Sid awoke to the stillness of the morning, the sun barely peeking over the volcanic mountains. His master's absence, once a shadowy thought, now felt like a looming reality. Thorne Blackwood had left without a trace, his final words written on a scrap of parchment still etched into Sid's memory: Your training is complete.
The emptiness of the space around him was jarring, but Sid had learned well from Thorne’s teachings. He was not one to panic or rush. Instead, he grabbed his sword, his body moving with the steady rhythm of routine. If there was one thing Thorne had instilled in him, it was discipline.
Sid stood in the quiet clearing where they had trained for months. With slow, measured steps, he began to swing his sword, each movement deliberate and calculated. His muscles remembered the drills, the way the blade should cut through the air, swift but controlled. He focused on his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, the tension in his arms. The blue light that once overwhelmed him had become a part of him, guiding each strike.
As the morning wore on, Sid lost himself in the motions. His swings became sharper, more precise—each cut a testament to the skills he had honed over the past year. He could feel the strength coursing through him, the subtle shifts in his stance that Thorne had emphasized. He was no longer the boy who had swung wildly at a tree; he was a swordsman now, trained in the ways of survival and combat.
Yet, a quiet uncertainty gnawed at him. What would he do now, without Thorne’s guidance?
---
Sid’s moment of contemplation was interrupted by the sound of shuffling feet behind him. He paused, his sword still in mid-swing, and glanced over his shoulder. There, standing a few paces away, was a figure wrapped in tattered robes, his face hidden beneath a hood. The man’s clothes were worn, his posture slouched, but there was something oddly deliberate in the way he moved. Sid’s instincts, honed by Thorne’s lessons, kicked in immediately.
The stranger took a hesitant step forward, his hands held out in what appeared to be a non-threatening gesture. “Sorry to interrupt your training,” he said in a voice that was raspy, but friendly.
Sid lowered his sword slightly, his gaze narrowing as he sized up the newcomer. “Who are you?”
The man chuckled, pulling back his hood to reveal a disheveled mop of dark hair and sharp, calculating eyes. “Name’s Cian,” he said, flashing a crooked smile. “Just a humble beggar, wandering these parts. You’re quite the swordsman, I must say. Don’t see many around here who can swing a blade like that.”
Sid remained silent for a moment, observing Cian’s body language carefully. His posture was relaxed, but there was a subtle tension in the way he stood, as if he was ready to move at a moment’s notice. His eyes darted around the clearing, taking in every detail. Sid could tell he wasn’t just a beggar—there was more to him than met the eye.
“You’re not from Drakovia, are you?” Sid asked, his tone calm but probing.
Cian’s grin widened, and he shrugged. “I get around. Let’s just say I’ve got a knack for hearing things, seeing things. This kingdom’s full of stories, you know.”
Sid nodded slowly, keeping his suspicions in check. He didn’t trust Cian—at least, not yet—but something about the man intrigued him. “So, what brings you here? Surely not just to watch me train.”
Cian laughed, the sound light and unbothered. “You caught me. I heard there was a swordsman around these parts, training alone. Thought I’d come see for myself. But now that I’m here, maybe you could use a bit of company? It gets lonely, doesn’t it?”
Sid raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to laugh at the absurdity of the situation or remain cautious. Cian didn’t seem dangerous—at least, not in an obvious way—but there was something slippery about him, something hard to pin down. Still, Sid decided to play along for now. He wasn’t one to make enemies without reason.
“I’m Sid,” he said, offering a slight nod. “And I wouldn’t mind the company, as long as you’re not here to cause trouble.”
Cian’s grin widened, and he held up his hands in mock surrender. “Me? Trouble? Never. Let’s just say I like to keep things... interesting.”
---
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the clearing, Sid and Cian found themselves walking through the winding streets of Drakovia’s main town. The volcanic city was as rugged as ever, its stone buildings fortified against the harsh environment, but there was a rough charm to the place that Sid had grown to appreciate. The people were tough, but they respected strength, and Sid had earned his place here.
Cian led the way to a small, unassuming pub tucked into a corner of the town square. “Best place in town for a drink and some snacks,” he said with a wink. “Plus, the owner’s an interesting fellow.”
The pub was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of roasted meat and the sound of clinking glasses. As they entered, the barkeep—a broad-shouldered man with graying hair and a scar running down the side of his face—looked up from behind the counter. His eyes, though tired, held a spark of recognition as they landed on Cian.
“Back again, Cian?” the man grunted, wiping down a glass. “And who’s this?”
Cian grinned and gestured toward Sid. “This here’s Sid, a swordsman in training. Figured I’d show him around. Got anything good today, Boren?”
Boren, the barkeep, chuckled and set the glass down. “Always something good. Have a seat.”
Sid and Cian took their seats at the bar, and soon enough, plates of steaming food were placed before them. As they ate, Boren leaned against the counter, watching them with a thoughtful expression.
“You know,” Boren said, his voice low, “I used to be a warrior myself. Fought for Drakovia when I was your age, Sid. Back in those days, things were different—tougher, in some ways. But if you’ve got the skill, this kingdom could use someone like you.”
