novelraw Chapter 108 : The Weight of Words
Chapter 108 : The Weight of Words
(Rooga POV)
By morning, Crome was already in the yard again, swinging.
He hadn’t stopped since dawn. His shirt clung to him with sweat, his arms trembling just enough to show how tired he was—but still, he kept going.
I sat under the tree, watching.
The sound of his wooden blade cutting through the air was steady, heavy, and—honestly—boring.
I picked at the grass. “You’re still at it?”
He grunted, mid-swing. “Yeah.”
“You’ve been swinging for hours. You’re not learning anything new.”
He didn’t look at me. “Doesn’t matter.”
I sighed and stood. “Come on, let’s go to the village. You need to rest, and I’m bored out of my mind.”
He hesitated, lowering the sword just a little. “Kain said I should train every day.”
“And I said you’ll collapse before you ever beat Father,” I said. “We’ll be back before anyone notices.”
Crome frowned, thinking for a moment, then sighed. “Fine. Just for a bit.”
The path down from the estate was quiet, the morning sun warm against the back of our necks.
The fields stretched golden and alive—Father’s work feeding half the valley.
As we passed the first cottages, I started hearing voices.
Low at first, like the sound of insects in tall grass. Then clearer.
“Skipping training again.”
“His father’s still out there swinging, and the boy runs off to play.”
“If it were Elara, she’d still be training. Not everyone in Valemont’s bloodline can carry the sword, I guess.”
“Lazy brat. You sure that’s even Darius’s son?”
The words landed one after another, quiet but sharp.
Crome slowed beside me. I didn’t stop walking.
I could feel their stares as we passed—the men pretending to stack grain, the women hanging clothes, all of them whispering when they thought I couldn’t hear.
I kept my face straight, eyes forward, steps even.
Crome, though, clenched his fists.
His jaw tightened until his teeth creaked.
When another voice muttered, “Even his friend’s trying to train, and he drags him away to play,” Crome stopped completely.
He turned toward them, shoulders tense. “You—”
“Don’t,” I said quietly, catching his arm.
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He looked at me, furious. “They’re talking about you like garbage!”
“I know.”
“Then why don’t you say something?”
“Because they’re not wrong.”
That made him pause. His anger faltered, confusion taking its place.
I kept walking, voice calm. “I did skip training. I did drag you away. Let them talk. It’s all they can do.”
He stared after me for a long moment before catching up, still muttering under his breath.
Behind us, I could still hear the whispers.
The same villagers who ate from Father’s fields, who drank from the wells he built, who slept safe because he held the borders they fled from.
They called him savior once.
Now they called him tyrant.
Most of them were exiles, thieves, wanderers who’d found a place under Father’s banner.
He gave them work, land, food—and all it did was remind them how small they were next to him.
The stronger he built them, the more they hated him for it.
And I was just the easiest target left to bite at.
By the time we reached the stream outside the village, Crome finally spoke again.
“They don’t deserve him,” he muttered. “Or you.”
I shrugged. “Father doesn’t build things because people deserve them. He builds because it’s what he does.”
Crome stared at me, still angry. “Then what about you? Don’t you care they say you’re not his son?”
I smiled faintly. “They can say what they want. As long as Father doesn’t stop swinging, none of it matters.”
Crome shook his head, half frustrated, half amazed. “You’re weird.”
“Probably,” I said, kicking a pebble into the water.
We stayed there in silence for a while, the sound of the stream drowning out the noise of the village behind us.
And for the first time, I realized that silence was safer than any crowd of grateful voices ever could be.
The sun hung low, painting the stream in bands of orange and gold.
We’d stayed out longer than planned—long enough that the air had cooled and the cicadas had started their evening song.
I was skipping stones again when a group of familiar voices echoed from the path.
“Crome! Rooga!”
The village boys from before came running down, kicking dust, faces red from the heat.
They slowed as they reached us, panting and laughing. “We’ve been looking for you! What are you doing out here?”
One of them frowned suddenly. “Crome, why are you all sweaty? You look like you’ve been chased by a bear.”
Crome wiped his forehead with his arm, grinning wide. “Not a bear. Training. I’ve been practicing with Mr. Darius himself.”
Their eyes widened instantly.
“No way!”
“With the Darius Valemont?”
“That’s cheating!”
Crome’s grin only grew prouder. “Hey, someone’s gotta inherit the sword someday, right? So you’re looking at the future swordmaster.”
That set them off right away.
“That’s not fair!” one shouted.
“I want to be a swordmaster too!”
“I’m faster than you, Crome!”
They started arguing, voices tumbling over each other, half playful and half serious.
Crome puffed his chest like he’d just been crowned champion of the world.
“Then come train,” he said boldly. “Mr. Darius is still swinging even now. We could go back and—”
I cut in before he could finish. “How about we don’t drag my father into this?”
Crome blinked. “Why not? They all want to learn, right?”
“Because,” I said, smiling faintly, “training can wait till morning. It’s evening now. We came here to play, didn’t we?”
The boys went quiet for a moment, looking at each other.
Then one laughed. “He’s right. We did come to play.”
Another nodded. “Yeah! Let’s play now, train later.”
Crome hesitated, then sighed. “Fine, fine. Just don’t cry when I beat you tomorrow.”
“Beat me? You couldn’t even beat a stick bug!” one boy shouted, already running toward the shallow end of the stream.
The argument turned into splashing—mud flying, water glinting in the sunset.
Crome chased one of them with his stick like a sword, laughing so loud it startled the birds from the trees.
I stood by the water for a while, watching them.
It was strange seeing Crome like that—less serious, less focused on swinging until his arms gave out.
For once, he was just a kid again.
Eventually, one of the boys called, “Rooga, come on!”
I smiled and kicked off my shoes, stepping into the stream.
The water was cool against my feet, and when the next splash hit my shoulder, I couldn’t help laughing too.
For a few minutes, there was no training, no whispers, no weight of being Darius’s son.
Just voices, laughter, and the sound of running water under a fading sky.