Far to the north in the Kingdom of Hask lies the Steppe Mountains, a vast granite range resembling circular steps fading into the horizon. Nestled deep within the mountains’ upper reaches is a town called Bastion, aptly named since it is the northernmost military garrison before the land devolves into hostile wilderness. Twenty miles beyond this point, on a winding dirt track that teases the side of deadly cliffs, lies the village of Craggton, population two hundred. Another five miles north again and long past where even the kingdom’s tax collectors fear to tread is a hamlet of no official name.

It’s a place of non-existence, as far as the kingdom is concerned. The cluster of four cottages is sheltered on three sides by soaring granite walls, marking a towering alcove in the cliff face. At the farthest end of the homes is a humble stone cottage with smoke puffing lazily from its chimney. Nearby is an unimpressive yet well-tended plot of potatoes, six furrows wide and thirty yards long. A thick, oafish bear-of-a-man delicately probes his pitchfork into clods of soil beside his teenage son, one furrow over. A sudden breeze snags the edge of his burlap overalls, prompting him to pause and stretch his back.

“I reckon that’ll do for today,” said Garrett Rowan.

“We’ve only got half a furrow left!” said his son, Rin. “You’re the one always telling me to finish what I’ve started.”

Garrett’s eyes twinkled, their deep pits edged in crow’s feet, bulbous rosy cheeks, and a ragged beard. For all outward appearances, he looked the quintessential mountain man. “Yeah, but once you’re gone, I’ll need something to keep me busy so I don’t mope around all day. Plus, you need to save your strength for sparring after dinner. I’d hate to beat the crap out of you again.”

Rin huffed, scratching a freckled cheek with dirty fingernails. He was dressed similarly, with overalls so coarse they’d make a bear itch. His most noticeable features were his piercing blue eyes, a brilliant contrast from the flat brown irises of his parents. A surplus of freckles covered every bare inch of his lanky frame and his head was thick with an unkempt shock of auburn hair.

The boy heaved into his pitchfork, eager to finish the day’s work despite his father’s words. “You’d better enjoy it while you can, old man. Once I get my warrior class, I’m coming right back here to beat your backside raw!”

The smile lingered on Garrett’s face, then melted away as if carried on the pine-soaked breeze. They both knew that wasn’t true. If everything went according to plan, Rin would be leaving tomorrow and wouldn’t be back for years.

If ever.

Garrett’s eyes glazed as he remembered the years spent in this godsforsaken place. For a moment, he was blind to the stunning vista of sprawling valleys before them, the cliff’s edge plummeting away into a yawning carpet of greens and yellows that smeared into a blur at the horizon. His mind’s eye overrode the scene of thick clouds lazing serenely, the bright scent of evergreens, the ever-present whirring of wind in the background, tugging the edge of his patched shirt from his overalls. Instead, all he saw was a burbling toddler held in his outstretched arms against a backdrop of azure sky.

He’d known this day was coming. He’d dreaded it. But how had it come so fast?

Tomorrow. On the way to Craggton. That’s when I’ll tell him.

A girthy woman trundled up. She wore a beige apron over a faded floral dress, and her face was beaming, creased tight with laugh lines.

“Are my menfolk having yet another break? Those potatoes aren’t going to pop out by themselves, you know.” She slapped Garrett’s rump with a good-natured thwack.

Rin gave an exasperated sigh. “That’s what I said. Father’s getting all sentimental about me leaving tomorrow.”

Garrett froze. “Is it that obvious?”

“We know you too well, dear,” said his wife, Lisa Rowan, patting his arm. “Now, wash up before dinner gets cold.”

“Beets and venison again?” asked Garrett.

“Aye.”

Rin stifled a groan but nonetheless plunged his fork into the soil and hurried off. He knew not to complain about the venison. For two thirds of the year, heavy snows meant sparser hunting. Regular portions of meat were a luxury.