Sid’s interest piqued at the man’s words. “A warrior, huh? What was it like?”
Boren sighed, a wistful look crossing his scarred face. “It’s not for the faint of heart. But there’s honor in it. Drakovia’s always looking for those strong enough to protect its borders, to defend the southern realms from northern invaders. If you’re serious about your training, you might consider joining the ranks.”
Sid leaned back in his chair, considering the idea. He had spent the past year under Thorne’s tutelage, growing stronger with each passing day. The thought of putting his skills to use, of fighting for something greater, was tempting. But the shadow of Thorne’s sudden departure still hung over him, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to his master’s absence than he knew.
“I’ll think about it,” Sid said, his voice steady.
Boren nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You do that. Drakovia could use a swordsman like you.”
As the evening wore on, Sid and Cian exchanged jokes and laughter, the tension of the day easing into a comfortable camaraderie. But as Sid glanced out the window at the darkening sky, he knew that this was only the beginning. There were still questions unanswered, and paths yet to be taken.
And somehow, he knew that his journey was far from over.
As Sid and Cian continued their meal, the pub owner, Boren, leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a more serious tone.
“You ever hear of the Crimson Talon?” Boren asked, glancing around the room as if the name carried a weight too heavy for casual conversation. His scarred hands rested on the counter, and his weathered eyes narrowed, flicking between the two young men.
Sid shook his head, intrigued but cautious. "No, what's that?"
Boren smirked, as if the mere question betrayed Sid's lack of knowledge about the kingdom he now called home. "The Crimson Talon isn’t just any warrior organization. It’s the organization. In Drakovia, if you want to survive, you have to earn your place. The Crimson Talon is made up of the strongest fighters in the kingdom—those chosen to protect Drakovia from all threats, especially from the north." He leaned in further, his voice a low rumble. "And there's no bigger threat than the Vorgath Dominion."
Sid raised an eyebrow, recognizing the name. Vorgath Dominion—he'd heard whispers of it during his training with Thorne, but never in detail. "Vorgath? The kingdom to the north?"
Boren nodded gravely. "Aye. One of the largest and most feared kingdoms in these lands. Led by a figure so mysterious that no one knows his true name, only that wherever his armies march, peace is shattered. They're conquerors, plain and simple, and they've had their sights set on Drakovia for a long time. The Crimson Talon exists to ensure that doesn't happen."
Cian, who had been quietly sipping his drink, leaned forward with a spark of interest in his eyes. "So, they’re the ones keeping Vorgath's forces at bay?"
"Exactly," Boren said, his voice heavy with respect.
"Drakovia is the last line of defense, and the Crimson Talon stands at its forefront. There are eleven rankers within the organization. Each rank determines their power and authority—not just in battle, but over the entire region. The higher your rank, the more influence you hold, and the more dangerous you become. It’s a hierarchy of strength, and only the most ruthless rise to the top."
Sid nodded thoughtfully, picturing this elite group of warriors. "What about these rankers? Who are they?"
Boren scratched his chin, his scar pulling slightly as he did. "The current rankers are legends, each in their own right. But five of them—five of the strongest—are on their way back to Drakovia as we speak, returning from missions far beyond our borders. They've been dealing with threats from Vorgath, from what I've heard."
Sid tensed. Five of the most powerful warriors in Drakovia were returning soon. He wasn’t sure whether that was a cause for excitement or concern.
Boren must have sensed his apprehension because the old man chuckled lightly. "You know, lad, this might be your chance to join the ranks. From what I’ve seen, you’ve got the skill. Crimson Talon’s always looking for new blood—warriors with strength, discipline, and more than a bit of ruthlessness. And if you’ve got some power tucked away in those pockets of yours," Boren added with a knowing glance, "you could carve out a nice life for yourself here. More than just a life of survival—power, wealth, influence. The works."
Cian, who had been listening intently, nudged Sid with a grin. "Sounds like a good deal, doesn't it?"
But Sid’s mind was already racing, and not with excitement. The mention of power stirred memories of Thorne’s training, of the lessons that went beyond mere physical strength. Sid knew well enough that real power was far more complicated than swinging a sword or joining an organization, no matter how revered it was. There was a price to be paid for everything, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to gamble on something he didn’t fully understand.
“I appreciate the information you've provided,” Sid said slowly, his voice steady, " I think I’ll think about it thoroughly.”
Boren’s eyebrows rose, and Cian shot him a surprised look.
Boren’s expression shifted, softening with a hint of respect. “Fair enough,” he said, backing away from the counter. "Yeah, think about it. Crimson Talon could use someone who thinks before they act.”
Sid gave a polite nod, though the tension in his chest didn’t fade. Something about this conversation had stirred a deep unease within him—an instinct that told him Drakovia’s future, and perhaps his own, was far more complicated than a warrior’s path.
As the night wore on and the pub grew quieter, Sid couldn’t shake the feeling that the Crimson Talon’s return meant more than just protection. And somewhere in the back of his mind, the looming threat of the Vorgath Dominion whispered like a storm waiting on the horizon.
He wasn’t sure what path lay ahead, but he knew one thing: whatever decisions he made next, they would have to be his own.