In the heart of the formidable fortress, one figure caught my attention—an ethereal presence amidst the stern faces of battle-hardened warriors. She, the lone female within the fortress, stood out in stark contrast. With ears that were short yet pointed, a telltale sign of her Peredhil heritage, she exuded an otherworldly allure. Her eyes, a resplendent shade of purple, bespoke her half-elvish lineage. A beauty both delicate and resilient adorned her, and a subtle grace enveloped her lean figure.

As I marveled at her, entranced by the enigma she embodied, a commanding force disrupted my musings. Through the secondary fortress gate emerged a formidable figure, a burly man who radiated authority—Commander Kalodor. The assembled recruits, myself included, snapped to attention, awaiting the directives of this formidable leader. Kalodor scrutinized each face with deliberate slowness until his gaze collided with mine. His furrowed brows betrayed a latent anger as he advanced briskly in my direction, interrupting my silent observations.

Zorion attempted to intercede, but I silenced him. "My lord! I am Zarek, son of Engar Rheatonsey," I asserted, yet my words seemed to fall upon deaf ears. The commander's attention lingered on me only momentarily before redirecting towards Zorion.

"Commander Kalodor, the lad already provided an answer. If you have grievances, take them to Supreme Commander Hawkins," Zorion declared, unwavering.

The commander's scowl deepened as he issued a warning to Zorion, uttered in a low, threatening whisper. The tension in the air intensified, lingering as Zorion retreated, leaning against a wooden fence.

"Now, listen! I am Kalodor Bartleby-Everson, one of the commanders of the Harwood fortress. You all have shown the courage to be here, and for that, you have my respect," he announced, gracefully pivoting on his heels before retreating into the keep.

The atmosphere shifted as we, the male recruits, were escorted to our barracks. Amidst the camaraderie, I noticed the absence of the half-elven woman, now being escorted separately.

Upon entering the barracks, my expectations were defied. The cleanliness contrasted sharply with the expected squalor. Bunk beds adorned with black tunics awaited us. The armored escort issued a stern warning about maintaining tidiness.

As the door closed behind us, a quiet settled over the barracks. The commoners engaged in excited chatter, drawing disapproving looks from the nobility who stood aloof. A nobleman, blond and disdainful, berated the commoners, threatening them into silence.

In this tense silence, the nobleman's attention turned to me. An unwelcome summons compelled me to approach, and I reluctantly complied. "What do you want?!" I demanded.

Identifying himself as Klayden Amber, he extended an offer veiled in opportunism and whispered promises. A proposal to join their cause and rise above the commoners. Yet, my principles resisted the allure of such schemes, and I retorted with a demand for honor.

I trod the path that wound around the fortress's circumference, the towering walls casting long shadows as I approached what seemed to be a dining hall. A suspended bridge, connecting outer and inner walls, loomed over the pathway, a structural marvel against the backdrop of the fortress. Upon reaching the dining hall, a surprising space greeted me, save for a lone man, presumably the cook, immersed in reading at his counter.

Drawing near what appeared to be a blacksmith's workshop, my steps slowed. Peering inside, I discovered a burly old man, comfortably reclined in a chair with a worn cloth draped over his eyes. My curiosity was interrupted by an abrupt snore, startling me momentarily.

As I continued my exploration, the training yard unfolded beside the workshop. Anticipating solitude, I approached the entrance, only to discover the half-elf girl engaged in a masterful dance with her sword, expertly slicing through the air. Hesitating not to disturb her, I ventured in.

"Hope I'm not disturbing you. Do you mind if I train here as well?" I queried, my nervousness evident. Up close, her presence became surreal, as if sculpted from the finest artistry the world could offer.

She paused, resting on her sword, panting. "Not at all."

Unsheathing my sword, I began my training, aware of her unwavering gaze. Surprisingly, she broke the silence, acknowledging my blade.

"Nice sword," she remarked, leaning on her own.

Surprised by her unexpected words, I replied, "Thank you."

With a graceful motion, she sheathed her sword—a magnificent creation with a blue hue emitting a subtle purple glow. The sword guard, fashioned like the wings of a bird, hinted at the wealth of her lineage. She introduced herself as Shael Vesculbo, the bastard daughter of Lenald Vesculbo.

"Bastard?" I queried, intrigued by the revelation.

A hint of amusement played across her lips. "My father allowed me the honor of keeping his last name."

As she spoke, her smile enchanted like that of a goddess. Interrupting my reverie, she urged me to share my story.

"Well... my name is Zarek Rheatonsey, the unknown son of Engar."

A raised brow revealed her curiosity. "Unknown... Why?"

"I don't exactly resemble other humans, so he kept me hidden for my safety."