But the spring thaws were now a distant memory, and three weeks ago they’d caught a huge twelve-point buck. They’d had venison every dinner since, which was stretching his tolerance. Thankfully, his mother rotated the veggies with leeks and spuds every other day.

In addition to the lackluster fare, dinner was a quiet and somber affair, with Rin pointedly ignoring the forlorn looks of his parents. He mechanically shoveled his way through the meal, then raced away to finish his chores. Within thirty minutes, he was facing off with his father, both of them stretching in the compacted dirt clearing they used for sparring behind their stone cottage.

“We’re doing swords tonight,” said Garrett, picking up one of the wood-whittled practice weapons and giving it an experimental twirl. “I’ve taught you as best I know how, son. I’m damn proud of what you’ve become. As long as you keep a low profile and pick a strong class, you’ll become a formidable opponent indeed.”

Rin’s brow scrunched.

Keep a low profile? He’s never said that before.

“On your guard!” Garrett shouted, coming at his son with wild eyes and a swinging chop from above.

The boy dove into a forward roll, nearly vomiting his venison dinner in the process, before snatching up another practice sword and bringing it up in time to block a furious swipe. “Dammit, old man! You didn’t even wait for me to arm myself!”

Garrett’s eyes narrowed. “You think the enemy will wait? You think a monster will pause its attack so you can take your sweet time getting ready?” He swung another mighty chop down on Rin’s blocked position to emphasize his point. “Think again!” The burly man smashed the blocking sword aside, then dashed in with shocking speed to strike at his son’s flank.

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But Rin had sparred with his father countless times, and the strike met nothing but air as he spun away, creating some distance. Without warning, a quick pivot on his back heel launched the boy right back into the fight, causing Garrett’s brow to rise. He met his father’s swelling passion with his own, parrying blow after blow, returning heated strikes with those of his own.

As always, Garrett didn’t tap into the abilities of his magically enhanced warrior class. Even with that limitation, Rin couldn’t hope to match the might of the man’s meaty arms, but he could identify the more debilitating incoming blows, which he expertly deflected into sidelong grazes rather than greeting head-on against his wooden blade. Then he was back on the offense, lunging and jabbing at full speed.

The sword in his hand wasn’t his only weapon. He would often dive deep into his father’s guard with a snap-kick to the chest or a sweep attack to the legs. He struck his sword low against the guard, intentionally aiming for the weak point of his father’s tender grip. He even tried throwing some dirt in his face.

No fighting style was off limits, no dirty trick out of bounds. This is how he’d been taught to fight: as if his life was in the balance every time. This was no friendly duel between sparring nobles. It was a desperate clawing for survival, in practice form. Each of Rin’s swings was a physical manifestation of furious concentration combined with his full strength.

Then, after several bouts and over an hour of constant combat, the miraculous occurred. In a moment of undeniable triumph, he managed to twirl Garrett’s wooden sword away into the dirt, disarming him. When he flicked his weapon’s tip against his father’s neck, grazing the edge of his beard, Garrett said the unimaginable.

“I yield.”

A grin was plastered on the man’s face as he rose and clapped Rin on the shoulder. “You’re ready, son. Ready as I can ever make you.”

Rin stumbled back with wide eyes. His mouth hung slightly ajar as he panted. Then he raised his fists to the sky, one still clenching his practice weapon.

“YES!”

Garrett turned to disguise his wide grin and started packing away the various practice weapons littering the ground. The sun set early because of their location in the mountains, and the daylight was already waning.

“I have one final thing to show you.”

His father took off at a brisk pace without further explanation, and Rin scrambled to keep up. When they reached the cliff face to the rear of their property, Garrett peered about with his neck outstretched, making sure their stone cottage blocked the view of their position from any curious neighbors further down the alcove. Then he gestured at the floor.

“Pick a stick. Any stick.”

Rin selected a random twig of pine that had tumbled loose from the forest’s edge looming over them. He made as if to hand it over, but Garrett forestalled him with a raised hand.

