He stumbled, arms crossed as if to defend himself from his mentor’s cutting words. This wasn’t how Kestrel had anticipated the day to go. How had a bright, pleasant morning spiraled into this? 

“I’m sorry, sir! I can do better, I will be better, just please..” The sight of an uncharacteristic glower on his mentor’s face tapered off his plea. “The years I spent training you are nothing but a waste,” he scoffed. “I never should have chosen you.” Kestrel’s eyes widened impossibly further. 

He should’ve known something would go wrong. What else would happen when the great Swithin Cardore chose a random stableboy as the knight to carry on his legacy? Eight years from that day, and Kestrel was still too impulsive, too eager to jump to action with no thought of the consequences. Of course Swithin was angry. The formidable reputation he’d built from decades of leading the king’s army to victory in every battle could very well be worn to ruins if the public discovered that he’d trained a boy who was infamous for his ability to cause trouble even with the best of intentions. He’d become the town laughingstock for even associating with him, let alone spending almost a decade training him with no apparent results.

Still, Swithin’s anger was unforeseeable. For the past week, his mentor had praised him, speaking highly of his growth and offering kind words of encouragement at the end of every training session. Kestrel thought he’d finally grown into himself, that he’d finally become the type of person Swithin had seen in him when he’d chosen him all those years ago. What had changed? He couldn’t recall anything that could have curdled Swithin’s favor. Could his mentor be crumbling under the pressure? 

No, of course not. Swithin, the illustrious figure everyone regardless of their age looked up to, couldn’t be falling victim to such a mundane ailment. He’d bested every enemy he encountered; of course he could handle something faced by even those quarter his age.

Kestrel stared up at the ceiling. He knew reliving that day over and over would do nothing but crumble his already wavering determination, but he couldn’t help himself. All the years his mentor spent nurturing him, all the years preparing to be his successor, were they all a facade? Were all the words of encouragement after every , the moments of merriment when he mastered new techniques? Even after several months, he’d still have moments where it all seemed like a bad dream. Where Swithin chose him for his character, rather than because of his role in some prophecy. Where he was worthy not for his fate but for his tenacity for learning, his eagerness to help anyone in need, his intelligence in forming plans of action.

Where did the prophecy come from anyway? The thought that Kestrel would surpass Swithin was laughable. There was no way the prophecy was anything but false. Maybe the great Swithin Cardore fell victim to a sham, Kestrel mused with derision. He’d felt himself bittering more as the days went on, albeit accompanied by a sick sense of guilt as though he were the one betraying Swithin.

He rose from his bed, fed up with his mind for returning to that day no matter what he did to divert his thoughts. He was still training towards knighthood, and it would only hinder his efforts. Perhaps he couldn’t beat Swithin, but he could come close, proving that Kestrel was stronger than to let his betrayal ward him away from his goals.