Gabriel's steps carried him beyond the city gate as the dawn splintered the horizon, his body moving with a resolve that his conflicted mind struggled to match. His plan, a concoction of desperation and necessity, set in motion, clashed with the echoes of his mother’s wisdom: ‘Some risks are worth taking.’ This was for her, though a nagging doubt lingered about her endorsement of such a perilous scheme.

With a sense of urgency, he quickened his pace, weaving past the slow-moving trading caravans departing the city. Each stride mirrored the internal chaos he sensed, a physical manifestation of the storm within. The journey stretched over an hour, leading him to a secluded hilltop. There, a tranquil sight greeted him - a sun-drenched glade, its serenity starkly contrasting with his inner turmoil.

He ventured into the small forest, a perfect haven for his intentions. Here, hidden from prying eyes, he had the tools and the solitude necessary for the first stage of his plan. Gently, he lowered himself to the earth-strewn floor and rolled. It was an act reminiscent of his youthful mischief. Memories of disapproving servants chastising him over dirt-smeared clothes surfaced unbidden.

Once his uniform bore the marks of a thorough soiling, he unsheathed his dagger. The blade, glinting ominously in the dappled sunlight, was not just a tool but a key to his deception. He cut into the fabric of his sleeves and torso, ensuring each incision was precise. Small, calculated tears followed, his hands working to create the illusion of a fierce struggle, rendering the uniform tattered and frayed.

Gabriel's hand, quivering with the gravity of his next move, clutched the blade tightly. He drew in a deep, steadying breath, steeling himself. His fingers, now unsteady with a mix of fear and determination, pressed the blade's edge deeper against the cloth. With a hesitant yet decisive motion, he sliced through the fabric, grazing his skin underneath. The sharp sting of the blade elicited a sharp gasp from his lips. “Damn Ash and all his damned followers.”

Gabriel's gaze lingered on the fresh cut, watching as blood slowly surfaced from the shallow wound. A wave of dizziness momentarily gripped him, the stark reality of his self-inflicted pain setting in. He recalled a time when the mere sight of blood unnerved him, yet here he was, deliberately marking his own flesh. The thought spurred a nauseating swirl in his stomach, but his determination held firm. "I have to do this," he reaffirmed to himself, the words a lifeline to his wavering resolve.

Clutching the dagger with a grip that turned his knuckles white, he braced for the next incisions. Each cut was meticulously shallow, designed to bleed but not to debilitate. As the blood seeped from these self-inflicted wounds, a few errant tears formed, blurring his vision. He repeated his solemn vow to the silent forest around him, "I’ll see the king, Ma. I’ll see the king."

Gabriel understood there was no conventional path to the king, no straightforward petition that could bypass the layers of protocol and security. His mind had tirelessly woven through every possible strategy, only to return to this singular, drastic course of action. Patience and waiting held no promise; they were luxuries he could not afford. Honoring his mother's wish was paramount, but intertwined with that was a personal drive, a craving for empowerment, not through brute force or inherited title, but through knowledge and means.

He whispered to himself, a vow tinged with both resolve and pain, “Those who have taken everything from me will answer for it. I’ll pay back these cuts a thousand times if I need to.”

As he continued, each successive cut became a cathartic release, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil and anger. It wasn't just about creating believable wounds; it was a ritual of transformation, marking the shedding of his old self. With each slice, a sense of empowerment coursed through him, mingled with a sickening sensation that seemed to seep from his very core. He surrendered to this burgeoning power within him, a power he barely understood but instinctively knew he could harness.

The world around him seemed to slow, becoming almost ethereal. For the first time, Gabriel could observe the mysterious energy he possessed without the chaos of battle or the urgency of survival clouding his perception. He watched in awe as shadows danced around him, a blend of darkness and light that responded to his movements. Lifting a hand, he reached towards the swirling tendrils, feeling a strange connection, yet they slipped through his fingers like smoke. The sensations were overwhelming—his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the warm blood trickling from his wounds, the soft rustling of leaves in the wind—all amplified to an almost unbearable intensity.

