The sun sank over the horizon, darkness engulfing the desert as biting winds surged eastward toward the Wurthinne Ocean.

The camp sprawled across the sands, its bonfires flickering like scattered embers under the growing darkness. Soldiers' tents were spaced widely, while slave quarters crammed bodies into every available corner.

Hungry.

It was the boy's only thought. His stomach growled.

He shuffled toward a crowded bonfire, gripping his threadbare rags in a futile attempt to ward off the chill.

The flames offered little warmth, their crackling taunting the boy’s outstretched fingers. Tonight, there was hope—a rare supper promised to quell the hunger.

A sharp clang echoed through the air, piercing and metallic. The supper bell.

A wave of movement surged through the camp as hundreds of slaves rushed toward the sound. The boy followed. The crowd packed tightly together, their bodies pressing against each other, radiating heat and the stench of sweat.

At the center of the commotion stood large boiling pots of gruel, steam curling upward into the cold night.

“Quiet, you maggots,” barked the overseer, his voice sharp and cruel. He slammed a metal ladle against the pot. “Stand in line!”

Whips cracked in the background, sharp snaps driving the crowd into nervous compliance. The boy scrambled to find his place but was shoved toward the back.

Not again.

He clenched his fists, his heart sinking. The last two nights, he had been at the very end of the line, left with nothing but an empty stomach.

The line inched forward. The boy’s turn came at last. He grabbed a wooden bowl from a nearby table, its surface gritty with sand and the crusted remnants of last night’s meal. He gripped it tightly, ignoring the grime.

The gruel bubbled in the pot, its smell an unappealing mixture of stale meat, soggy rice, and overcooked vegetables. A soldier ladled out a portion, pouring the steaming sludge into the boy’s bowl.

The boy didn’t wait. Clutching the bowl like a precious treasure, he hurried to the side, his eyes darting around to ensure no one would snatch it from him.

Sitting in the sand, he lifted the bowl to his lips. The steam stung his face, and the taste was as awful as he had remembered, but none of it mattered. It was food. And that was enough.

He ate it all. The boy longed for more, but there was none left.

Walking back, he noticed a group of children like him, gathered around a frail old man near a small bonfire.

He recognized the man—the storyteller.

Every day, the children would gather to listen to the stories about the Mythical Era from the old man. The old man would narrate the stories vividly, and the children sat mesmerized, with wide eyes reflecting the firelight.

The boy fidgeted for a moment. He also wanted to listen but didn’t know whether he would be welcome. He always watched from afar.

Curious.

He took a step forward toward the dim bonfire. The other children didn’t pay him any heed, engrossed in the tales. He took a seat behind the last kid. The old man noticed him and still went on narrating.

“It is said,” the old man’s voice trembled, “that the Hero Dalius split a part of the continent during his battle with the Demon King. A single strike of his blade severed the land and cast it into the sea.”

“That land,” the old man continued, “is now called Zornvuur—a place forged in the fires of battle.”

“You can find statues of Hero Dalius and his three companions in most cities—even in Kastar,” the old man said.

“Grandpa,” a child at the front piped up, “why don’t you ever say the name of the Demon King?”

The old man chuckled, a smile spreading across his face. “Ah… that’s because names are powerful.”

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“My grandfather used to say that naming the Demon King—remembering him by name—only makes him stronger,” he continued.

“But Hero Dalius defeated the Demon King, right?” another child asked eagerly.

“Yes, child,” the old man said, patting the boy’s shaved head gently. “It’s faith that keeps him defeated.”

The boy hesitated, his voice faltering. “Um…”

All heads turned toward him.

“Yes?” the old man prompted kindly.

“S-S-So…” the boy stammered, gripping his tattered rags tightly, “does… does that mean… w-we’re powerless… b-because we d-don’t have names?”

The old man’s eyes widened. For a moment, he was speechless. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

“Grandpa, can we get names?” another child asked hesitantly, breaking the silence.

The old man’s smile returned, soft and reassuring. He patted the child’s head with a warm laugh. “Of course. Why not?”

Turning to the first child, he said, “You are Alaric now.”

“Alaric?” the child repeated. “What does it mean, Grandpa?”

“Ruler of all,” the old man said.

The naming continued, each child stepping forward eagerly. “You are Otto,” the old man told one. “And you—Bertram.”

The boy stood back, watching intently.

Name.

He wanted one.

He waited patiently, his hands clenched at his sides. Finally, the old man looked at him and gestured. “Come, child.”

