Son of a slave

"I...how dare you?" Edmun looked flustered for the first time since his arrival in Distan, a light sheen of sweat forming on his forehead. "Frontiersman or not, you’re still just—"

"Cousin," said Alistar, who chose this moment to run over in order to assuage the situation. "They must be tired from their travels and all of the dangers that they face in their line of work. I think right now simply isn’t a good time for them."

"You stay out of it."

"Our apologies," he said, turning to the others who had only now slowed to a stop. "My cousins were too excited to see you, so they forgot themselves for a moment. They’re fans of yours, you see, and have been for a long time, so seeing you in person was a big deal for them. Can you blame them for the excitement? If you ask me, it’s your fault for being too talented."

"There’s always one with a silver tongue," muttered Vaun, who peered down at Alistar with wide, analyzing eyes that were partially visible through the partial face guard of his helmet. "Though at least this one knows some good words. Boy, what style do you practice?"

"Beg pardon?"

"From the way you’re standing, you must be an apprentice swordsman. What style do you practice?"

"Crown style, sir."

"Same as the tavern boy, eh? Tier?"

Calum pulled his cloak back to rest a hand on the exposed hilt of his sword. "He’s just a beginner. I’m already a third-tier apprentice, and my brother’s actually a first-tier adept."

"Yes," said Edmun, eager to salvage the situation despite his earlier anger. "He’s just a bastard, anyhow. Don’t mind him."