Birthright: The Contested Seat

Harren

The training yard was thick with the scent of sweat and the sound of clashing steel. Weeks had passed since Harren commenced his training under Lionel's tutelage, and his progress was evident. Lately, his sole focus had been on countering a specific maneuver that had consistently resulted in his defeat. 

Lionel pressed forward with unyielding determination, launching his attacks without respite. Harren's unwavering gaze remained fixed on Lionel, scrutinizing each movement with utmost concentration.

Finally, the anticipated moment arrived when Lionel positioned himself for the lethal strike. Seizing the opportunity, Harren swiftly evaded, deftly swinging his sword behind him to parry Lionel's blow. The resounding clash of metal against metal resonated in his ears, and the realization dawned upon him—he had finally succeeded. Discarding his sword with a triumphant cry, Harren turned to Iria, who had been observing their sparring session from a safe distance. Her laughter mingled with applause as she celebrated Harren's victory.

"Did you see that, Iria? I did it!" Harren boasted playfully.

"Yes, father! You are the finest swordsman!" she responded joyfully.

Her praise held more significance to him than any accolades Lionel could bestow, not that Lionel would offer any praise in the first place. He staunchly adhered to his tradition of chastisement without a hint of commendation. Nevertheless, Harren had to be acknowledged for his weeks of dedicated effort. As he turned to face Lionel, a sudden kick crashed into his chest, expelling the air from his lungs and sending him sprawling onto the ground. He lay there momentarily, desperately attempting to regain his breath. Lionel loomed over him; his face flushed with fury.

"Did I tell you to fucking stop?" he bellowed. "Do you believe you can pause in the midst of a battle to revel in a successful parry?"

"This is not an actual battle, you imbecile!" Harren retorted, gasping for air between his words.

"Lion! Don't harm my father!" Iria interjected, her face flushed with frustration.

Lionel's gaze flickered towards her, his countenance softening. He stared at her momentarily, as if recalling a memory.

"Your father is unharmed, little one," he replied dully, nudging Harren's boot with his foot.

At that very moment, one of the maids entered the yard to escort Iria to her lessons. "Be kind, Lion!" she admonished as she was escorted away.

As Lionel refocused his attention on Harren, he was met with a powerful punch to his face. Momentarily staggered, he took a few steps back, furrowing his brow as the redness crept back into his face.

"Do you understand that I could end your life before you even have a chance to plead?" he hissed, his voice dripping with deadly venom.

"That may hold true, but I have done nothing to warrant it. You attacked me when I was defenseless, so I retaliated in kind," Harren spat.

"You dropped your weapon amidst our battle. I was teaching you a lesson. Perhaps I should have gutted you with my sword instead because that is what would have transpired had we been on an actual battlefield," Lionel retorted, seething with anger.

"Once again, this is not a real battlefield. I have dedicated myself to this training, sacrificing precious time with my children. I have made remarkable progress and finally succeeded in parrying that maneuver. Yet, you continue to admonish me," Harren argued.

"I admonish you because grown men ought to be reproached when they behave like children. Do you require my praise to thrive? Am I supposed to reward you for parrying a simple attack? I am not your father, present solely to bestow praise whenever you perform well. My purpose here is to forge you into a warrior," Lionel shouted.