Inheritor of Strength (Book one of Alfireán age)

Prologue

Hello, my name is Alfonso Vivyander Brockovich the third. I am the weakest man in the world, and this is my story.

Now, when you hear me say I'm the weakest man in the world, you're probably asking yourself just how weak is he? Well, I'll say that I am probably twenty times weaker than you; in fact, my entire family line, as far back as we can remember, have all been extremely weak. We don't know why, but even if we marry someone strong, the next generation is still weak, if not even weaker, than the previous generation. I am the last one alive in my family and I am twenty-one years old.

But enough about that right now, let's get on to the story.

****

"Good morning sir," a baritone voice said from the doorway.

Alfonso blinked and slowly opened his eyes. Across the room, golden light streamed in through the open windows as the sun peeked over the horizon. A soothing tropical breeze brushed his cheeks, smelling of moist soil, fresh rain, and newly bloomed plumeria.

Tipping his face, Alfonso Vivyander Brockovich the third, one of the seven High Lords of Alfireá, breathed deeply. It was another beautiful day.

With quivering arms, he pushed himself up in bed and looked towards his butler. "Good morning Harold," he said with a smile as he ran his hand through his usually neat light brown hair.

Harold smiled back, walked over to the closet, and pulled out a set of clothes. "Did you sleep well young master?"

"I did," Alfonso answered. He scooted himself to the edge of the bed, placed his feet on the rug, and pushed upwards. For a brief moment, his twiglike legs stood firm. Then they collapsed, crumpling under his body like day-old tissues and pitching him towards the floor.

With a startled yelp, he threw out his arms and braced for impact, praying that his short trip to the ground wouldn't result in broken bones.

Harold dropped his clothes, shot across the room, and caught him moments before he smacked into the hard surface.

Alfonso smiled sheepishly as his butler helped him back to his feet—he really should have been more careful. Harold's stern face glared back at him; his bushy eyebrows scrunched together in disapproval.

Alfonso braced himself for another lecture. Instead, Harold rolled his eyes and sighed, then leaned down to pick up the discarded clothing.

"Sorry," he said, thankful to be off the hook so easily. In a lot of ways, Harold was like a father to him. He had become head butler several years before Alfonso was born. Since then, he had gone far beyond the call of duty, protecting and watching over him as if he were his own son, even more so since Alfonso's father had passed away.

Harold dusted off the clothes, and at seeing an imperfection, tossed them aside.

They looked perfectly fine to me, Alfonso mused as the butler strolled back to the closet and retrieved a different set.

"Breakfast is ready downstairs. Do you need any assistance?" Harold asked, handing the new attire to him.

"No, thank you," Alfonso said with a lopsided grin. He reached out an arm and Harold helped him slip into the formal garments.

Once finished, the butler nodded and quietly left the room, his well kept raven black hair brushing the top of the door post.

* * *

The trip to the dining room wasn't a long one: just out the door, down the stairs, and across the foyer. For Alfonso, though, it might as well have been a trek up Mt. Eldrin. Halfway down the stairs, perspiration started running into his eyes. His muscles ached, and his body quivered as he tried to take another step. Suddenly, the world swirled around him, and he gasped for air as he clutched onto the rich mahogany balustrade.