Yet, in this moment of heightened awareness, a voice of caution echoed from the depths of his consciousness, urging him to release this power. There was a sense of distance and muffled sound, as if a warning was being shouted from a faraway place. He lingered in this state, torn between fascination and a growing sense of foreboding. With a forceful mental effort, he willed the power away, shutting his eyes tightly and focusing inward. His heart raced, beating a frenzied rhythm as he fought to regain control.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he opened his eyes. The forest, once a theatre of shadows and light, had returned to its natural state.

In the aftermath of relinquishing the mysterious power, Gabriel grappled with a creeping lethargy that seemed to seep into his very bones. He chided himself for yielding to the seductive pull of that force. His fatigue, albeit self-inflicted, lent authenticity to his guise. With a rueful chuckle, he thought, at least it will make me look closer to death’s door.

Shifting his focus back to the immediate task at hand, Gabriel retrieved a small pouch from his belongings. Inside were two vials of blood, bought from a butcher during his last free day with what little stipend the academy provided him with.

Carefully, he uncorked the first vial and let a few drops fall onto his scalp, the crimson liquid trickling down the side of his face in a grotesque imitation of a grievous head wound. He opened the second vial and smeared the blood over his tattered academy shirt, staining the beige fabric with dark, unsettling splotches.

Next, he scooped up handfuls of dirt and soot, methodically applying them to his face. He concentrated on the area beneath his eyes, ensuring the grime accentuated his weariness and distress. Without a mirror, he could only imagine the transformation.

Finally, he scoured the ground for a small rock, finding a jagged piece that fit his needs. With meticulous care, he pressed it against the outside of his hands, creating a series of minor cuts and scrapes. The pain was minimal, but the visual effect was impactful. Slipping the rock back into his pocket, he steeled himself for the journey ahead.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Gabriel began his return to the city walls. His steps were deliberate, each movement calculated to convey the image of a young man pushed to his limits. He avoided the main roads, skirting the edge of the forest to evade curious onlookers who might intervene or, worse, unveil his deception. The extra effort drained him further, but it was a necessary sacrifice to maintain the integrity of his crafted narrative.

As the formidable silhouette of King's Crest's walls loomed into view, Gabriel experienced a twinge of apprehension mixed with determination. The hardest part of his journey was just beginning.

Gabriel, bracing himself against the escalating discomfort, wedged the small stone into his shoe. The sharp pain as he took a step helped him mimic the sensation of a sprained ankle—a convincing addition to his already battered appearance. He recalled a similar incident during his march with the army, where an errant stone had caused him considerable discomfort. This memory guided his performance now.

As he approached the queue of people waiting to enter the city, Gabriel readied himself. The line was a diverse mix of traders, travelers, and locals, each absorbed in their own concerns. The man in front of him turned, likely to exchange pleasantries, but his words caught in his throat at the sight of Gabriel's disheveled state. “Boy, what happened to you?” he asked, a mix of concern and curiosity etched on his face.

Gabriel knew that his success hinged on portraying a sense of dire urgency. His heart racing, he sidestepped the man without a word, his limping gait stressed by the stone in his shoe. His abrupt movement drew attention, and a voice rang out from further up the line. “Hey, there’s a damn line, get back!” the man bellowed.

Ignoring the protests and the growing murmur of discontent behind him, Gabriel continued his uneven progress towards the city gates. He could feel the stares boring into his back, the whispers and exclamations weaving a trail of speculation in his wake.

“He needs a healer,” a concerned voice emerged from the crowd as a man extended his hand toward Gabriel. With a quick, dismissive gesture, Gabriel slapped the hand away and maneuvered past him, causing the man to stumble and fall. A chorus of protests and exclamations erupted, but Gabriel focused solely on his goal, pushing through the growing cacophony of voices until the formidable city walls loomed before him, anchored by four stern-faced guards.

Relief washed over him as he realized these were not the same guards who had witnessed his earlier departure. His reconnaissance on the previous free day had paid off; he had carefully noted the guards' shift changes and was now facing a fresh set of eyes, unaware of his earlier presence. Limping with calculated effort, he made his way toward them, dragging his injured foot across the cobblestones.

Just as he was about to bypass the guards, a firm, authoritative voice cut through the air, halting him in his tracks. “Stop right there,” commanded the lead guard, his stance showing no room for argument. Gabriel's heart skipped a beat, but he maintained his composed, albeit pained, demeanor.

