thief of fate-Chapter 90: The Original Valerian Diaries 1

From the Day I Was Born Until My First Shattering

They say I was born on a clear night, when the stars gathered to form an arc of light above the kingdom’s sky.

They say my mother smiled at me the moment she saw me, and my father, Edgar Lucard—the king of sword and throne—held me in his arms and whispered words that still echo through the halls of the palace to this day:

"Let this boy be a flame that lights the darkness..."

But I remember none of that. All I remember is the cold... and the silence.

As if the entire world was waiting for something great—then sighed in disappointment.

I grew up in the palace’s embrace, surrounded by guards, servants, and my siblings—who were always one step ahead of me, two steps... or a whole world.

Raine, my eldest brother, was a thunderbolt. From the moment he held a sword at age six, everyone started talking about him. Fast, fierce, arrogant in a way befitting a prince.

Clair, my sister two years older than me, was as quiet as a grey night, showing nothing—yet terrifying the guards with just a glance.

Then Alexis, my younger brother... He wasn’t strong, but he was the smartest.

And me... I was Valerian. The third child, son of the king, who found nothing in himself worthy of that name.

When I turned ten, the moment of the annual talent assessment approached. A traditional rite, conducted in the grand hall before the statue of the First Sword, where the child places their hand on the Pulse Stone, and the stone reveals their essence.

I had trained a lot. I practiced meditation, body movements, failed attempts at controlling energy. I wasn’t good—but I was a small hope clinging to any light.

The night before the assessment, I sneaked onto the palace roof. The sky was full of stars, just as they said it was on the night I was born.

I sat there, imagining something inside me would suddenly explode. Something that would dazzle them all. That would silence Raine. That would make Father truly smile—not the official smile he cast on me the same way he did on the guards.

But that didn’t happen.

In the morning, I stood before the stone. My hand was trembling—not from fear, but from longing. I wanted... I wanted to be something.

"Place your hand," the master said.

I did.

A moment of silence, then... nothing.

Three seconds. Five. Ten.

Then the stone glowed—but its light was faint. Dim. Like dust glittering under a distant sun.

The master looked at me. He said nothing.

My father was present, standing beside Raine, who had finished his test minutes earlier. Raine’s stone had shone so brightly it made the walls tremble.

As for me... even the stone barely acknowledged my existence.

"Energy level: very low," said the master. "Talent: almost nonexistent. Development potential... limited."

Limited.

The word rang inside me like a slap.

I looked at my father. He didn’t speak. He didn’t get angry. He didn’t even show disappointment. He just nodded once—then turned and walked away.

Raine followed him, his stride carrying something of a smugness.

As for me, I stood there, my hand still on the stone—as if begging it to pulse again. To give me another chance.

But it didn’t.

The days that followed were a blur.

The servants didn’t change how they treated me, but they started calling me "the little one," "the sweet prince," "the poor thing"... all the titles used for the weak, without saying the word itself.

Clair, when she passed me in the hallway, looked at me with an expression I still remember. It wasn’t pity, nor disdain. It was something in between.

Something like the stillness before winter.

As for Alexis, he approached me one night, sat beside me in the garden, then said:

"I know how you feel."

"Do you really?"

"More than you think... But don’t let them decide who you are."

I looked at him. I wanted to ask: How? But the words betrayed me.

Training began after that, as was expected of all royal family members. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

But I was an afterthought. The combat instructors focused on Raine, then Clair. I was told to observe, to repeat what I saw—but no one expected anything real from me.

And I tried. I swear I tried.

Long hours spent striking wood, repeating movements, reading about energy flows, about focus, about the "inner spark" one is supposed to feel when soul and body harmonize.

But my spark... never came.

One night, I went to my mother. She was sitting on her balcony, reading a book on the kingdom’s history.

"Mother..."

She looked up.

"Did you know? About my talent?"

She smiled sadly. "A mother knows everything... but hope doesn’t die, Valerian."

"I’m not like them."

"You resemble yourself. That’s what makes it hard."

"Father... he’ll never truly look at me, will he?"

She went quiet. Looked up at the stars, then said,

"Your father only sees those who shine. But one day, he’ll realize that some precious metals don’t gleam quickly."

Then she stroked my hair—and left me alone.

At ten, I realized something: I wasn’t chosen.

I didn’t have a unique talent, nor dormant energy waiting to burst.

I wasn’t one of those children born with a mark on the forehead or a glowing eye at night.

