The booming sound of hooves storming across the muddied plains made Erend aware of his dire situation. Cavalry was moving toward him, and the army around him, with a frightening speed. The advance of the horde could barely be heard over the heavy onset of rain and thunder – yet as it neared him, it seemed to drown out all other impossibly loud sounds.

“Ugh, again?” Erend complained aloud on impulse. “Why does this keep happening to me?!”

“Gone a bit crazy, have ya?” asked a well-armored man standing a pace ahead of him.

As usual, the frontline.

The well-armored man turned to fully face him. He had a rough face with a large scar that ran from his temple, through his eye. It was obvious he was blind in it since the socket was practically empty. His armor would have been shining if even a sliver of the sun could break through the god-forsaken rainclouds hanging above.

As the man eyed Erend his eyes widened for a moment, he spat on the ground and begrudgingly complained, “Ah, they send 'em to us too young, too young I say...” he shook his head with his eye closed. “Don’t worry kid. This’ll be over in a jiffy. Just make sure to stand strong and to point your pike toward the enemy.”

Erend absentmindedly nodded and looked around. He’d experienced this dream many times already. It had plagued him now and then ever since his mother disappeared.

Surrounding him stood people wearing the same colors. Some were stalwart, ready to meet their fate, but most were anxiously shifting in place, making hand signs and praying to The Mother, or some other god. The stench of urine became more apparent as the cacophony of the stampede and thunder closed in.

“This can’t be, it just can’t…” muttered a man next to him.

The dream looked the same as always; cavalry was charging a poorly put-together army. They stood frozen, wallowing in self-pity and despair. It always ended with Erend waking up with a jolt, just before the collision.

Without thinking, Erend tugged on the leather straps of his breastplate, making sure it was securely tightened, a move that felt strangely practiced, despite his lacking real-world experience. After finding his bearings, he felt oddly at ease in this place. He gripped his pike, knuckles whitening. The wood felt cool and rough in his hands – yet comforting.

He tried his best to remember how he and the army had gotten here. The cavalry had suddenly crested a hilltop as they were marching. They were taken by surprise but were well-equipped for the confrontation. The rainfall had made for some hellish marching and would have surely made for some hellish charging as well.

The plains were soggy from the rain, and the weight of heavy equipment hung ponderously on the shoulders of the infantry as they trudged along; they’d left only muddied devastation in their wake. It would take months before anything could grow on these plains again.

It won’t be long until they reach us now.

As if in confirmation of his thoughts, the ground started vibrating beneath him, slowly rising to a quake.

The well-armored man in front raised a hand. “PIKES AT THE READY!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

The army moved with practiced autonomy as they followed the order. Erend was a beat late in adapting, a slight for which he received a disgruntled shove from behind.

“Fucking move it, rookie,” the perpetrator venomously spat.

Erend hurriedly copied the movements of the people in his line and took two steps forward. When he reached the others again, he placed his left foot one step ahead of the other.

Standing in the front, he could see the cavalry clearly, they were only a hundred meters away now. The quaking of the earth started to feel like something akin to a natural disaster, though Erend instinctively knew that the initial clash would probably have a more devastating consequence than one.

“Brace!” screamed the man in front as he drew his sword, pointing it toward the approaching horde. It was beautiful, emanating a metallic shine despite the lack of light, the sides of its blade were engraved with the runes of some long-forgotten language – at the very least it was a language that Erend had never seen before.

Just like the sword of the hero in some fairytale.

Once again, Erend mimicked the movements of his compatriots, he bent his front knee slightly and placed the bottom of his pike shaft against the ground, further supporting it against his backmost foot. And he braced.

The thundering hooves drowned out all the natural sounds of the world.

A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, violently striking the ground somewhere off in the distance. The crack of it sounded out across the battlefield, signaling the start of a gruesome battle, just as the armies collided.

Erend gripped his pike as tightly as he could, he clenched his jaw and closed his eyes – he couldn’t bear to watch the charge, lest his knees give out in response to fear. He did his best to stand strong, just as the commanding officer had said.

All of a sudden he felt a force – unlike anything he had ever felt – impact his pike.

What? Why am I not waking up?

A sickening crunch sounded out. Erend opened his eyes. His pike had splintered from the impact, leaving him stiffly grasping nothing more than an unusually straight stick. A man was laid out, sprawling by Erend’s feet. He was skewered by the pike.

Erend looked at the man with an apathy that felt unfamiliar to him.

It didn’t feel real. It was just a dream, after all.