Gabriel lowered his gaze, then slowly lifted it to meet the scrutinizing eyes of the guard. His expression was deliberately unfocused, eyebrows knitted in feigned bewilderment.

"What happened?" the guard demanded, his voice a resonant baritone.

With a feigned effort to clear his fogged senses, Gabriel responded, his voice quivering slightly for effect. “The king… he has to know.”

“Know what?” the guard pressed, skepticism etched into his furrowed brow.

Gabriel's eyes widened, lending credence to his fabricated urgency. “I… I can’t tell you. The king is the only one that can know.”

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“What were you doing outside the city?”

“On assignment, Sir. I’m from the academy.”

At this revelation, the guard's demeanor shifted subtly, the disdain momentarily replaced by a flicker of hesitation.

One of the other guards, younger and less seasoned, chimed in, "Sir, the uniform... it’s banged up, but it’s the academies uniform.”

The captain's irritation was palpable as he spun to his subordinate, his voice laced with venom. "You think I don’t know that?”

The younger guard wilted under the captain's scorn, muttering a chastened, "Sorry, Captain."

“Get the academy brat a healer.”

“Yes, Captain.”

The young guard was already pivoting on his heel to dash away when Gabriel's voice, strained yet urgent, cut through the air. "Wait!" His approach to the captain was deliberate, each step measured to convey determination despite his feigned frailty. Seizing a fistful of the captain's tunic at the chest, Gabriel's voice carried a blend of pain and resolve. "No time for a healer—I must speak with the king. Stand aside or aid me, your choice." His shove, more a statement than a genuine challenge, barely shifted the captain, yet it was enough to elicit a surprised recoil.

The captain, momentarily taken aback by the audacity, then masked his surprise with a scowl. Gabriel, muscles coiled in anticipation of retaliation, found none. Instead, the captain issued a begrudging command to the younger guard, "Take him to the castle, now."

Obediently, the guard linked his arm with Gabriel's, offering support as they began the slow procession toward the heart of the city. The captain's stern warning marked their departure, flung at Gabriel's back like a gauntlet. "Boy! Cross paths with me again, and your injuries will be the least of your concerns."

Gabriel's response was a subtle, defiant grin thrown over his shoulder.

The journey from the city's perimeter to the castle was no brief affair, particularly under the harsh gaze of the midday sun. The oppressive heat bore down on Gabriel, exacerbating his exhaustion and hunger. His forced limp, meant to bolster his ruse, only slowed their pace further. Initially, the guard beside him prodded with occasional questions, but Gabriel’s vague answers soon dwindled to silence. His last cryptic warning, “You’ll know soon enough, everyone will,” seemed to quench the guard's curiosity, leaving a shadow of unease in its wake. Gabriel wrestled with guilt over his deception, aware that he strayed from the path of honesty his mother had always championed. Yet, he rationalized, this was a necessary deviation to fulfill her last wish, even if it meant dishonoring her teachings in the process.

The straightforward approach–declaring his identity at the castle gates–had crossed his mind more than once. It was, after all, what his mother would have expected of him. But Gabriel had weighed the risks; revealing himself as the son of a reviled enemy would likely win him no favors with the king. No, that wouldn’t work. I’d be kicked out of the city with nothing to my name. And that would be the least of my worries.

Upon reaching the castle's imposing gates, Gabriel and two guards clad in the stark black uniforms of the castle's garrison met his escort. Their scrutinizing gaze lingered on the pair; the weight of hierarchy, palpable in the air. In Balatia, the pecking order among the guards was well known. Academy students often held Castle Guards in low regard, attributing their station to failure or dismissal from the Academy, while Castle Guards looked down on the City Guards as lesser, unnamed men.

"What do you want?" one of the Castle Guards demanded, his hand resting ominously on the sword at his hip, his posture radiating authority and suspicion.

The City Guardsman took a step forward, his voice steady as he relayed Gabriel's request to the castle guards. “The academy boy came through the city walls, said he needed to speak to the king.”

Gabriel's slouched and labored form failed to evoke any visible sympathy from the castle guard, whose gaze was as hard as the steel he was sworn to wield. His face remained an impenetrable mask of indifference.