Both her brows reached new heights. "Forgive me if I am rude, but you are more of a bastard than I am," she jested.

A shared gaze blossomed into laughter, breaking the ice. "I guess so," I admitted.

"So, unknown son of the mighty Engar, would you like to train with me?" she proposed hands on her hips.

"Of course!" I exclaimed, enthusiasm coursing through me. At that moment, amidst the fortress's looming walls, she became the only person with whom I had shared an enjoyable conversation since departing my father's castle

The eve descended upon us, and the time for supper approached. Training late with Shael brought back memories of days spent honing my skills under the guidance of my master. Our sparring session revealed her proficiency with the sword—her weapon, light yet perfectly balanced for delivering precise strikes.

"Zarek," she suggested, "It's getting late. Let us head in."

I readily agreed, exchanging laughter as we made our way to the mess hall. The sweet and spicy aromas wafting from the kitchen embraced us upon entry. The hall buzzed with laughter and chatter, creating a lively atmosphere. Knights occupied long tables, while recruits sat apart, Klayden and his cohorts sharing a table with commoners, their discontent palpable. Shael and I secured supper from the cook and sought a place to sit, spotting a vacant spot near Klayden.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

However, as we approached, Klayden obstructed our path, smirking, "This seat is taken. How about you and your girlfriend find somewhere else to sit."

"The seat is not taken! How about you stop acting like an ass and move!" I retorted, annoyed.

He slammed the table, rising angrily. "What did you say to me!?" Before I could respond, a burly recruit intervened, offering a seat at his table. Grateful, we took the offered seats, enduring Klayden's disdainful chuckles.

Suppressing my anger, I thanked our benefactor. "Don't waste your time with someone like that; you'll only be causing more trouble for yourself," the burly recruit advised.

Surprisingly, Shael remained indifferent, focused on her supper. Her demeanor set her apart from the others.

I ate quickly, relishing the excellent supper. "Thank you for allowing us a seat," I expressed my gratitude.

"Not a problem," the burly recruit named Roger replied, extending a hand for a handshake. "The name's Roger, a pleasure to meet ya."

His hands, large and weathered, hinted at a life of hardship. We shook hands firmly, and he chuckled about my proclamation of gratitude. As he left for bed, Shael continued her meal, seemingly unbothered by the surroundings.

Supper concluded, and the hall emptied—knights, recruits, and even Klayden and his cohorts departed with disgruntled glares. Shael and I remained, hesitating to leave. Unexpectedly, Shael spoke.

"Zarek, are you scared?" she asked, her question catching me off guard.

"Scared of what?" I inquired.

She pushed her bowl aside, her posture serious. "Of this—coming to this place, leaving everything and everyone you ever knew to come to a fortress in some God-forsaken county."

"Well, if you put it like that, I would say I'm more nervous than scared. I mean, why should you be?"

She regarded me with intense confusion, a reaction I couldn't decipher.

"Do you not know what's been happening in Selediano? Witch attacks are becoming rampant, children are being taken from homes in the middle of the night, and monsters are moving from the Cicolalenian Empire to our land, and you ask me why?!"

Her sudden hostility took me aback. "I-I apologize if I have offended you."

"It's fine," she dismissed my apology with a wave, "I could get worked up sometimes."

Abruptly, the cook approached, demanding we leave the mess hall. Given the late hour, recruits were not supposed to wander, justifying his anger. We departed, making our way to the barracks.

As we reached my barracks, Shael waved, wearing a radiant smile. "See you tomorrow at the training yard, I hope?"

"Of course, I look forward to seeing you there as well."

Two days elapsed, and it was now the 12th day of Firewane. Shael and I had immersed ourselves in rigorous training. Whoever had trained her had bestowed upon her a formidable set of skills.

The early morning horn sounded, signaling the commencement of the ceremony. The soldier who had transported us here stood at the door, instructing the nobles to don their armor. Commoners, in turn, would be provided with their own sets.

I donned mine, But klayden stole the looks of everyone when he put on his very eye-catching armor. His armor had golden pauldrons with very intricate flower designs. His cuirass was royal blue with the shape of muscles carved on the front. And it had golden designs on the neck. Underneath all that was a red gambeson that only showed at the arms and was covered by golden bracers.

His armor was truly impressive.

The knight ushered us toward the ceremony, my eyes scanning the surroundings for Shael, but she remained elusive. Passing the mess hall, the stark contrast between nobles and commoners saddened me, though the commoners would soon be equipped with their own armor.

Near the blacksmith's workshop, I finally spotted Shael standing at the entrance of the training yard, accompanied by a heavily armored knight. Strangely, her expression seemed devoid of emotion, and she didn't acknowledge my presence. Confused by the sudden shift, I wondered if I had overreacted to our previous day's interaction.

