A childhood as uneventful as the childhood of a boy born in the royalty can be. The best tutors in the realm were summoned when he reached age of proper training, and only the most skilled instructors were allowed to teach him. From Greenshire to Sutherland, the wisest men and women from the Kingdom traveled to meet the boy would would one day rule them. The greatest literary works from every library were soon carried to Darfield Castle with a escort of knights, politicians, strategists, and artists. But such was not a life with a considerable social aspect, of course, if any at all, and he was nothing more than a lone boy who slept too little - just the amount needed to find a way to play with his toys, only with himself. The court has always been filled with children, but not many of them are fortunate enough to have proper game mates. And the time for it was short, nevertheless, and certainly not a priority his parents could have considered. Those were years that flew with wings made of scrolls, books, and tomes. Slow years of soft laughter and wandering through the multitude of castles in his lands. Riding, lost in long sessions of chess and even learning the basics of cooking, after extensive lessons of mathematics, history, and philosophy. The arts of the words and strategy were taught to him, when other artistic fields such as painting or dancing were introduced in due time. The wave of knowledge flowed in the way only a future ruler can enjoy in the lands of Mobrin. Until, one day, a blade was put in his hand.
At the age of 11, the Prince became a squire. The ink was expected to turn blood red, flowing through the edge of a sword instead of the white of a paper. Sir Jarwen, the Dragon of the South, was the chosen one to take him under his care. A young man, he was. Short of temper but long of speech, a clear contrast to the future King in every way. Brave, valiant, recognized for his ease to kill and his quick and equally deadly wit. Black Sting, his longsword forged under a hill in Darfield and tinted dark as midnight, soon started to be known as the Shadow Death while wielded in battle, for good and well deserved reasons. Soldiers from the enemy side never doubted to call it sorcery and witchcraft, even worse words were heard and shouted about him, but for those close to Sir Jarwen it was always clear there was nothing more than strength and skill in the deadly strikes of his steel. Callem, even being the future King, never counted on Black Sting to aim to protect him in the battle. Life and death are constant companions of a warrior, close friends, witnesses and allies, and it is a lesson he never forgot. Not even when such destiny was the one of his master and only friend.
The Dragon of the South fell in the battlefield, five years later. A lucky arrow caught his back while on guard. Not an honorable death, not a death worthy of a bard or a scribe. Not a death to be cried or remembered by anyone other than the young Prince - now stronger, fiercer, and graced with the light of the sun in his eyes and the storm of the battle in his lips. But his death was a final reminder and a reason. His death was avenged in a way most knight can only dream of.
Left as a squire and returned as a knight. The boy left books and hope, but death and blood where there when the man returned. A hero, many said. A legend, others answered. The Prince who faced death without fear and took command of the army in times of perish, leading and walking the path to victory. The Prince who knew glory and brought hope. The rightful successor to the Throne. A gift from Umbra or Alasair, depending on who was asked. No one north or south, east or west, dared to doubt it. Except, perhaps, Callem himself.
The man who returned was friendly and kind, though a bit serious and with a hint of mystery in his gaze. Never too joyful or excited, but with the manners and regal port expected of his position. His brightest smiles were hidden under the helmet of a mystery knight, for every tourney in the realm had him on the lists. Many of them were conquered by him, but no one, ever, saw his face. No one saw his happiness.
Cynfad once said a Kilgour keeps his heart closed until the right moment comes. The King said, as well, that such decision was only meant for the Gods to take. The expectation for a betrothal concerned him noticeably more than Callem, who could only see life to be fragile enough to ever envision himself as the future ruler of Mobrin. Sparring, fighting, competing, and plenty enjoying his wine, were activities that never allowed him to think he could live long enough to see that happening. But instead, and well knowing of his responsibility to his family and realm, he relied on his several siblings and close family, his advisors and companions, and he was always willing to prepare them for the eventual course of actions in case of his own death. A tragic thought, perhaps, but it is a thought that remained on his mind for many years, or even to the present day, as most would say.
The time to choose a future Queen arrived soon, covered in a shroud of tragedy and treason. Laetitia, a beautiful and young girl who survived a murder attempt, was presented to him as his betrothed. A suitable bride with an unique charm and intelligence, was a far better choice than most arranged marriages, even more for those of the royalty.
But romance was something he had not known to that day. No tutor of him had touched such topic, but the stories and legends, songs and paintings, had always told him about love. And without wishing for it, his time in the practice yard started to diminish. There were tourneys held in which the mystery knight didn't appear, but the Crown Prince showed him publicly as himself, emerging victorious with a favor in DeSalis colors. Many nights were spent in the gardens, and the hero of war seemed to prefer a cup with Laetitia over a bottle in the inn. Suddenly the smile of his childhood reappeared, as unexpected as it had been when it faded in the past. Flowers from all the realm were brought by his orders the day the betrothal was announced, and every day started with a different bard in front of her door. Only the best bards in the Kingdom, specially selected by himself.
But no display of love was bigger than the wedding itself. The attention to every detail was ever present. The biggest and most wonderful celebration the Royal House could perform. Many days of joy and happiness were followed by the announcement of the firstborn of the couple, some months later. Their love and unity was always stronger, fulfilling, and the Crown Prince easily considered Laetitia to be his best advisor and ally. But, at the same time the news of a new life were spreading through the realm, the health of the then current King reached a critical point. Callem, always dutiful and close to his father, stayed by his side in deathbed to witness his last breath. The Prince who faced death without fear, the Prince who never thought the day to sit on the Throne would come, was now the ruler of the Kingdom. But he was not alone. And he would never be.
Now, more than twenty years after his ascension to the Throne, Callem is surrounded by his family and allies, always prepared to hear the drums of war again. Laetitia, his love and his Queen, will always be his first advisor. Tyrel, his firstborn and heir who carries the name of his House with pride and honor, has received the best education anyone can get - perhaps even better than the one the King received in time. Mikhal and Logen, raised to help their older brother and to shine on their own, have always been close to his heart, though most say there is a special love for the Flower of Darfield, his little daughter Caillin. Outside of his own bloodline, Terrwyn, his niece, who lost her parents and was fostered in Kincaid by Callem's orders, has a seat as well in his counsel, beside one of the people he has grown to trust most in the world, his cousin Caedmon. Such amount of good loyal companions have had a new weigh in their shoulders, though, for a still mysterious illness has continually affected the King of Mobrin's health. No one knows of its cause, but medics and men of knowledge have alleged it has to be with his constant presence in the battlefield in the past. But, even if that is the case, his sword will never leave his side. His armor will never be put aside. And when the time comes, the hero of past wars will rise again for the glory of his family, his House, and his lands.