The skewered man wheezed, his blood pooling on the ground beneath him. He clutched at the pike’s shaft, seemingly trying to make sense of it all – just like Erend. His haggard breath sounded out, loud enough to Erend that it overshadowed the chaotic sounds of the battlefield. They locked eyes, and all the chaos around them seemed to fade out of existence. The dying man’s eyes looked cloudy – unfocused. He stretched out a hand, body still squirming beneath him in the substantial puddle of blood, lips quivering.

He's trying to say something.

Erend leaned in closer to hear the man’s dying words.

The quivering of his lips stopped, and the reaching hand fell limp. He was dead.

Erend snapped back to reality. He’d just killed that man. He understood that he was on a battlefield; death was as common here as fighting, and he knew he'd see more of both. But it all seemed too real to be a dream.

Why am I not waking up?!

Panicked, he checked his surroundings to see how his fellows had fared, only to be faced with the cold reality of things. Bodies from both sides littered the plains, the incomparable thundering of hooves had been replaced by the neighing of wounded horses and the dying screams of men. Many still laid thrashing in the mud while wrestling an enemy.

All the colors the forces wore had been replaced by the same shit-brown and bloody red. He couldn't discern who among the fighting soldiers were friend or foe.

In the middle of it all, Erend saw another standing soldier.

The muttering one from before!

Erend shouted, “You there! Are you okay? We need to get a move on and regroup with the remaining forces.”

The man jolted at his shout; he’d somehow heard it despite the chaos of the battlefield. He turned to look at Erend.

“I’m alright! Thank The Moth–” he was cut off as a straggling cavalry soldier rammed into him with the force of a hundred sledgehammers, sending him flying from the impact.

The cavalry soldier’s lance just about grazed Erends chest, slightly denting his breastplate and shoving him backward.

Mid-fall, Erend hopelessly exclaimed: “What the fu…” the muddy impact cut him off.

Rolling over to his stomach, he started crawling in the other direction until his feet found traction against the ground again, and then he broke out into a sprint.

What the fuck is this?! I need to get out, need to wake up. I can’t die here!

As a myriad of thoughts darted around in his head, he started scouring the battlefield for something he could use, anything.

A weapon, I need a weapon.

Another flash and crackle of lightning streaked across the sky. The reflection of something shiny, buried under a mound of dirt, caught his eye. He moved closer, hoping it was a usable weapon.

Reaching the spot, he saw that the source of reflection was none other than the commanding officer from before. He was buried, trampled, yet his armor still shone as if freshly waxed.

Erend started digging to free the man but quickly realized that he was already dead.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He kept digging, the dirt finding its way under his nails. As he’d hoped, he found the officer was still clutching his sword. Erend gently pried open the man’s hand and took the weapon, it wasn’t that hard to relieve a dead man of his possessions after all.

“O mother, grant thy worshiper a place among your many worthy…” Erend prayed silently as he moved to stand.

Behind him, he heard footsteps approaching, sloshing in the mud. It sounded as if someone was kneading an oily dough.

Erend turned around to face the sound with a growing knot in his stomach. The one approaching him was an enemy knight. The knight wore a full set of plate armor, and on top of it, draped a once sky-blue tabard – now stained with the familiar brown and red. He held a sword and shield combination and was – from the looks of it – a skilled warrior.

The knight moved with practiced steps as he squared up against Erend. He held his shield raised, covering his torso and lower face, with the blade of his sword resting against the side of it, ready to thrust at a moment’s notice.

Erend tried his best to mimic the soldier’s footwork. He held the beautiful sword in the best battle-ready stance he knew – which was nothing more than a stiff two-handed grip.

Erend had never considered himself a religious person, yet when he faced the knight, he found himself praying for the second time in a short span of time, “Mother, please grant me the strength…”

The swordsman suddenly struck out; his stab was quick like a viper.

Erend swung his sword to defend himself – and somehow managed to alter the stab's trajectory to where it only grazed his shoulder. The outcome was a lot better than being run through by the sword, but it still hurt like hell.

“Shit!” he exclaimed as he staggered backward.

Blood poured from the open wound and Erend winced at the pain. In desperation, he slashed at the knight as if swinging a bat.

The attempt was futile, and the swordsman effortlessly used his shield to receive the blow. He pulled back his deflected sword as he stepped inside Erend’s range with the same practiced footwork and tackled him with the shield. A nasty crunch sounded out as the shield crushed Erends nose.

