I sat in dismay, grappling with the remnants of my dream. Was it a mere product of slumber, or did it carry a deeper meaning? My room offered no conclusive answers, but the yellowish hue of the sun filtering through the window reassured me of wakefulness. Gazing outside, I found a world bathed in the vibrant greenery beyond the castle walls, a stark contrast to the snow-covered dreamscape.

The tranquility shattered with persistent knocks on my door—thump, thump, thump. Each rap echoed through my room, instilling caution as I approached. Eva's sudden voice broke the suspense, "Master Zarek, the recruiter is here to collect you." Cursing beneath my breath, I realized my tardiness. "Thank you, Eva. I'll be down in a minute," I responded, already fretting over my less-than-ideal first impression.

Downstairs, nervousness tightened my stomach as I headed to the bailey to meet the recruiter. Passing through the portcullis, my jaw dropped at the sight of a colossal fortified carriage hitched to two majestic Elhorn horses, their presence dwarfing any steeds in Selediano. Massive and rare, the Elhorns bore four imposing horns and chests adorned with thick fur.

Approaching the man conversing with my father, I marveled at his stature. Clad in black armor with a hood and mask concealing his features, he bore a sword almost the size of himself on his back. A symbol of a hand holding a sword adorned his cloak, though dirt obscured its details. Their conversation halted as I became the focal point.

"How old is he?" the knight inquired.

"He'll be eighteen come Redfall."

"Has he had any training before our meeting?"

"Yes, he started training at the age of ten. He can also use magic," my father interjected.

Their exchange complete, the knight turned his gaze toward me. "If he fails the entrance exams, Engar, I can't do anything for him."

"I understand that, old friend. He's not going to fail, I assure you."

With a firm handshake, they sealed the deal. My father then directed his attention to me, and the servants approached with the chests. The hooded knight signaled to his men, who efficiently loaded my belongings into the magnificent carriage. In this moment of departure, my mother enveloped me in a tight embrace, her words resonating, "Make us proud, son, but most importantly, make yourself proud." A smile passed between my father and me, our familial connection briefly unbroken.

The knight, interrupting our poignant moment, urged, "Come on kid, we're on a schedule." I bid my family a final farewell, entered the carriage, and we embarked on a journey that would separate me from them for an extended period.

As the coachman informed me, the trip to Asallerolon would consume nearly a month. A considerable duration lay ahead, offering ample time to prepare for the impending challenges. However, my contemplation was interrupted by the knight recruiter, who turned his attention to me. "Have you ever traveled before?" he inquired.

"The only place I ever went to was the royal capital of Quiadiff, in the province of Trelo. But I learned the maps of our kingdom at home," I replied. His nod indicated approval.

"That's a good lad. If you're serious about this job, you need to know your locations—it could be life or death." His gaze fixated on the carriage's floorboards, and with a solemn tone, he continued, "Listen, I came for you because your father asked me to take you on. We are underfunded, which means we had to take in fewer people this year. I hope I made the correct choice in taking you on."

I didn't know what to say, but being chosen because of my father's charity felt unjust. Curiosity compelled me to seek answers. "How do you know my father?" I inquired. The recruiter scrutinized me for a good couple of seconds.

"Seems like your father didn't tell you much about himself... He was the supreme commander of our retinue, and I was the Lieutenant-commander. He promoted me even though I was young. If he told you nothing, then I have no reason to provide you with more information." Disappointment clouded my thoughts; I had hoped to uncover the tales of my father's past.

"Can you at least tell me your name?" I asked.

"It's Zorion... Zorion Azyrat."

Several weeks passed, and we were a couple of miles away from the tower. However, we faced a pressing issue – we were low on supplies. Without ample provisions, starvation loomed for the next three weeks. A change in direction led us west towards the town of Yarlford. This journey marked the most profound hunger I had ever experienced, worsened by the onset of rain, intensifying the cold. The sun vanished, making the road and surroundings difficult to discern. To navigate safely, Zorion dispatched one of his men ahead with a torch to spot potential obstacles. As we approached the town, the rain ceased, unveiling the moon. The Sword Saints Cathedral loomed in the distance, a dark silhouette against the radiant moonlight, dominating the landscape.

The path was illuminated, yet the shadows of the trees on the dirt road sent shivers down my spine. This moment of unease was fleeting, indicating we might reach our destination sooner. Thoughts of delicious food awaiting us in Yarlford momentarily overcame the hunger. However, an unusual silence gripped the air, signaling collective awareness of an imminent threat. Everyone tensed, even the horses moved cautiously, their ears pivoting in different directions.

