The sound of the Waypoint faded, and his new surroundings came into focus. Unlike the previous Waystations he had passed through, this one sat at the heart of an enormous square surrounded by massive buildings of stone. Towering columns surrounded the space, and the nearest ones appeared to show depictions of battles, legendary beasts, and figures that Klarion assumed to be important to the history of the Empire. Between most of the columns stood statues of individuals that he assumed to be nobility based on how they were dressed or armored. The one nearest him depicted an older man in meticulous detail, from the scars across his unarmored arms to the finely etched crest of crossed hammers on his chest plate. The glare captured on the statue’s face seemed almost to be directed at him.
Pulling his attention away from the statue, Klarion looked around the square itself. Alive with movement, students of various ages and appearances were constantly flashing into being at other Waypoints around the square. The majority were flanked by well-dressed bodyguards or attendants, their clothing immaculate with crests, designed to convey wealth and status. Servants scrambled about carrying bags while the young nobility barked commands about where to go. People in black armor wearing white masks were moving to escort those ready to leave out of the square.
Klarion felt the difference immediately. He was an anomaly amidst the crowd, with his tattered, bloodstained clothes and his unkempt appearance all marking him as someone who did not belong there. Heads turned as students and their entourages caught sight of him. Conversations faltered in the groups nearest him, replaced by hushed whispers and sidelong glances. One finely dressed young man wrinkled his nose and muttered something to his attendant, who smirked as he whispered back.
Klarion did his best to ignore them. He had no real interest in engaging with the pomp and spectacle around him. In fact, if the other students could just leave him alone while he got his bearings, that would make it easier for him to keep his head down and avoid attention. Alesin and Rolfun both had made it clear it would be in his best interest to do so.
He stepped down off the platform, looking for the nearest figure in black armor with a white mask. From what he could tell, those were the people who were helping the arrivals to find where they needed to go. While he looked around, his eyes kept being drawn to the buildings and towers surrounding the square. A few of the towers were especially eye-catching, their golden domes gleaming in the sunlight.
A group of students passed by him in the wake of one of the figures in black armor with a white mask. Their retainers followed closely behind, carrying all their masters’ and mistresses’ luggage. One of the girls in an emerald cloak glanced at him as they moved along, the conversation she was having with a boy wearing a similar cloak, just loud enough for Klarion to overhear.
“Another straggler, barely into the low nobility it looks like,” the girl in the emerald cloak said, her voice dripping with disdain. “It seems like my older brothers were right. They really are increasing in number every year.”
“Indeed, cousin,” the boy in the cloak walking next to her said. “This one might have cleaned up a bit before arriving. However, perhaps his family is so low-ranking that they cannot afford cleanliness. Oh well. Best we follow the Sentinel and leave that one behind us.”
The words bothered him a little, but there was not much he could do about his cleanliness at the moment. No, what was getting to him about what they said was that, while the remarks stung and were true — he did look rough at the moment — it was yet another reminder of exactly how isolated he was here. Unlike everyone that he could see around him, he was alone. Honestly, he really missed his friends back on Earth.
That being said, he was thankful for the conversation he had just overheard. Apparently, what he needed to find was a Sentinel. He continued scanning the square for any person in the black armor and white mask that looked to be unoccupied. A commotion off to the side stole his attention. A large entourage was in the process of escorting a short boy dressed entirely in gold who had paused to yell at a smaller group of nobility dressed in orange. Thankfully, the respective groups quickly separated without violence.
Shaking his head at the distraction, Klarion refocused on his task. He couldn’t afford to waste time. As he made his way further from the Waypoints themselves, the murmurs of the crowd faded into a low hum. His boots clicked against the marble as he made his way in the direction most of the students were heading, only to have one of the Sentinels he was seeking suddenly appear in front of him.
Up close, Klarion was finally able to get a better look. Encased from head to toe in sleek black armor, the one that stood in front of him lacked any unnecessary ornamentation. A red rod the length of Klarion’s forearm hung down by the figure’s side. What caught his attention, however, was the mask. Pure white and featureless, it covered their entire face, leaving no opening for eyes, mouth, or nose. Its surface was unnaturally smooth as well and even seemed to absorb rather than reflect light. The lack of identifiable features lent the Sentinel an eerie, statuesque quality, making it impossible to discern any emotion or intent behind their blank visage. Which might well have been the point.
“Apologies, but do you have an admittance letter, sir?” a warm, feminine voice came out from behind the mask.