I was just Valerian.

And for the first time, I began to wonder... is that enough?

Is it enough to be simply... me?

I didn’t know the answer.

But I swore by something small inside me, like a voice no one could hear, that I would not stop.

I might be the weakest in the Lucard family... but I would not be the weakest in my story.

At eleven, I started to face a reality that looked nothing like my dreams.

I no longer imagined my hidden power exploding or discovering I was the heir to some ancient forgotten force.

No, my dreams had shrunk to simpler things: to strike my opponent just once—before he knocked me to the ground.

My opponent, as always, was Zeke.

Zeke had a sharp tongue... and a sharper sword.

He always wore a sideways smirk when he saw me enter the training yard, as if my mere presence was a joke.

"Oh, Prince Valerian came to train today! Watch out, wooden floor—you might get hurt when he falls!"

He’d say it loudly, and the laughs would follow.

I never answered. I’d just grab my sword and stand in battle stance, even though I knew the match was decided before it began.

I fought him dozens of times.

And lost... dozens of times.

Once he hit my shoulder, once my knee, once he threw me to the ground mockingly before waving to the yard like he’d finished a performance.

But I didn’t stop.

I came back the next day—and challenged him again.

"Do you enjoy being hit?" he asked once while wiping my sweat from his sword.

I answered, lifting my sword again: "No. But I hate running away more."

Each time I fought him, I learned something small.

When he breathed. When he lunged. Which foot he stepped with first. How many times he glanced around for an audience.

I watched him like a soldier watches the battlefield.

But my body... my body didn’t obey me.

It was slow. Heavy. As if strength lived within me—but denied me when I needed it.

And yet, I returned. Always.

The only person who treated me without pity, without fake smiles, without comments about "improving performance"... was Carlos.

My personal servant.

A man whose hair had begun to turn silver—but whose eyes remained as clear as if time had never touched them.

He appeared every morning at my door with the same simple bow.

He carried my small armor, cleaned my sword, and prepared warm water for me.

"Are you ready today, Lord Valerian?"

"I won’t win."

"But you’ll fight."

"Yes."

"That alone is enough to make me proud of you."

His words weren’t many, but they grew inside me like small roots in cracked soil.

Once, I returned from the training grounds with my knee bleeding. Zeke had knocked me down. I walked with a limp, and every step stung my pride more than my wound.

I entered my room and threw the sword on the ground.

Carlos said nothing. He just approached, knelt before me, and began cleaning the wound.

"Why doesn’t anyone say I’m getting better?"

"Because they don’t see what I see."

"And what do you see?"

"I see a boy who keeps fighting, even when he knows he’ll lose. That’s something not many people do."

"But I don’t win, Carlos."

"Not yet. But you’re building something... something different."

"What?"

"You’re building willpower. And people fear those who don’t give up, even if they’re not strong."

I stayed silent. My tears were close. Not from pain... but from something else I couldn’t name.

I began training in secret.

Carlos would wake me before sunrise. We’d sneak into the back arena, where no one could see us.

He brought me back to the basics: how to breathe. How to balance my body. How to move lightly. How to use my weaknesses to my advantage. He wasn’t a professional warrior, but he was sharp. He’d observe me, adjust my stance, repeat the training until time was forgotten.

"Your left knee is your weakest point."

"I know."

"Then protect it, and don’t rely on it during maneuvers."

"Your right hand is slow to withdraw."

"Because my sword is heavy."

"Then let’s adjust the sword."

He made me a special sword. Lighter, a bit longer, with better balance. A sword unlike my brothers’, but one that suited me.

When I faced Zeke again, I didn’t win. But I blocked his first strike. Then the second. His third blow cut me... but he was panting when he did.

The outcome didn’t change... but this time, Zeke didn’t smile. He looked at me, for a few seconds, then said:

"You’re getting better."

His words weren’t praise. They were an acknowledgment.

And for me, that was a victory.

One night, I sat with Carlos in the garden. The moon was low, and the breeze was cold.

"Do you think I’ll become a good warrior one day?"

"No."

I looked at him, shocked.

"You’ll become something else... You’ll become a stubborn warrior. And that’s much rarer."

"But my father doesn’t see me."

"He only sees the light, Lord Valerian. But some things only grow in the dark of night."

"I’m tired, Carlos."

"And that’s normal. To be tired, to break, to feel weak. But remember one thing..."

"What is it?"

"You didn’t stop. That alone is enough for now. The rest... will come."