MORE THAN THE NAMES THEY GIVE US
The royal city's gates loomed like giants carved from black stone, towering above the dirt road. Akio approached them quietly, his shoulders stiff, hands wrapped tightly around a worn stick. His clothes were hand-stitched, rough around the edges, the knees faded from too many falls.
As he stepped onto the clean marble of the outer court, the laughter began.
Children stood near the gate—well-dressed, polished like they were born from gold. They played without worry. Then they saw him.
"Hey look, it's a stray dog," Toren smirked.
"He smells like wet pigs," Lira added, her nose wrinkling. "Did he roll in their trough again?"
"No, no... he is the pig," Vess said. "Look at him."
Toren snickered. "I wonder if his parents sleep in the mud too."
"They probably can't even afford rags," Lira said. "I heard his mother begs for salt in the market."
Vess leaned in, voice shrill with mockery. "Aww... are you gonna cry, little piglet? Or maybe run home to your peasant shack?"
Akio says nothing. He clenches his fists, his head still lowered, not a word, not a sound.
Toren stepped forward, smug and slow. "You know what they say, Akio... like father, like—"
The stick moved fast.
With a sharp crack, Akio struck him in the mouth. Toren dropped with a cry, blood spilling from his split lip as he clutched his face.
"My prince!" a guard shouted.
Footsteps thundered across the marble. The guards rushed to lift the fallen boy. All laughter died. The courtyard turned silent.
The courtyard goes silent.
Heavy footsteps echo. Varnok, towering and grim, walks forward with a thunderous presence. He stares at Akio, the silence between them thicker than ice.
He takes the stick from Akio's trembling hands, breaks it with his hands, and speaks coldly:
"Let's go home," he said coldly.
The guards glare, no one followed them, no one stopped them
They walked.
Later that night, The wind howls through the trees. Akio finally speaks, his voice cracking
"I didn't mean to— I just— he said things about you... about Mom..."
Varnok stopped and turned, eyes glowing faintly with restrained anger and sadness.
"Why did you come?!" he roared.
Akio flinched. "I... I thought you needed me..."
"I told you to go home, Akio. To your mother. That wasn't a suggestion. That was your duty."
Tears welled in the boy's eyes.
"But they insulted you," he whispered. "They insulted Mom... they said—"
"It doesn't matter!" Varnok snapped.
He breathes heavily, then kneels before Akio, gripping his shoulders firmly.
"You don't fight because you can," he said. "You fight when you must. And even then—never with pride. Never with hatred."
Akio lowered his eyes, ashamed.
"But... how do you just take it, Dad?" he asked softly. "The words... the hate?"
Varnok's features softened. He stood and looked toward the sky.
"Let me tell you a story," he said.
They sat together on a large stone near the edge of the road. The moon peeked out through torn clouds. Its light painted their faces in silver.
"There was once a great king," Varnok began. "Not the kind who sat on golden thrones barking orders. No. He was different. They said he was born of winter itself—that the mountains bowed when he walked, and the rivers froze when he whispered."
Akio's eyes widened.
"His power was terrifying," Varnok said. "He could have ruled with fear, crushed kingdoms with a flick of his hand... but he didn't."
"Why not, Father?" Akio asked.
"Because he knew something most kings never understand," Varnok replied. "That real power isn't control—it's compassion."
He looked down at his son.
"This king walked among his people. Not above them. He wore no crown, only scars—earned in battles fought for those who never thanked him. He gave his bread to the hungry. He stood at the gates during war, sword in hand, even when his generals told him kings don't bleed."
"Was he ever afraid?" Akio asked.
"All the time," Varnok said. "But he kept going. Even when his people turned against him. Even when they called him a curse instead of a king. They spat on him. Blamed him when crops failed. Hated him when the winters were cruel. But he stayed."
"One day, an army of shadows came. Thousands of dark, twisted things with no soul. His warriors trembled. His council fled. But the king... stood alone."
"He fought them by himself?" Akio whispered.
Varnok nodded.
"He stood at the gates alone. Not to prove he was strong—but to buy his people time. He said, 'If I must fall, let it be so they may rise.' He battled to his last breath. When he fell, the sky cried. Snow turned to tears. But his sacrifice lit a fire in their hearts. The cowards became warriors. The broken stood tall. They won."
He paused, "They won because one man showed them that love—even in silence, even when it hurts—is the greatest weapon of all." Akio looked at him, "What happened to the king?" Varnok placed a hand on his shoulder.
"He died. But his name lived—not in songs, but in the hearts of every child who grew up free because he endured the hate... so they wouldn't have to."
"That's what it means to be strong. Not to fight for glory—but to suffer for those who may never know your pain." He breathed deeply.
"He used his power to shield his people. Even when they doubted him. Even when they spat on his name. Even when everyone walked away—he walked among them. Because true strength isn't in how hard you strike… but how much you can endure for what is right."
Akio's lips trembled.
"You are my son," Varnok said firmly. "My legacy. But if you want to be a true man... you must learn when to hold your sword—and when to lay it down."
Akio's voice cracked. "I'm sorry..."
"I know," Varnok whispered, pulling him close, giving him a hug. "Just don't let anger write your story. We are more than the names they give us."
They sat there under the stars. No more words. Just the wind whispering through the trees, Father and son bound by something deeper than blood—honor, and the will to rise above.