Ulrich led Ezril into an entrance beneath the compound. They walked through an arched hallway, each arch in a way marking a distance travelled with wooden torches rested against the walls. They cast a golden light to expel the darkness. This left Ezril marveling at how ancient the place seemed.

The hallways were fashioned from stones so old he could smell it. On different parts of its walls cracks crawled like failed spider webs. They passed hallways leading to unknown parts shrouded in darkness. Each passed hallway claimed a part of his childish curiosity. The darkness of those unlit beckoned to him and he stared with a wanderlust. His mind demanded he explore it. He reached out his hand, curiosity outweighing caution and...

"Vi Antari."

Ezril turned.

Ulrich stood ahead of him with a gaze strong enough to dissuade him of his compulsion.

When did I stop walking? Ezril wondered. What did I see?

Time gave no lucidity to ponder as Ulrich stood waiting. Thus, Ezril hurried to his side. They continued their journey while he battled the residue of wanderlust to the recesses of his mind.

They soon came to rest before a vault the priest pounded against. A noise came from within, a shuffle, a clatter, a clink, then a roar. The door opened outwardly. It revealed a slightly portly man at the entrance of a room drowned in endless darkness save the light in his hand. This man wore no cassock. He was clad only in a shirt that covered his torso and arms and a simple trouser, the color of which Ezril could not discern. The man studied him briefly before casting his eyes to Father Ulrich.

"What makes him special?" The man asked. His voice was a mild soprano. A singer's voice.

Ulrich still bore a frown but somehow Ezril felt this one was not for him. He found himself wondering if the man liked anybody at all.

"He just came," Ulrich answered. "Taken him from the mist."

The portly man scratched his jaw. "The mist, you say." He studied Ezril again. This time his eyes lingered, looking for something, perhaps a priestly qualification he hadn't thought to look for the first time. "Which rich family did he crawl out of?"

Ulrich bit his lip. "His name is Ezril Vi Antari, Father Azet." He spoke the words with the disgust adults kept for only the vilest of things and Ezril winced.

An uncomfortable silence settled upon them. In it both men exchanged a brief look. A communication had taken place in that short moment. Ezril was aware of it but knew nothing of what it was save the fact that Urden was not a name looked upon nicely in the seminary.

"Here for his things," Azet said with a graveness, then turned, retreating into the space behind the door.

When he returned, he held a muslin sack in his hand, swinging it without care. He settled it gently on the floor before Ezril and smiled.

Where Father Ulrich showed disgust and the Monsignor showed joviality, Azet's face displayed pity as he stepped away from the sack. Ezril, deeming it a form of beckoning, stepped forward to assess what was now his.

"These are the only things you will own in the seminary," Azet said.

Amongst its contents were a wooden sword of Alduin design, a knife three hands in length from hilt to point, two slacks of an ash colored fabric Ezril could not identify, two grey colored shirts of cotton, a pair of boots reinforced with leather fasteners, an ashen cloak with clasps sown in, a leather girth, a leather pouch which he opened to find empty, and lastly, a medallion bearing a striking insignia of an old man on his knees holding a broad sword. The point of the sword was buried in the ground and he held himself up by it. Behind him was a creature Ezril did not recognize. Still, he found the sight captivating.

"The insignia of the seminary," Azet noted, reverence audible in his tone. "The last moment of Brandis Algon, friend of the Atle, and his Atle wolf, Zaar’d. Witnessed by Tamaron Duret, founder of the seminary, and first Monsignor. A reminder that a Hallowed is remembered by his deeds but only sees the color of his soul at the moment of his death." The words flowed like a mantra recited in times of trial.

Ezril wondered if it actually was.

"Take care not to wander off," Azet joked as Ezril and Ulrich left. "The darkness of the vault is friendly to no child."

Outside the day broke and the light slowly returned to the sky. It revealed Ezril carrying his sack over his shoulder.

Father Ulrich, keeping his head straight, broke the silence that had been their company since leaving Father Azet.

"He didn't just command shadow fire,” he said, “he drew it from nothing. They say he was a Tainted Hallowed and could speak to an Atle, choosing to die alongside Zaar’d."

It took only a moment for Ezril to realize the priest wasn't talking to anyone specific, and he noted the man's tone held a similar reverence as Azet's.

Ezril knew of Brandis and his legend. At least he knew a little of it. There was no one alive who hadn’t at least heard the name. He was, after all, teacher to the founder of the order of the priests of Truth. The man he thought was the founder of the seminary.

Ezril was led to one of the top rooms in what was called Nen's Tower. Nen’s tower was a tall stone building. Climbing the stairs proved a task of its own, having never climbed more than two flights in his life. When they arrived at the room that was to be his, Ezril positioned his sack on the floor between two beds of bamboo. All the while Ulrich watched from his place at the entrance.

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When Ezril was done Ulrich led him down the stairs.

They left the tower. The light of dawn spilled fully into the compound and Ezril was presented with the sight of two groups of boys sparring with wooden swords under the tutelage of priests. The atmosphere was pregnant with the sounds of clashing wood, boys panting, and the occasional cracks of canes as they crossed distances to meet the sweat covered flesh of children who made errors Ezril could not begin to understand.

One of the priests proved more than generous with the piece of stick he held. He spewed profanities as he made a show of flogging a child who had gone down from the strength of his opponent's blow.

"You are a failure! What kind of fool falls from a weak blow? Is this how you plan to face the enemy?"

The cane cracked through the air with each rise and fall.