"Send him back to the Academy. Let him report there," the guard dismissed with a sneer, his disdain for the institution evident in his tone. It was a contempt born not of rivalry but of personal failure. I can use that.

Straightening up, Gabriel locked eyes with the guard, reducing the distance between them. “You were at the academy.” The guard's stiffened slightly, but Gabriel knew he had hit the mark. He pressed on, "I may wear the uniform, but I'm not the son of a named warrior. I know I'm on borrowed time. The academy is rotten. I’ve been there long enough to know I can’t trust anyone there. But I've stumbled upon something... something bigger than any of us." Gabriel’s last words came out in little more than a breath. He wasn’t feigning the tiredness, the cuts, however small, had accumulated, his energy quickly depleting.

Gabriel noticed a flicker of uncertainty in the guard's gaze, a momentary lapse that revealed his internal conflict. Seizing the opportunity, Gabriel played his final card. "Escort me to the Chamberlain. He's the authority in these matters. If it eases your mind, keep me under watch to ensure I don't step out of line."

The guard exhaled deeply, the tension in his shoulders subtly easing as he decided. With a resigned nod to his comrade, he directed, "Come with me." Turning to dismiss the city guard, his voice carried a firm finality, "Your duties here are concluded, Green."

The imposing grandeur of the castle enveloped Gabriel as he stepped inside. The castle's entrance hall was a vast expanse, with high vaulted ceilings that soared overhead, amplifying the faintest of whispers into resounding echoes that danced along the walls.

Flanking the hall were two grand staircases, their balustrades a masterful display of craftsmanship, etched with the likenesses of dragons and leviathans. As Gabriel climbed the steps, he noticed they were polished smoothly by the passage of time and countless footsteps.

As Gabriel ventured deeper, he became aware of the heavy gaze of many upon him. Servants, their arms burdened with linens, and nobles adorned in the finery of their station, cast sidelong glances, their faces etching a narrative of both curiosity and scorn. People along his path, including servants burdened with linens and nobles adorned in finery, whispered with curiosity and scorn, creating a palpable air of speculation. Amidst the castle's opulent order and cleanliness, Gabriel, with his bloodied and dirtied appearance, was an anomaly; a stark contrast that did not go unnoticed.

But Gabriel couldn't afford the luxury of being overwhelmed. With a concerted effort, he anchored his attention to the immediate task at hand, forcibly dragging his gaze from the architectural marvels around him to the ground beneath his feet. For a moment, he felt like a trespasser in a world far removed from his own, an intruder in a place where every stone whispered secrets. This was a world of power, of decisions that shaped the fate of nations, and he was here, a mere boy cloaked in deception, walking a razor's edge between success and catastrophe.

Navigating the labyrinthine corridors of the castle, Gabriel sensed the proximity to the throne room intensify with each step. The corridors were now patrolled by guards whose presence was unmistakable for their stature and the richness of their attire, adorned in the deep royal blue accented with gleaming gold — the most splendid and intimidating display of martial elegance Gabriel had encountered in Balatia. They were the King's Guard.

Approaching a set of formidable timber doors, guarded by four imposing figures, Gabriel felt a jolt of apprehension. The senior guard's gaze fell upon him, piercing and calculating. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded, his voice a low rumble that echoed off the stone walls.

Gabriel, aware that the sincerity of his plea would resonate more than the words of the Castle Guard, stepped forward. Lifting his gaze to meet that of the guard's, he could see the years etched into the man's face, a map of loyalty and vigilance. “The guard has escorted me to see the chamberlain. He needs to know what I’ve seen, and to tell the king.”

“Tell the king what?” The skepticism in the guard’s tone was palpable, his seasoned eyes narrowing.

Gabriel experienced a sudden rush of panic, concerned that his ruse was on the verge of being revealed. The intensity of the guard's gaze suggested an adeptness at detecting falsehoods, a skill honed by years of safeguarding the realm's secrets. Gabriel's heart raced as he braced for a challenge, a test of his resolve and his ability to maintain the facade.

“That’s for the Chamberlain and the king only. I’m sorry. I’d say more if I could.”