With a nod, Klarion handed over the letter he had been holding since Alesin had given it to him. Without another word, the Sentinel gently took it, opened it, and then began reading. Or at least he thought they were reading, given how the Sentinel was holding it before its mask.
“Everything looks to be in order, Lord Klarion,” the Sentinel said, only to make the letter disappear somehow. The voice took on a more severe tone, “That being said, this is the Imperial Academy, not a battlefield. Do you have a more appropriate change of clothing for the Induction Ceremony?”
Klarion was only able to give a helpless shrug, beginning to feel nervous. “No. What you see is what I have.”
“Hmm,” the masked face tilted up and down, apparently looking over what he was wearing in closer detail. “That will not due. It is the job of us Sentinels to escort the prospective first years to the Amphitheater of Induction, but I think a trip to a tailor would be better first. With your permission, lord?”
It took Klarion a moment, but he realized that the Sentinel was asking if they might escort him to a tailor before the Amphitheater of Induction, whatever that was. “Of course. Please, lead on.” A worrying thought struck him. “But if this is going to cost me anything, I don’t have any money on me.”
“That won’t be a problem,” the Sentinel replied, already moving to lead him out of the Waystation. “I’ll simply mention you need your school uniform early. Now, if you would follow me?”
Rather than be left behind, Klarion stepped up to walk beside the Sentinel. Given how the rest of the groups in the Waystation generally followed behind their Sentinels, it felt strange at first, but he quickly pushed through it. He had too many questions to just walk in silence.
“Excuse me, Sentinel…?”
“Just Sentinel,” they responded, white mask still fixed in the direction they were walking.
“Of course. I was wondering if you might explain a bit more about the Imperial Academy as we walk?” His tone grew bitter, “My… family did not tell me much about it.”
The Sentinel’s pace did not change, but they did tilt their head slightly, as though considering his request. The warm, feminine voice spoke, “I can answer some of your questions, Lord Klarion, but I cannot provide information that verges on instruction or teaching. That is reserved for the faculty.”
“Of course, I understand,” Klarion nodded gratefully. “Thank you.”
As they strolled towards the edge of the square, Klarion took in some of the other monumental statues. Cast in bronze, each showed a depiction of a man or woman of a range of races standing in commanding postures. They almost seemed to be staring down at the students as they arrived. Before he could focus on any one of them, the Sentinel began to speak, their tone formal yet patient.
“You are currently within a self-contained pocket plane — a unique planar space constructed millennia ago to serve as this branch of the Imperial Academy’s foundation. It is accessed exclusively through Waypoints like the one you just arrived from. Students and faculty are drawn from the western regions of the Empire, with priority given to the nobility.”
“A pocket plane?” Klarion echoed, his curiosity piqued. He’d come across references to pocket planes in some of the games he had played while he was younger, and while he had some idea of what they were, it did not mean that everything was the same here in this new reality he was in.
“Yes. This branch of the Imperial Academy was established at the confluence of several interdimensional ley lines. Such locations are rare and highly advantageous for those seeking to gain strength and wealth. Here, early-stage dungeons spawn frequently. Your teachers will explain more about them in time, but suffice to say they will be ideal for your training and education so long as you are here.”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Dungeons?” Klarion asked, puzzled. It was another term he was familiar with from the games he had played with his friends in the past, but again, that did not mean he understood what they were here.
“You will learn about them later,” the Sentinel replied simply, making it clear they would not elaborate. “Everything here is geared toward training and educating the leaders of tomorrow. Basic education and training are provided to all students, but advanced classes, access to certain resources, and specialized training all require contributions.”
Klarion frowned in thought. He might have expected that to be the case, given everything that Alesin and Rolfun had hinted at in their discussions with him. He would need to figure out quickly everything that he needed to do to get access to those things. He expected they would be necessary to get strong enough to make a difference for Earth.
“A natural means of grooming the strong,” the Sentinel continued when Klarion did not interrupt. “Whether through material support, magical talent, or strategic alliances, only those who prove their worth rise to the top in the Empire.”
As they finally passed through the arched colonnades that surrounded the edges of the square, Klarion found his attention going to the buildings lining a wide boulevard. The nearest were constructed primarily of white marble with veins of gold and silver running through the stone, they gleamed under the sunlight that bathed the pocket plane. Each of these first few buildings they passed seemed to be administrative in nature, their entrances guarded by Sentinels in slightly more ornate armor. Which is to say there were actual patterns on their armor, though what it represented, he had no clue.
