The Forgotten Orphan Claimed The Mythical Blade After The Commander Failed Miserably

The Mark of the Heir

With a single, smooth motion, Arthur pulled. There was no struggle, no strain. The legendary sword slid out of the split rock with a ringing sound that echoed like a silver bell through the ravine. A brilliant, golden light erupted from the ancient runes carved along the blade, cutting through the thick fog and illuminating the damp stone walls. The soldiers gasped, falling back in sheer disbelief. Commander Borin fell to his knees, his face pale as he stared at the glowing weapon in the hands of a mere stable boy.

But as the initial shock wore off, Borin's expression twisted into something dark and venomous. He noticed a glowing red crest appearing on Arthur's right wrist—the unmistakable mark of the lost royal dynasty. Father Thomas, the elderly priest traveling with the squad, rushed forward and fell to his knees before Arthur.

"He is the rightful heir..."

the priest whispered, tears streaming down his face. Hearing this, Borin stood up, his hand slowly drifting to the hilt of his broadsword. The commander's eyes gleamed with a dangerous, greedy light. He looked around the empty, foggy ravine, realizing that no one else would ever know what transpired here.

"An heir?"

Borin sneered, a cruel smile spreading across his face.

"The corrupt King paid me a fortune twenty years ago to make sure the baby prince died in the cold woods. I thought the wolves had finished you. If I kill you now, the secret dies with you, and the King will reward me with a lordship."

Arthur's blood ran cold. The man he had served for years was the very monster who had tried to murder him as an infant. Before Arthur could process the shocking revelation, Borin drew his heavy broadsword, lunging forward with a murderous roar.