Erend hadn’t been ready for the sudden shift in momentum. He fell, blood spurting from his wounds. Somehow he was still clutching the ornate sword. Before he could find his bearings though, he felt a sudden pain – this one, much more vivid than before. He glanced down at his chest and saw how the knight’s sword had effortlessly penetrated his breastplate. He'd been run through with the sword.

With a cold look, the knight pulled the sword out of Erends chest and wiped it clean of blood, then he silently walked off, across the battlefield, leaving Erend behind.

“Fuck, fuck fuck,” he muttered where he lay.

He tried to push against the wound to stop the bleeding, deep down knowing how futile of an attempt it was. “I don’t want to die! Not like this... gods, please. Someone, anyone!” the words came out as a gurgle of blood and spit.

“I’m so thirsty... Mom–”

***

Erend woke up with a jolt, gasping and clutching at his chest. He ran his hands over his body, checking himself for wounds.

“The nightmare, again… gods. This one was so much worse…” he said to himself, shuddering. His voice felt hoarse, his mouth dry.

He ravenously threw himself at the jug of water on his bedside table and drank. The water was lukewarm but did the job of quenching his thirst. After downing the jug, he smacked his lips contently.

Outside he could hear the chirping of birds. The sun would rise in a few minutes.

Not much point in lazing about, he thought and got up from bed.

He wasted no time as he moved through the dark room with practiced precision, dodging his chair, and a few wooden figures that stood maliciously placed on the floor – he remembered fondly how he’d carved them together with his father when he was younger. His little sister, Elle, adored the figures but never developed a habit of putting them back where she found them.

He opened the shutters, letting in the last rays of moonlight, and got dressed in a wool shirt and a pair of dark trousers. He looked at himself in his mirror, he was of medium height and had hair of the darkest blonde one could imagine, with streaks of ash highlighting it, it draped down to his neck. His face was sharp and slender, he'd gotten that from his mother. From his father, he'd gotten his bushy eyebrows and piercing, green eyes.

He ran a hand over his baby-smooth chin.

Man, I wish I could grow a beard like Dad...

As Erend left his room he was immediately greeted by the smell of fresh coffee and biscuits.

Dad’s up early as usual.

One of the more worn-out wooden floorboards let out a loud moan as he stepped on it.

“Mornin’,” he heard a deep voice announce from the kitchen.

“Morning pops, you’re up early.”

“The world waits for no one, certainly not an old man like me,” Thomas said with a soft smile, that stood in contrast to his otherwise rough appearance. “Coffee?”

“I’d love some,” Erend said, returning the smile.

Erend watched Thomas pour the coffee. By all accounts, his father was a peculiar man. He was of large stature, standing tall at almost two meters, he was muscular and had dark hair, bushy eyebrows, and an even bushier beard. He kind of looked like how you'd expect a barbarian to look. Yet, despite his size he always acted with care, each move delicate, every word thought out.

“Here,” Thomas held out a steaming cup toward Erend, who in turn, gladly accepted it.

“Working on anything fun at the moment?” Erend asked.

“Same old. Horseshoes and tools mostly. Though the city lord’s been inquiring about a commission,” Thomas said as he sat down to face Erend.

“Oh? What for?” Erend asked as gripped his cup with both hands, it felt warm and pleasant. The scent emanating from the brew was nutty and fragrant, nothing short of heavenly. If Thomas wasn’t a blacksmith, he’d be famous for his coffee, Erend was sure of it.

“A fancy sword, for ceremonies and such. At least I assume so... Not much use in a sword being fancy if it’s only going to be used for killing,” Thomas said with a scowl. “And you? How’s school been?”

Erend blew on his coffee before taking a sip. “Everyone’s all antsy now that The Awakening is getting closer.”

“Understandable. How are you feeling? Nervous?”

“Nah, I look forward to it. Finally being able to feel The Source feels like a sort of rebirth into adulthood. As if my life up till now was all in preparation for it,” Erend said with a confident smile. “Maybe when I’ve awoken, we can go about smithing together again, make something truly magical.”

“I’d like that very much, though you’re still young. Don’t place all your dreams and hopes on becoming a blacksmith. The awakening is a fickle thing. Much can alter your path.”

Weird, I thought he'd be happy.

“Alright then. I’ll have to go wake Elle so she isn’t late for daycare. Don’t forget to eat before heading out,” Thomas said and got up. The chair let out a thankful creak beneath him.

“Alright, pops. See you later.”

“Have a good day at school. And give my regards to Charles and his parents.”