The buildings beyond these initial few were more what he had expected. Made of various woods and stones, many but not all had banners of various kinds on their rooftops. If he had to guess, they were the various noble houses that claimed them. His thoughts were confirmed moments later when the Sentinel continued talking.
“Students live within a community structure. Based on the rank of your family within the Empire, you will be assigned a house to call your own. Though you cannot see the walls from here, know that beyond them are areas also considered a part of the campus, which will afford you plentiful opportunities for practical applications of your studies.”
It was a rigid, meritocratic system, but one that made sense to Klarion based on what he understood to be the Imperial Academy’s purpose: strengthening the Empire. “And I suppose the surrounding areas include dungeons?”
The Sentinel’s silence on the matter answered him well enough.
They soon arrived at a grand wooden building of three floors adorned with intricate carvings of needle and thread. A carved sign above the entryway read, “Ward and Weave: Imperial Academy Tailors.” At the Sentinel’s gesture, Klarion stepped past them to go inside and, much like he had with everything else so far, felt out of place.
The bottom floor was a combination lounge area and a series of mannequin displays of various kinds of clothing, the most prominent being what Klarion took to be the school uniforms. Even from the door, he could tell the suit-like outfits were woven of fine cloth. Stepping further inside, the Sentinel right behind him, he picked up the scent of fresh polish in the air. Pulling his eyes from the uniforms on display, he glanced to the far wall where several finely dressed students stood at counters, attendants hovering behind them as they finished paying for the uniforms they just purchased. Conversations were low and cultured, punctuated by polite laughter.
Almost as soon as Klarion entered, however, the atmosphere changed. A number of eyes glanced in his direction, and he could practically feel the uncharitable thoughts being directed his way. He grit his teeth. Hopefully, he could get rid of what he was wearing soon; then, maybe he wouldn’t have to deal with attention like this.
“By the Seven!” One of the young nobles exclaimed loudly after looking back in his direction. “Did he come straight from a ditch? Look at the state of him! Surely he must be one of those beggar soldiers here on scholarship?”
Cruel laughter greeted the young man’s words. Given the glint in his eyes, Klarion had expected as much as soon as he had opened his mouth. Really, this treatment was starting to get old. Thankfully, all he had to do was ignore these jabs one last time, and he could be fitted to receive a school uniform and finally blend in. He repeated that thought in his mind multiple times, but he knew that his face still burned with embarrassment.
The gloating smile on the young noble’s face began to fade as Klarion came closer, the Sentinel close behind. Soon looming above him, and the blood that covered him now clear to the joker, the young noble tried to find anywhere else to look but at who he had just been joking about.
Ignoring him, Klarion stepped past to stand before the counter and the immaculately dressed, severe-looking man who stood behind it. The man, who Klarion assumed to be a tailor, was staring at the clothes he was wearing as if they were about to jump off his back and begin murdering everyone in the shop. So distasteful did the tailor find what he was wearing, that he didn’t even ask why Klarion was there in the shop.
“Alecto,” the Sentinel behind Klarion prompted.
The old tailor blinked, visibly resetting himself. Clearing his throat, he asked, “How might I help you?”
“As you can see,” Klarion gestured down at himself, “I need to be fitted for a school uniform.”
“Of course. If you would follow me,” Alecto said, stepping out from behind the counter. He then led Klarion to a stairway carefully constructed to be mostly hidden behind the display mannequins so that it wouldn’t be seen by those just entering the shop. Following Alecto up the stairs, Klarion went inside the nearest room on the second floor when the old tailor pulled it open and gestured him inside.
The room itself was plain except for the stacks of cloth and other materials around the room. Not being sure how this worked, since he had never been fitted for any clothing before while back on Earth, Klarion turned to Alecto as he closed the door behind the Sentinel as they entered the room.
“Would you like me to stand somewhere in particular?”
“No, right there is fine,” Alecto said. He rummaged around in his pocket for a moment, a frown on his face. Finally finding what he was looking for, he pulled out a strange needle. Before he could get more than a glance at it, Alecto snapped the fingers on his other hand to get Klarion’s attention. “The sooner you disrobe, the sooner we can begin.”
“Disrobe?” Klarion asked, startled. When Alecto nodded in confirmation, Klarion’s eyes shifted to the Sentinel leaning against the wall by the door.
