Ryke was no stranger to weapons. He wasn’t sure why, but whilst his father only ever forged tools, Fairrin only taught him how to forge weapons. The list of creations over the past year had grown staggering. Small knives at first, to shortswords, and then bastard swords. After that it was polearms; a spear, to a glaive, to a halberd. Only one of the weapons he forged ever felt right in his palms, Ryke didn’t know why. Nothing else felt balanced in his grip, even if his skill with it was nil.

It’s for that reason that Ryke scanned the room once more, found his target, and walked to the closest rack he could find with a glaive on it. The weapon was about seven feet long while the blade itself was a foot and a half. Picking it up briefly to get a feel for it, the boy put it back and moved onto another rack, where he found a nigh identical weapon.

Eventually realising they were all standard training pieces, Ryke picked up a random glaive and came back to the centre where Sigmar was waiting. A quick glance among the crowd revealed that many had simply chosen swords and shields. Lycus himself took a spear, and the boy with a light affinity took a sword with an odd length that confused him. It was only slightly shorter than a longsword, but its handle was meant for one hand. Puzzled, Ryke turned back to Sigmar with bated breath.

The man in question surveyed the room with some disdain. The Lanista’s cold eyes settled on each and every one of the youths briefly, and then he motioned for them to follow whilst he stepped off the Altar and into a different side hallway. The stench of blood and sand faded away, leading to a faint smell of parchment and ink that Ryke only recognized from his father’s study.

When Sigmar finally stopped, many different doorways lined the walls, each with a tiny plaque above them. The candidates each took a look around trying to understand their situation, but the sound of a small fire springing to life interrupted them.

“Each room has different Vitus Scriptures in it, as well as matching techniques. Ignore those for now.” Sigmar explained, stomping on a lit torch that Ryke never quite saw him carrying. Nonetheless the older warrior lead them all into another open room, this one smaller than the main training hall, but it had a slightly elevated ridge at the back, as well as what seemed like a sand table and a larch parchment, empty, on the wall.

“I assume you all know what Centurions are.”

“Yes!”

A resounding boom echoed in response, forcing a disgruntled snort out of the man as he slammed his spear into the ground again. With a twist of his wrist, he brought the spear up and slashed it across the parchment, a brilliant grey flame erupting from it’s point and burning a design into the paper.

“And you all know of these places, The Frigum Wastes, the Lairus Domain, and the Archon Wall? Their history?” Sigmar nodded after receiving an overly hushed ‘yes’, and moved on. “In the middle lies the Cinefra desert. Overall these are the four ‘regions’ or ‘landmarks’ that keep us confined here.”

“The Frigum wastes, along with the Chasm of the Dead Throne near it’s entrance, force us to keep a defensive line up north. The Lairus Domain and their Beast Sovereign force us to hold a defensive line to the south and southwest. The Archon Wall-” Ryke felt the Lanista’s eyes on him briefly. “Hold the most history. Who we call the Elyisans lie behind it.”

“They are human, much like us. Descendants of the Ezros Emperor, much like us. Rightful heirs to magic, much like us.” Ryke now felt the Lanista’s stare on him, burning through his chest like hot coals.

“Over five hundred years ago; in the war against the beasts, devils and leviathans, the Elysians forced our people out as bait. Lured their armies into a fight against our old, our children. men and women alike. We were slaughtered. To buy them time. Then they burned us all to death along with their enemies.”

The room reigned in silence momentarily, Ryke’s golden eyes peering into Sigmar’s own as the man grinned back at him. The youth in the room took a moment to recollect themselves, before heads slowly started turning to the only specks of gold in the room. The boy with Elysian blood.

“Three hundred years ago, Falenval discovered the Aurelius Flame and became the first Centurion. Using that, he slowly developed his tribe, and spread out his newfound knowledge in hopes more and more of humanity would survive the hell the desert was so long ago.” Sigmar continued speaking as if nothing changed.

“Today, you will all be learning the same thing. Ignitio, the Realm of Kindling. To find the spark of Aurelius Flame inside you all and slowly build a pile of fuel for it. How you do that will be up to you; based on the many scriptures we have.” He gestured to the door behind them, assumedly back out to the many plaque doorways.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“I recommend most of you, before that, train. I see some young boys and girls here who, by their own volition or their parents, have strong bodies. Some in particular stand out even moreso. A strong body will build a better furnace for the flame, if you will. If you’re keen to ‘become a Centurion’ however, simply read the scriptures.”