Erend ate a biscuit with jam as he finished his coffee. After breakfast, he washed his face, put on a pair of boots, slung a bag over his shoulder, and grabbed his coat.

As he walked over the cobbled street he marveled at the vibrant town; everywhere he turned the streets were bustling with activity. The larger streets were lined with queues of horse-drawn carriages, taking the nobles and rich folk to wherever they needed to be. A paperboy tirelessly shouted about some week-old news in a desperate attempt to advertise his ware but was drowned out by the rumbling sounds of the city.

Erend dodged a group of playing children, no doubt on their way to elementary school.

He saw the telltale sign of the bakery; a miscolored pretzel framing the initials H and B, short for Hoven Bakery. Under the sign stood Charles, Erend’s best friend for as long as he could remember.

Charles was a scrawny kid, especially considering the fact that he was the baker’s son. He had unruly auburn hair, a freckled face, and a sharp nose.

“Mornin’,” said Charles with a nonchalant wave as he stepped toward Erend.

“Mornin’, pops says to give his regards.”

“As always. Did you have time to eat or do you want me to sneak something out? I think we’ve got time,” Charles asked and gestured toward the bakery.

“Nah, I’m good, let’s just head out. Thanks though, appreciate it.”

“Yeah, no worries... On a completely unrelated note, have you had a chance to work on the assignment for magical theory?” Charles asked, trying to sound as casual about it as possible.

Instantly seeing through his friend, Erend responded: “Yup, do you need to copy it?”

“Yes please.”

“… Is that why you offered to fetch me something from the bakery?” Erend asked as he pulled the assignment out of his bag.

Charles put on the most hurt face he could manage as he responded in jest, “How could you ever think I’d do such a thing?! Like some sort of cold manipulator...”

“Yeah, yeah. Here you go,” Erend said as he handed his notes to Charles.

Charles received the notes with both hands, his face angled toward the cobbled street and waist slightly bent to a bow, “Much obliged milord.”

They walked in silence for a bit while Charles scribbled down his version of the notes.

Erend couldn’t help but take in the beauty of the city as they trudged along the streets. The houses were all cozy and made of the same cobbled stone as the streets. Fauna local to the island covered the walls with greenery and flowers, making for quite the sight. The people of Exodus were all happy and well-fed. Most had migrated from Genesis years ago. The rulers here were just, and the plane had opportunities aplenty like the colony planes always did.

“Here you go,” said Charles as he handed the notes back to Erend.

“You’re welcome.”

“Yeah, yeah… Thanks. Have you given any thought to the awakening yet? I hope my parents don’t expect me to take over the bakery. Just look at Dad, he never gets to sleep in, like really, never,” Charles groaned.

“At least it’d be safe. No journeying to another plane unless you’d want to.”

“Well, sure. But if staying here all my life is the alternative, I don’t think I’d mind the adventure... Would you feel content with living here as a smith for all of your life? Just hammering away, making boring tools and whatnot?” Charles asked, staring off into the distance.

“I guess I haven’t thought of it like that. I think it would be great to work with Dad, but never leaving Exodus... I don’t know about that,” Erend replied.

“That’s what I’m saying! Your mother used to be an adventurer of some kind, right?”

“Well yeah, at least that’s what she used to tell me.”

“Heard anything about her lately?”

“Nah, Dad’s a mute when it comes to her. Tested the waters for a bit this morning, but he just dodged the question like usual,” Erend said as he kicked an innocent rock, it skittered across the uneven street.

“Maybe you should just straight up ask him? I mean, you’ll be grown up soon, awakened and all that. Feels like you deserve to be in know. You know?”

Erend thought about it for a bit, “You know what? You’re right. I’ll ask him tonight. Dad always says it’s a man’s honor to wear his heart on his sleeve.”

“So; men should be proud of being shit liars then?” Charles countered.

“Something like that. I know he is – at least when it comes to things other than mom,” Erend said with a chuckle.

The two merrily moved through a large metallic gate sporting the telltale dragon insignia of the duke.

The large school building towered up before them, it was an ornate Victorian building, fashioned of the same dark volcanic brick as the other buildings in town. Moss had begun climbing up its walls, despite the building not being very old. Four towers adorned its corners, tall enough to reach the lowest of clouds; the teachers’ quarters.

“Same class as always?” asked Erend, as they neared the large, wooden doors.

“Yeah, you?”

“Yup… magical theory. See you lunch?”

“Of course,” Charles answered with a toothy grin and headed toward the eastern wing.

Erend took a breath as he steeled himself for the most boring class of the curriculum.