“As you are in my care, and not yet delivered to the Amphitheater of Induction, my duty requires that you not leave my sight,” the Sentinel responded to Klarion’s unspoken question.
Seeing Klarion was still somewhat uncomfortable, Alecto kindly asked, “Have you never done a fitting before?”
“No,” Klarion responded with a wince. “And I have no idea how this works.”
“Not a problem, not a problem,” Alecto said, trying to reassure him. “Simply take off your outer layer of clothes, and my magic will do the rest. I have been doing this work for decades now, so I can assure you, it will be over in but a moment.”
Not seeing any other option and acutely aware of how everything was sticking to him due to old sweat and the blood from fighting the Storm Wolves, Klarion raised his arms to begin taking his clothes off. Immediately, he ran into problems. There must have been something special about Storm Wolf blood, as every seam or button it had dried on was stuck.
“Um, I might need a little help.”
Seeing how much Klarion was struggling, Alecto raised the needle he was holding and muttered something under his breath. An incantation. Threads of light shimmered over Klarion’s body, slicing away the bloodied, tattered remnants of his clothing. As it fell away, it disintegrated into harmless ash, leaving Klarion standing bare save for his undergarments.
Both Alecto and the Sentinel froze.
The old tailor’s sharp eyes widened as they traced the convoluted network of scars crisscrossing Klarion’s back, chest, arms, and legs. The vast majority were old now, but some, the ones inflicted by the Storm Wolves, still showed an angry red. Klarion watched as Alecto’s eyes traced the patchwork of thin and faded lines to where they overlapped with thick, gnarled ridges of the more brutal injuries he had barely survived weeks ago.
Alecto’s mouth tightened. “You’ve had… quite the hard life, haven’t you.” His previously almost gruff voice softened by something almost akin to respect. His hands hovered for a moment before resuming their work. “A bit young for so many stories written on your skin.”
The Sentinel, still and silent as ever, didn’t speak, but her stance shifted imperceptibly. Her white mask gave nothing away, but the slight tilt of her head suggested she was studying him. Perhaps reassessing.
Klarion stiffened under their scrutiny, his fists clenching at his now bare sides. He avoided their eyes. “It’s nothing,” he said quietly, his voice steady but tinged with discomfort.
“Nothing?” Alecto’s voice turned wry, though not unkind. “Young lord, you have more scars on one of your arms than every other first-year noble I fitted for school uniforms this year. That is not nothing.”
The Sentinel’s gaze lingered a moment longer before they resumed their silent vigil. Despite their silence, Klarion suspected that all their attention was still fixed upon him.
“Very well,” Alecto said, raising the needle high above his head. “Let’s begin.”
New threads of light appeared above and around Klarion, though these were the color of the blackest night. They began to swirl around him, seeming to measure as they did so. As the threads continued their work, Klairon marveled as they began to form a translucent image of a school uniform around him. The lines sharpened, detailing what Klarion assumed to be the distinct features of the Imperial Academy attire: a silk undershirt beneath a high-collared coat with silver trim, a modified emblem depicting the crest of his house set into a shield under a triple crown embroidered on his shoulders. Below the coat, finely tailored trousers and polished boots took shape.
Alecto hummed to himself as he adjusted the fit with precise gestures. Each wave of his hand and the needle smoothed an invisible wrinkle, tightened the cuffs, or altered the coat’s length until he was satisfied.
“Functional, elegant, and durable,” Alecto muttered as if speaking to himself. “Only the best for those attending the Imperial Academy.”
Finally, with a flourish, Alecto clapped his hands, and the black threads solidified. The fabric shimmered into being, cascading over Klarion’s shoulders and down his form like water. The uniform fit perfectly as if it had always been his.
“Done, done,” Alecto said, leaning back and inspecting his work with a critical eye. He nodded in clear satisfaction. “That’ll do for now. Just try not to bleed all over this one.”
Running his hands up and down his sides, Klarion could say with absolute certainty what Alecto had just created for him were the finest and most comfortable clothes he had ever owned. Given the fit and feel, this uniform would likely go for many thousands of dollars back in Volksturm on Earth.
Alecto opened the door and stepped back out to the hallway. The Sentinel stepped to the side, allowing Klarion to leave the room first. They inclined their head to him slightly, as if to acknowledge the transformation. As he moved to follow Alecto back down the stairs to the front of the shop, Klarion had to admit that he felt like an entirely new man.