A sudden gust carried a foul stench, and around the bend, we discovered the source – a horse lying in a pool of blood, still tethered to its wagon. The nauseating sight left me shaken. Four of Zorion's soldiers drew their swords and exited the carriage. Zorion gripped my shoulders, instructing, "Zarek, whatever happens outside, do not leave this carriage, understood?" I nodded in agreement, and he exited.

Outside, the ominous whisper of Zorion's orders and the clash of swords heightened my anxiety. The moon's diminishing light obscured my vision. Running to the front, I found the coachman and I gazing at an unexpected sight – the moon being engulfed by unusually fast-moving clouds. The spell casting this eerie darkness bespoke ancient magic. Crackling sounds emanated from the woods, followed by the approach of multiple figures.

Zorion whistled to his men, prompting their retreat. "Why are you running?" I asked a sense of impending doom filling my words. The soldiers ignored me, focused and resolute. Zorion, the last to enter the carriage, explained, "We're surrounded by witches. If we stay in this position any longer, we're dead!"

The coachman, following Zorion's command, hastened our departure. The carriage rattled violently as we sped towards Yarlford. Zorion signaled for his men's attention, "We're headed straight into the enemy's trap, but if we want to return to the tower, we have to push through this town!"

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Two soldiers ascended to defend the deck, while the others stayed inside. As we entered the town, the once-empty streets now bore witness to the gruesome aftermath. Dead bodies littered the sidewalks, a horrifying testament to the town's recent chaos. The sight of the soldiers of Selediano succumbing to such an atrocity left me bewildered. The coachman, undeterred, continued at a swift pace. Hope flickered within me – if we could traverse the city, a path straight to the tower awaited.

Seated beside the driver, I anxiously scanned each rooftop. Through the darkness, figures emerged – a man and a woman on horseback, clad in light leather armor and black cloaks. Prepared to board our carriage, the man effortlessly leaped onto the deck. The shouts of fighting men, stomping feet, and clashing swords echoed around us. The exit of the town neared, but the struggle continued on the deck, concluding with the screams of Zorion's man and the enemy plummeting from the carriage.

The door to the top deck opened, revealing an injured soldier being carried. Something gruesome caught my eye – the soldier's arm severed at the wrist, hand dangling by a piece of flesh and cloth. Horror washed over me as the accompanying soldier implored, "Do you have any healing magic?"

Looking at the injured soldier, then at his desperate companion, I admitted, "I haven't learned any healing magic." They proceeded with grim determination.

Approaching the gate, a lone witch stood in the road, blocking our path. The driver halted the horses, and she pulled back her hood. "Surrender now!" she commanded. "And you'll be granted a swift death." Zorion leaped out of the carriage.

"You would be foolish to think we would surrender without a fight... witch!"

Out of the shadows, more than a dozen hooded figures emerged onto the rooftops. Our small group faced overwhelming odds. Undeterred, Zorion and his men stood resolute, swords drawn, ready to fight. As they confronted the hooded figures, I retrieved the key for the chest containing my sword, ready to join the fray.

The witch, angered by our defiance, issued a deadly command. "Kill them!" A squad of hooded figures descended upon us with incredible speed. Zorion and his men charged forward, meeting the imminent threat. Frozen in my position, I witnessed Zorion's skill as a fighter, cutting down enemies effortlessly. A foe slipped past him, heading in my direction. I had never taken a life, but with courage bolstered by necessity, I swung my sword, ending the assailant's advance with a fatal blow. The head rolled, eyes frozen in shock.

I crumpled to the ground, a nauseating wave washing over me as the gravity of my recent actions settled in. My attention reluctantly returned to the ongoing battle where Zorion and his men, in a ruthless ballet, had dispatched numerous witch soldiers. However, an enigma lingered—why did the remaining foes merely stand upon the roof? It was an ominous puzzle, and the revelation arrived too late.

As realization dawned, a sickening truth unveiled itself. They were charging their magic not only to obliterate us but also to decimate their own ranks. My desperate attempts to warn them were futile, my voice drowned out by the tumultuous clash of weapons. Suddenly, a resounding boom echoed through the air, halting the chaos. A shrill whistling cut through the noise, growing ominously closer. Zorion's widened eyes met mine, and he bellowed, "Get down!"