"Would you rather be ridden by the stables?!” the priest barked. “I can have you flogged to the caster's furnace and back if that would be preferable. Make good use out of you in the forge."

Ezril was of the sense that the man's threat implied nothing of putting the boy to work.

The beaten boy rose, his pale skin reddened from being struck. He took his stance in silence and the flogging ceased. He seemed to fear that the next time he fell the priest just might make good on his threat.

They passed the boys, headed deeper into the compound, and ended at a group of boys who loitered about the front of a building. As they pulled close, the children scampered to an arrangement, forming a line as straight as they could manage.

They stopped a distance away and Ulrich turned to him. "You will wait for your instructor here," he said. "He will introduce you to your mates."

With those simple words, Ulrich left quietly and in barely concealed disdain.

Ezril was left alone, standing in place as he had done in the mist. He didn't care for the morning cold. It blew against his skin while he watched those that he knew he would soon come to call brothers.

All the children loitered, exchanging glances. They engaged in very miniscule discussions. One of them sat propped against the building wall, his knees drawn up to his face and held in comfort.

While Ezril watched them, a few watched him. Studying. Assessing. They all lived within his age group. The oldest was not more than two years older than Ezril. The boy talked to no one and kicked the sand in the clearing riddled with practice dummies worn out from use.

"Ezril Vi Antari."

The voice startled Ezril and he turned to find a priest standing behind him. He had not heard the man approach and found his presence perturbing. He held his composure, regardless, unwilling to fault his stand.

The man was elderly, almost as much as the Monsignor. His head was shaven, and not a strand of hair stained even his jaw. His eyes, a simple brown common within the realm, spoke of the experience that came with age. It was an observation Ezril was beginning to believe would be present in all the priests.

Ezril realized the man was waiting for him. He mastered his voice and replied, "Yes, sir.”

The man's shoulder twitched. His arm blurred. The cane Ezril had failed to note cracked the air as it came down on him. He fought the urge to cry out against the sting on the flesh of his forearm as he clutched it in pain. Where it not for his arm, the blow would have taken him on head.

"You will address me as Father, as all priests are addressed," the man told him, returning the cane to his side. "Father Talod."

Ezril did his best to keep his hate from his eyes as he looked up at the priest. He remembered the man. He had been the one flogging the fallen boy. "Yes, Father."

"Good." Father Talod spared him an assessing look then walked away and towards the other boys. "Now, come along."

Ezril followed and joined the children quietly.

On Talod’s instruction, they stood in a line with no order to its formation; just a group of children arranging themselves the best they could in a hurry.

Ezril counted eleven of them standing, himself included. As he arrived with Talod, the children retrieved wooden swords the length of which Ezril had in his sack. He spotted one of the same design leaned against a wall and sighed in relief. He picked it and hurried along. He took his place at one end of the line beside children who all bore a varying range of expressions: fear, curiosity, excitement, rage, even disgust.

One of the boys, it seemed, had been crying.

"We have a new addition today," Talod announced. "This one begins his time in the seminary late. A good start to his time here. He will introduce himself."

Talod gave Ezril a glance and he saw it as his cue.

"Ezril Vi Antari," Ezril introduced himself. Somehow he managed to call the name with pride. It drew a look of disgust from at least two boys.

"Hate him all you want," Talod said. "He could be an orphan or a bastard. What remains is that there are no such people in the seminary." Talod took a moment to survey them before continuing. "Be you whatever you choose. A merchant's son. A bastard. If you choose, the heir to the crown. Within these walls, you are properties of the seminary. Some people may have told you sweet glories of how you were brought here as a dedication to Truth. An honor, if you may. Perhaps your parents as they gave you over, to mask their guilt, or some other soft hearted person. The truth remains, they gave you up because they did not want ye, abandoned to the seminary where use may be found of ye. From this day, this is your family." Talod spread his arms out. "The boy beside you, be he a bastard, a noble, or a commoner, he is now you only family. you are no better than he, and he is no better than you.” He smiled. “You have failed as children of Truth because you were never intended to be. Now you will begin your life as swords of Truth that you are." His voice took on a graveness as he said his next words. "Do not fail as this."

"Today you maggots will begin learning how not to die in a swordfight," Talod continued as they moved to the dummies under he's instruction.

What followed was a tasking series of continuous strikes. Father Talod called out body parts at random and they were required to strike as was called and Ezril followed the actions of the others.

Ezril had no challenge striking. But after a series of strikes, he found his hand heavy with each assault. Each time the wooden sword struck the intended part, the impact jarred against his hand. So he lightened each blow, suspending his practice sword an instant before it hit its target.

Talod walked past Ezril and his cane came down with a fury. It struck true, inflicting pain, and Ezril’s lips cracked in a painful sob. His weapon fell from his aching grip. He felt the welt on his back as it swelled.

"Pick it up you bastard child of a thousand fathers!"

Another strike followed as Ezril scrambled for the weapon.

"That is clearly no way to strike and you know that," Talod swore. The flogging continued, repeating its descent. It ended only when Ezril’s sword was back in his hand.

Talod left him then, and moved on to torment his next prey. Ezril continued to hit the dummy, fueled by a new found power stemming from his disdain towards his instructor. Enduring the ache in his arm and hand, and the one that littered his body from all the strokes, he struck each limb as it was called, inflicting as much damage upon the dummy as he did to his hand

A while after, Talod had them switch hands, and the event played on. Ezril understood the intent behind it as the sound of thumping and the occasional twak of cane on flesh filled the atmosphere.

There will be no excuse for not being able to fight on the battlefield.