The boy trudged forward, his steps hesitant. He fidgeted as he approached, his bare feet shuffling.

The old man smiled warmly, placing a calloused palm gently on the boy’s shaved head.

“You are Stark,” he said.

The boy looked right into the eyes of the old man.

“It means strong.”

He blinked.

Strong.

A name that felt so far from his reality yet filled him with hope.

Slowly, a smile spread across his face.

He finally had a name. One he could carry with pride.

Meanwhile, Rakel watched the children from afar briefly before stretching his arms languidly after a deep slumber. He adjusted his straw hat with a yawn, scanning the camp and the vast desert beyond through a sleepy haze.

To the far west, dotted city lights from Thal’rasha gleamed in the dark. The camp, built around the sacred site of Lestha, stood a few kilometers away from Thal’rasha, where the monument to Zaras’th, the Patron Deity, was slowly taking shape.

Rakel pondered whether to return to Thal’rasha and report the unexpected and alarming appearance of the Elder Bone-Eater to his superior.

It was highly unusual, as newly ascended Bone-Eaters rarely sought confrontations, typically retreating into hiding to adapt to their new bodies. The difference between a fledgling Elder Bone-Eater and a True Elder Bone-Eater was immense; the latter would pose a tough challenge even for him.

I should go. he thought, his gaze lingering on the distant city lights. Better to avoid needless risks!’

At full speed, he could reach Thal’rasha in minutes.

Rakel, a squire nearing the rank of knight, had trained relentlessly over the past two years. His strength surpassed most of his peers, and he could already rival the lower-ranking knights of Kastar.

Taking a stance, he launched forward in a burst of speed. The sand erupted beneath him, and within moments, the camp was far behind.

Landing lightly on a distant dune, he paused briefly before blasting toward the city, leaving an explosion of sand in his wake.

Guards patrolled the walls of Thal’rasha, their leitium armor dull but sturdy, and spears gripped tightly as they saw dust clouds approaching in the distance. In seconds, the dust clouds raced to the city gates, coming to an abrupt halt in front of the gate.

“Rakel! Squire!” He called, fumbling through his pockets for the silver badge, and finding it, he tossed it to a soldier atop the enormous gate.

The soldier caught it deftly, inspecting the emblem of the kingdom and Rakel’s rank engraved at the bottom.

“Open the gates,” the soldier barked.

Before the gates opened, Rakel dashed up the wall in an instant, snatching his badge from the soldier’s hand. “It’s urgent!” he said, disappearing toward the heart of the city.

Moments later, Rakel arrived at the garrison office in the city’s heart. Elite guards patrolled the perimeter. They instantly recognized Rakel and stepped aside.

The garrison stretched a vast area, surrounded by barracks, outhouses, and supply warehouses. At the center stood the command building, a two-story structure housing the highest-ranking knights and commanders.

After completing the formalities, the servants guided Rakel to his superior’s room on the second floor of the command building. An old room with a scent of polished wood and old books. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined both walls, crammed with books and tomes.

Directly in front of the door, two plush sofas faced each other across a low wooden table. Behind them stood a sturdy desk, papers littered on the surface.

“Squire Rakel, reporting.” Rakel removed his straw hat and bowed slightly to the man seated in the high-backed chair behind the desk. Beyond him, a large window framed the view of the garrison’s gate.

“Rakel…” the man muttered, running a hand through his streaked gray hair. “You’re supposed to guard Lestha. Why have you come here?”

“General Koles, eleven Bone-Eaters and a newly ascended Elder Bone-Eater attacked the camp at Lestha,” Rakel said.

Koles’ brow furrowed, his wrinkled face twisting into a scowl. “An Elder Bone-Eater? That’s... unusual.”

“Yes, General. Their behavior is abnormal.”

Koles sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll deal with it. It’s fortunate you’re here; I was about to summon you for another matter.”

Rakel tilted his head in confusion. “Another matter?”

“Ah. Here it is.” Koles rummaged through the scattered papers, eventually pulling out a list. “You’ll lead a slave caravan to the Canyon of Dzeth. As for Lestha...” He waved dismissively. “I’ll send Esther and Adel to handle it.”

Rakel grabbed the list, folding it neatly and putting it away in his coat.

He turned on his heel and put his straw hat back on to leave.

“Ah… I did forget,” Koles exclaimed. “Your promotion test will be held in the Capital three months from now.”

Rakel glanced back. “Right.”

“There would be squires from the Capital. Do your best.”