Just then, an object crashed onto the soldiers' rooftop sanctuary, triggering a cataclysmic explosion. Debris and macabre fragments rained down like a ghastly storm, a grotesque aftermath of destruction. The witch leader disappeared in a burst of radiant light, leaving my ears ringing and senses disoriented. As the moon emerged from behind dissipating clouds, the chilling reality of the situation revealed itself.

Seeking answers amidst the chaos, I approached Zorion, questioning the origin of the explosion. "What happened?" I asked, my nerves betraying the suspicion that the fight was far from over. "We're saved, that's what happened," Zorion retorted cryptically.

Saved by whom?

The query found its answer as carriages, identical to ours, poured through the gate. Following them were knights and soldiers of the Sacred Hand. An elderly man, mounted on a horse and exuding an air of authority, marked the end of the procession. Zorion, along with his men, rushed to greet him, bowing in unison. "Supreme Commander Hawkins!" Zorion announced, "Thank you for gracing us with your presence."

But dread replaced relief as one of Commander Hawkins' men drew his sword, his eyes wide with fear. "A demon!" he cried, "It's a demon!" The commander, unfazed, approached me on horseback.

Is this the fate I ventured from home to embrace? To be labeled a monster by those ignorant of my true nature? Anger surged within me, but Zorion interceded, positioning himself between me and their blades. "Please, I beg you to lower your blades," he implored. "This is the son of Engar Rheatonsey. He's not a monster."

The men hesitated, exchanging wary glances. Commander Hawkins grumbled before dismounting, approaching me with an ease that belied the tension in the air. His casual demeanor unnerved me, preventing me from meeting his gaze.

"Do you have any proof of this?" he inquired. I presented the bloodied blade, its pommel adorned with the symbol of my father's house—a wyvern. "Yes, it is very well made," he mumbled, inspecting the weapon. "And it has the symbol of your father's house as well, a wyvern!"

Convinced, Commander Hawkins affirmed, "Of course! When I saw him, I almost thought it was Engar," patting my shoulders with a surprising joviality. Unexpectedly, the stern commander was a man brimming with happiness. "Now that we've established you are his son, can you explain why your eyes are the color of blood?"

In search of an explanation that would satisfy him, I stammered, "I was born with a sickness that made my eyes look this way." The evasion mirrored my mother's avoidance of the same question.

Nodding, Commander Hawkins turned his attention to Zorion. "Excellent work, captain. If you have any injured, bring them to the healer immediately."

As we left the town, heading towards the tower, a hill revealed the origin of the explosion—a magic cannon manned by two gunners. My first kill replayed in my mind, its gory details etched into my memory. Zorion interrupted my somber reflections, asking, "Aren't you hungry?"

Truth be told, I had lost my appetite. "No thank you, I'm not hungry anymore."

He nodded, eyeing my weapon. "Ya know, lad, if you don't clean that sword, it's gonna start rusting." He reminded me of Lernac's first rule: "Always keep your weapons clean." I grabbed a cloth and began cleaning the blade, but a delectable scent emanated from the bloodstains. The absurd thought of licking it crossed my mind, but I chuckled, swiftly dismissing the notion.

Three weeks had passed, and our journey led us to Asallerolon. The tower loomed ominously in the distance, its peak shrouded in swirling grey clouds. Drawing nearer, the true scale of the tower revealed itself – a fortress veiled as much in mystique as it was in stone. Its towering walls surpassed even the formidable fortifications surrounding my father's castle. Fixed cannons adorned the battlements, poised to obliterate any perceived threat, while the gatehouse stood as a colossal testament to the stronghold's might.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Zorion remarked, his gaze fixed on the castle, as though its construction were his most triumphant achievement. I could only nod in silent agreement.

As we reached the gate, the convoy came to a halt, and the drawbridge descended while the portcullises lifted. Carriages rumbled into the bailey, revealing the grandeur of the fortress. Stables nestled against the walls housed numerous elhorns, and before us lay a secondary wall crowned by a massive gate, guarded by two sentinels.

Zorion's men efficiently unloaded my belongings, and the carriages disappeared along a path encircling the fortress. As they vanished from sight, Zorion knelt to my height, instructing me to stand at ease when a commander approached. Forming a half-circle, I joined the other recruits in anticipation of the impending arrival of the second commander.

In this assembly, nobles, myself included, were outnumbered by commoners. The diversity of backgrounds within the group underscored the gravity of the impending challenges we would face together. The air hung with a blend of uncertainty and determination, a shared recognition that our fates were now woven into the fabric of this formidable fortress.