgrimage. I will be leaving the city, tonight."

"Return tomorrow," the guard advised.

Tomorrow.

That was... unacceptable.

Every part of the boy's mind rebelled at the thought of turning around. Of returning home empty-handed. No deeds or glory or name. Would he set out again, only to be turned away once more? How many times would it happen, before defeat became his new reality? He could see it, his feet traveling across red earth, over and over. An endless loop of futile pleas and training without purpose. The slow erosion of his will. The fading pain of time, consigning his bitterness to Memory. His father would lie unredeemed, his bloodline would fade into obscurity.

"No!" the boy cried, shaken from the vision. "I must go today!"

The guard was unmoved.

The boy took a deep breath, forcing away the brief panic that had overtaken him. What could he say to convince this man? How could he show his sincerity?

An oath. "I swear by the All-King, I will bring no discord within these walls."

"A boy's promise," the guard rumbled slowly. "Easily made. Easily broken."

Again, his honor was questioned. The anger was familiar and comforting. Once again, he crushed it down into himself, saving it for a worthy target. "Not just a boy. The son of a Hero." He stared defiantly into the guard's eyes, daring him to contradict his words.

"And a traitor." The boy flinched, but the guard continued, "Your father was a great warrior, and an honorable man. Until he wasn't. Are you the same?"

"I will keep my promise," the boy insisted.

The guard leaned forward, looming over him. He wore a full helmet, obscuring his features. Only his eyes could be seen, glittering coldly. His voice was deep, and echoed against the steel.

"Swear on your father's Memory."

"What?" the boy asked.

"Your oath. Swear it by the honor your father once bore, and I shall let you pass," the guardsman explained.

The boy did not hesitate. "I swear it. On my father's Memory. On his honor, and that of my family. I will not bring discord within these walls."

A long silence, then the guard chuckled. "Only a boy would make such a promise. Will you keep it? I wonder."

"I've given you my word," The boy replied stiffly.

"So you have." The guard stepped aside, allowing him through. "Go, boy. Show me what your word is worth."

He didn't understand the guard's words, but he passed through regardless. He would keep his word. Of course he would. His father had taught him that, had impressed upon him the need and necessity. In life, a man was only as good as his word. Promises should be kept. They were binding; holy, even. A man who cannot keep his word is no man at all.

He didn't understand the guard's words. Right up until he did. The Hero was holding his challenges outside the entrance to the final gate. There, just beyond the entrance of the All King's castle, people gathered en masse to bear witness to their new champion. There, mere steps away from his destination, the boy's feet came to a stop.

His father's words echoed in his ear.

"A man who cannot keep his word is no man at all."

He was a boy, and he could not keep his word.

Because the new Hero stood before him. The man stood, surrounded by admirers and covered in accolades. He stood, clad in resplendent armor, shining and radiant. He stood, tall and proud, as if he weren't a mere shadow of the man who came before him. He stood, basking in the glory that the boy's family had won with their blood and sweat. He stood. Alive. While the last Hero remained dead and condemned. And there, on his hip.

His father's sword.