With that, Sigmar simply walked out. No further explanations, no further orders. The room abruptly entered a strange state of silence as many looked towards Ryke and Lycus. When a few first started standing up, Ryke felt something was off. They weren’t heading towards the door, but him.

Startled, he barely managed to stand up in time before the other boy reached him; only to be met by an abrupt hug and an incredible amount of confusion.

“Excuse me-”

“My name is Caius. Your father paid for my mother’s medicine when she fell ill. You’re of the desert, like the rest of us.” When Caius moved away as Ryke continued staring blankly at him, another boy came over with an enthusiastic hug, nearly crushing his spine.

“Fairrin repaired all my da’s tools for free. You’re good in our book.” The second boy grinned widely. “I’m Maximus!” With a laugh, he pat Ryke on the back and walked away with Caius; the two seemingly buddies.

“The name is Sol..”

“Kievra!”

“Ofrir.”

Boys and girls continually came up to him, rounding out to about half of the total candidates this year; some who hugged him and some who didn’t. What felt like forever finally passed by when Ryke and Lycus eventually stood alone in the Lecture Hall. The merchant’s son held his cat softly, while Ryke’s own Taura simply leaned against his feet. The silence hung over the room, as if the world itself gave the young Centurion time to process things. When the tears began to fall and small sounds of snivelling escaped him, the boy abruptly shook his head and left the room; leaving a stunned Lycus to follow hastily after.

Lycus only stopped and sighed when he saw Ryke darting into a room with the word for ‘water’ carved into its plaque, and moved to find his own.

The Water Scripture Hall vaguely reminded Ryke of a well when he stepped into it. The air felt humid, the floor felt damp, and the walls seemed seeped with water. A few old plants or moss covered the stone, providing a scent of freshness to it all that the boy actually quite enjoyed.

Trying his best to distract himself as fast as possible, the boy threw himself towards the books while fighting back tears. Many seemed like gibberish to him, overusing big words to seem grand. A few books oversimplified things, making it hard to tell exactly what they meant. Some named themselves something overly grand like “Blood of the Storm King” while some simply named themselves “Water Vital Meditation.”

Eventually setting on one called the Endless Tide Vitus Scripture, seeing the concepts weren’t overly simple but not overly grand either- the boy put the book in his pack and moved to leave with hurried steps; just to be met with a wall of flesh at the door. Bowing his head, he tried to slip by.

“Sigmar.”

“Stop, Candidate.” The boy froze in place. Not sure why, Ryke refused to meet the older man’s gaze. “The glaive is similar to the spear. Slower, but longer, and heavier. I can’t teach you perfectly, but find my room in the Lanista’s quarters and I’ll do what I can.”

A few moments after Sigmar stopped him and left, the golden eyed boy remained standing and confused. A quick shake of his head later, he decided he didn’t want to bother with the why of anything right now and rushed back home with his book.

Looking up as he left the Ludus, a training glaive on his back and the book in hand, the young boy walked home with heavy strides. The sun hung lower in the sky, a couple hours past noon now as the streets bustled with activity. Shouts to advertise trinkets, baubles and many other miscellaneous things slowly dulled as he made his way towards the well.

Bringing home a bucket of water, the boy stepped into the workshop. None of the equipment or stations had the time to gather dust yet and Ryke didn’t plan to give them any time to. Placing his stuff on a table by the door into the house.

He brought a crate of ores next to an old, tarnished anvil. The young smith picked up his hammer, placed the ore down on top of his anvil. Dust shot from the surface, his arms feeling the familiar jolt of pain from the recoil. He did not stop.

When the ore cracked open he picked up another one. When that too cracked open, he picked up a third. Until an hour had passed by and the barrel was empty, another full of proper iron mineral, he kept breaking ore. He brought the fresh material over to the forge and lit it ablaze, readying the crucible for work.

He managed the bellows, the fuel, and the slag. Watched the iron melt and separate within the fire. Heard his father yelling at him to keep the temperature right, to know what coal he was using; why he was using it. The boy’s body began to heat up, his muscles ached and his mind wavered as he managed it all on his own.

Ryke could still hear his father calmly telling him where he went wrong. Reminding him to remember the temperature. Teaching him to stay cool and collected. He remembered the way he would forge, his arm coming down in a strange rhythm every time he hit the metal.

Ryke decided this would be how he remembered him.