“Hold on. First, examine that stick. Is there anything special about it? Anything magical at all?”

Rin recognized it was a leading question but dutifully peered at the stick nonetheless. “No, I don’t think so, Father … wait, what’s that?” Rin pointed to a tiny knob on the stick.

“Huh?”

Garrett instinctively lowered his face to the twig, surprised at his son’s response. When Rin’s finger flicked up from the stick to bop him in the nose, he leaped back in sudden shock.

“Gotcha!”

“Why you little … that’s my trick, you little bastard!”

Garrett snatched the stick from his son in faux annoyance, but he couldn’t hide the smirk teasing at the corner of his mouth. “Look, the point is, there’s nothing special about this twig. Right?”

“Yes, Father.” Rin was still grinning, but he knew not to push his luck. “It’s a normal, boring old stick.”

“Right? As you know, I’m normally very careful to keep the strength of my magic hidden, but I think tonight calls for something special. A demonstration, shall we say, just between us men?”

Garrett gave him a conspiratorial wink, then aimed the twig at the cliff face beside them and flicked it down in a sharp chopping motion. He exerted the blow with minimal strength, an ordinary strike one might make with a paring knife when chopping small vegetables. Nothing noteworthy about it. Except, perhaps, for the blinding blue flash of arcane magic that erupted from its tip and the deafening crack as it smashed into the granite wall.

Rin suddenly found himself within a cloud of dust. When it settled, a deep cut was evident in the granite wall. The fresh slice was a perfect cut, as tall as a man and a foot wide at its center, directly closest to where the twig had pointed.

Garrett stepped up to the cut and felt along its edge. Then he plunged his hand inside and pressed his body up against the wall, submerging his arm up to the shoulder.

“It gets narrower, but I can’t quite feel the end. Here, you try.”

Rin goggled at the perfectly sliced stone as he mimicked his father. It was like a master sculptor had carved it. The arc of the strike was so clean, so sharp; it was a stark contrast with the other cracks and divots peppering the rock from erosion and the weathering of time. This was unmistakably unnatural.

Under Garrett’s tutelage, Rin had meticulously trained his perception of his environment to recognize the tiniest flaws in the landscape and be able to track any animal, no matter how small. To him, this unnatural slice was a glaring sign pointing to something special here. Even if he had given it a cursory glance from hundreds of yards away, he would have been strangely drawn to give it a closer inspection.

“Where … where did all the rock go?” he asked, shoulder-deep in the wall.

His father’s cheesy smile couldn’t be wider.

“Magic. That’s the kind of power you can look forward to. And that ability was with an evolved warrior class, not a mage class. Your old man’s still got it, kid!”

Garrett pulled him away from the wall and into a headlock before rapping his knuckles on the top of his head, shattering Rin’s sense of awe.

“Ugh! Father!”

The boy tried extricating himself, but the hefty arm around his shoulder wouldn’t budge as they made their way inside the cottage.

“You know this already, son, but don’t bother trying to keep yourself up all night waiting for it. You’ll get the prompt from the gods when you wake in the morning. Not a minute earlier. Don’t ask me how the gods know it’s your sixteenth birthday. They just do.”

At Rin’s bedroom door, his father left him with his parting words, his smile still broad on his face. “Try to get some sleep. We leave at first light.”

Rin’s bedroom door clicked shut and Garrett’s shoulders slumped.

Tomorrow. I must tell him tomorrow. Before I never see him again.

***

Sometime after midnight, Rin awoke to strange glowing letters blazing in his mind’s eye:

Happy birthday, Rin Cartwright.

You are now eligible for The Game of the Gods.

Please travel to the nearest dungeon to select a class and access your status.

The words he’d so eagerly awaited were eclipsed by the sickening feeling in his gut.

Cartwright? Not Rowan? Who’s Rin Cartwright?

Despite his father’s words, Rin didn’t sleep much that night.