Our single-file line formed under the sun's unforgiving gaze, the blacksmith's gaze lingering on us. As I squinted against the sunlight, two shadows revealed themselves in the sky—unfamiliar creatures with spiked tails and blotched wings.

The sound of swishing and creaking drew my attention to a priest, a devotee of Theion and Adite, approaching us. His dark robes flowed elegantly as he walked, symbols of death and honor adorning his attire. He carried a key, unlocking an invisible door, revealing a passage into the training yard.

"Head inside," he calmly instructed, and we nervously followed, descending into darkness. The corridor led us to a grand arena, where statues of the Gods of death and honor loomed overhead. Another priest awaited, guiding us to an open area where our names would be called, and we'd stand in the center of the arena.

As we waited, the commander's voice echoed from the balcony, cutting through the tense air. "Recruits!" he shouted, setting the stage for the ceremony. "This ceremony is to test your skill. Each of you will fight one-on-one. Yielding or being knocked upon your back equals failure. Begin!"

A priest with a scroll called the names of two commoners, Fritz Sumpter and Winford Forte. Nervously, they stepped forward, their lack of training evident in their stances and the way they held their weapons. The arena, now a battleground, awaited the clash of recruits, and the air pulsed with anticipation.

The priest's command resonated through the air, and the clash of steel erupted in response. Observing the skirmish, I couldn't help but cringe, compelled to shield my face in embarrassment. Fritz unleashed a wild swing at Winford's head, halted only by the desperate intercession of his blade, which teetered perilously on the brink of escape. The encumbering armor added a layer of difficulty to their already arduous struggle. As I glimpsed Kalordor's discontented visage, a foreboding realization settled upon me.

The commander displeased, turned abruptly, his purpose shrouded in mystery until the resonance of footsteps revealed his destination. With a wide gesture, Kalordor flung the door open, emerging with determined strides that bridged the distance between him and the tumultuous combatants. His intervention brought an immediate cessation to the chaos, forcefully pushing the combatants apart.

"Is this the extent of your prowess? I was informed that both of you received training from your fathers!" Kalordor's voice echoed with a mix of anger and disappointment.

"Please, sir, we weren't real-" Fritz's plea was silenced by the raised hand of Kalordor.

A resigned sigh preceded his words, "Stand at the entrance."

They bowed and withdrew from the arena, leaving it fraught with tension. The hours wore on, with Roger reluctantly thrust into the arena against Klayden, the last commoner standing. Roger, lightly armored compared to his opponent, faced Klayden's mocking bow with stoic composure. As runes materialized on both their hands, an air of palpable anticipation gripped the onlookers.

The clash that ensued was a symphony of skill and magic, a dance of parrying and attacking. The fight persisted for hours, each blow delivered with precision but failing to yield any decisive outcome. When Kalordor finally intervened, both combatants, despite their use of magic to bolster stamina, were left panting.

"That's enough!" Kalordor declared, and they bowed before retreating to the sidelines. My heart pounded, not from the intensity of the fights but from the looming prospect of facing Shael. My apprehensions materialized when our names were called. I wondered if she harbored similar reservations, but her inscrutable expression offered no clues.

In the center of the arena, Shael took her place, while I hesitated in my spot. "Zarek, step forward!" commanded the priest. Drawing my sword, I confronted Shael, meeting her emotionless gaze. The significance of our past conversations hung in the air, and I gritted my teeth to quell the rising tumult within me.

Assuming defensive postures, runes adorned both our hands. The priest's command initiated the clash, and Shael, without a hint of reservation, lunged forward with astonishing speed. The ground beneath her fractured as she left a trail of smoke in her wake, relentlessly attacking in a furious arc from right to left.

Disbelief gripped me; she displayed no intention to hold back. Pouring mana into my arms, I blocked her assault, the reverberations resonating with an intensity reminiscent of Lenarc's power. Face-to-face, Shael's gritted teeth and intense expression betrayed no hint of mercy.

Anguish and betrayal enveloped me.

Our blades clashed with unrestrained force, sparks igniting as we exchanged blows. Dodging and striking, each hit carried formidable power. She gracefully dodged my attack, countering with a swift stab toward my stomach. I parried, retaliating with an overhead strike, my scream echoing in the arena. Shael evaded, flipping away from the deadly trajectory.

My sword embedded in the ground, I stood defenseless. With a glance at my weapon, then at me, Shael dashed forward once more. Swiftly reclaiming my sword, I blocked her chest-high strike, but she scraped my face with a ruthless hit. Stumbling backward, hand on my bleeding cheek, I stared at her with widened eyes.

Is she attempting to kill me?

My simmering anger surged to a boiling point. "What the hell are you doing?" I bellowed, consumed by rage.