“Child, that’s not how things are done here,” the guard dismissed with a tone that brooked no argument. Yet, fueled by a mixture of desperation and determination, Gabriel wasn't deterred. He knew there was only one way to change the guard’s view. He had to show him he was more than just a ‘child’.

“You think I don’t know that?” Gabriel retorted sharply, the edge in his voice cutting through the air. His response was not that of a naive boy, but of someone bearing a burden too heavy for his years. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t of the highest importance.”

The guard’s dismissal, “Concerns of a child are seldom of consequence to a king,” only steeled Gabriel’s resolve.

Gabriel didn’t need to feign his annoyance. “Lives are at risk. Each moment we lose, the more that everyone else might suffer.”

The guard didn’t seem to be moved by this sentiment.

“Do you think I want to be here, guard? Do you!” Gabriel took a deep breath, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m hurting everywhere. I’d rather be unconscious in a healer’s cot so I can finally rest. But I can’t afford to waste that time. No one can.”

Observing a subtle shift in the guard’s demeanor, his stance softening, Gabriel pressed on, “It’s only the next door you need to take me to. If the chamberlain doesn’t want to hear it, then I’ll leave.”

The man let out a deep sigh. “Any weapons on you?”

Gabriel, with a deliberate calmness belying his urgency, extracted his dagger, its blade smeared with his own blood, and offered it hilt-first to the towering guard. In the guard's calloused grip, the weapon seemed no more than a child's toy, dwarfed by the enormity of his hand. With a nod, the guard pushed open the heavy door, ushering Gabriel into a room that was a stark contrast to the opulent corridors they had traversed.

The chamberlain's quarters were austere, functional, yet bearing a certain dignity in their simplicity. A large, sturdy table dominated the center, its surface a testament to countless hours of labor littered with scrolls and documents in meticulous piles. The chamber was lit by the soft glow of oil lamps, casting long shadows that danced upon the walls, adorned with maps and the emblems of Balatia.

Seated behind the table was not the clerk Gabriel had envisioned, but a colossus of a man whose presence seemed to command the very air of the room. A deep scar, a silent herald of battles past, traced a path from his eye to his lip, lending him an air of ferocity.

As Gabriel approached, the chamberlain's gaze lifted, widening in alarm at the sight before him. "Get this boy a healer!" he bellowed, his voice booming within the confines of the room.

But Gabriel, steadying his voice against the tide of his nerves, advanced. "Sir, there's no time," he implored, skirting the table to stand before the chamberlain, close enough to speak without being overheard. The chamberlain's guards, previously at ease, tensed, their hands drifting to the hilts of their swords, yet they held their position.

In a whisper laden with urgency, Gabriel delivered his warning: "The Paresh… they come."

The chamberlain's expression shifted from concern to a storm of fury. "What happened?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.

Gabriel, steadfast, met the chamberlain's intense gaze. “I’ll only tell the king.”

The chamberlain tensed, his fist against the table. “What do you…”

Gabriel cut him off before he could finish the sentence. “I have my reasons. It’s important. I promise. If the king doesn’t like what I have to hear, strip me from the Academy, banish me from the capital, do whatever you wish, but I need to see the king. Now.”

Understanding the gravity of Gabriel's plea, the chamberlain, with worry etched across his brow, strode purposefully to a set of ornate doors. He knocked in a coded rhythm, receiving an answering thump from within. With a last nod to Gabriel, he slipped through the doors, closing them with a quiet thud.

As the doors shut, a wave of anxiety washed over him. The sweat on his palms and the tremble in his knees betrayed his attempt to maintain composure. The stakes were monumental; he knew acutely that the next moments could redefine his destiny. He could be dismissed as a fabricator and lose everything that he had gained. Or worse, they could hand him over to Accamania. Gabriel longed for a moment of respite, to close his eyes and find himself beyond this precarious brink.

Then, the chamberlain reappeared, opening the door just enough to signal Gabriel. With a grave nod, he said, "The King will see you now."

Gabriel's heart pounded with renewed fervor, fear mingling with determination. He steadied his breath, drawing upon the memory of his mother's strength. He took a deep breath. In, out, in, out. He remembered why he was doing this. I miss you Ma. This is for you.