The Royal Zachariyan Academy, a grand edifice to power, skill and ambition. Built in the shape of a pentagon, enclosing 2 square kilometers of classrooms, barracks, and practice fields it give the impression of great wealth, and unstoppable strength. The walls are 50 meters tall, and half as thick. At every point of the pentagon is a tower, each of which flies the Zachariyan flag; A gray axe over a green field. With one main gate, all traffic in and out of the academy can be viewed from the top of the wall over the gate. Standing in this spot are two people; a young woman with flaming red hair and a lithe build, and a young man also with vibrant red hair, and a wiry build. Both seem to possess a force of character, a natural arrogance and power most associate with kings and nobles. In fact, the two were Razza Zachar and Geffe Zachar, first princess and second prince of the kingdom of Zachariya.

As the two stood silently, they watched as a horde of people lined up before the gates, awaiting entry.

"How many do you think, Geffe? There are so many, and it is not even dawn." asked Razza. Her voice was strong but lovely, as though a wind had blown through a rose bush and translated the scent into sound.

"Certainly over 2 thousand, maybe double that." replied her brother in a strong, arrogant tone. Their hair aside, the two did not bear much resemblance. They shared their father's dark green eyes, pale skin, thin brows and sharp chins, but that was where the similarities ended. Razza was average height, surely no more than five and a half feet, and was petite in all areas. Her hair was long, coming nearly to her waist, and was straight as an arrow. She had a light dusting of freckles over the top of her nose, and had been described as cute, adorable, and precious. (Of course, never to her face.)

In contrast, despite his wiry build Geffe was heavy, about six feet, and had rather heavy features framed by his military short hair. Also in contrast was their attire and carriage. Geffe was dressed in a gray button down military coat with ruby highlights, with gray military slacks and black polished boots. He stood ramrod straight, and held his chin slightly in the air.  

Razza on the other hand was dressed in a deep red dress that came down to her knees, with black highlights and tight sleeves that encased her arms to the wrist. It was cut at the breastbone, providing just a hint at the creamy white skin beneath. However, even this was partially hidden by a black silk scarf. She wore Knee high black boots, and had red/black stockings on above that. She leaned on the battlements, tilting her head as she stared out over the crowd.

"Why do they come? Surely they know that almost all of them will be turned back before even the second stage?" again Razza questioned her brother.

"Perhaps they hope that they will be lucky, or perhaps they truly believe they have what it takes to enter. But in the end, the trash will be removed and all that will be left will be those with skill." Again Geffe responded with an arrogant tone, as he stared down his nose into the crowd.

To the east, on the siblings left, a glow appeared on the horizon. Turning to face it, Geffe spoke, "It is dawn, sister. I need to return to my dorm to prepare for the new arrivals. I hope you will not begrudge me my departure, and my coming victory."

Geffe turned with military precision and began to walk briskly towards the wooden door leading off the ramparts.

"Geffe. Don't count your hens before they hatch. You might find a fox has eaten a few." responded Razza in a deadly calm tone. With the sun to her right, her face was hidden in shadow. Geffe couldn't help but shiver slightly, but shook it off and pulled the door open and left.

Razza turned back to the ramparts edge and looked out over the crowd. "I wonder... Are any of you worth my attention?" said the young woman, an arrogant smile set on her lips.

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In front of the academy's door, the crowd was being formed into three lines, shepherded by armed guards and pages. At the head of each line was an instructor from the academy. On the left was the first-year mage trainer Mali Stwarz, on the right was the first-year tactics instructor George Lazzer. And in the center was the third-year combat instructor Malik Hizzer. Malik was known for being a harsh man, and had no pity for new applicants. As such, his line was significantly shorter than the others, and he was looking forward to finishing up and getting a hot meal.

"Alright, first applicant step forward!" He barked in a harsh, booming voice. The first potential student that stepped forward was a young man, clearly a noble from his apparel. While the boy appeared to be in good shape, he was dwarfed by the combat instructors bulging muscles, impressive six-and-a-half foot height, and cold stare.

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"Name?" asked the instructor. "My name is Rudalphus Calceus Roke, son of--" began the young nobleman in a pompous tone.

"Shut up. I don't give a damn who's son you are, inside the academy we don't care about pedigree." Barked Malik. "Now, if you want to enter you need to do one thing. You need to tell me why I should allow you to pass."

Rudalphus was visibly shocked by the way he was being spoken too, having never recieved such treatment before in his life. However, he quickly gathered himself and proudly stated, "I am a close friend of the first prince, and I am widely recognized as a masterful swordsman. I have decided to attend this academy to--" Again he began to prattle, and again he was interrupted.

"Nowhere near good enough. Denied. Try again next year. Next!" called Malik as he gestured for the nobleman to be lead away. As the arrogant brat was dragged off, yelling and cursing, another young man stepped forward to take his place. This one was clearly not a nobleman. He wore a sage green tunic with a black belt, and wore black trousers and well-worn traveling boots. On his left shoulder hung a large rucksack, and strapped across his back was a long object wrapped in black. on his belt, on the left side, hung a sword. And on his head sat a simple peasant's straw hat.

"Ahhh? and why should I let you enter, boy? You don't look like much." asked Malik, looking the boy up and down. The boy looked to be about six feet even, and was clearly very fit. But that could be said for over half the hopeful applicants around him.  

The boy reached up and tilted the brim of his hat back, revealing a handsome face with high cheekbones, thick brows, delicate nose, and slate gray eyes, The youth had lips of medium thickness, with a single scar on the right side cutting down from his eye through his lips to the tip of his chin. The boy spoke in a flat, serious tone.

"My name is Traibel Marshgraves. You'll want to admit me, because if not I'll kill you and everyone nearby, and then insinuate that YOU attacked ME. Of course, you won't believe me, but I mean this none-the-less."

The youth named Traibel issued this threat in a voice that never sped up, never got louder, it was a voice that conveyed complete seriousness and competency. As he spoke, his left hand tapped on a small black pouch secured to his belt.

"You little brat! Where do you get off talking like that!?! You two, get this fucker out of here!" exclaimed Malik, anger twisting his expression. Where did this brat think he was, talking to him like that? Well, there was no way he was ever getting in. He, Malik, would make sure the other instructors didn't admit the brat either. Malik turned away from Traibel, dismissing him, and prepared to call the next applicant forward.

Following Malik's orders, the two armed and armored guards stepped forward and each reached for one of Traibel's arms. As they made contact, the both experienced a sudden, fierce pain in their abdomen. Caught off guard, the two soldiers well to their knees, and began retching in pain. Startled by the noise, Malik turned around to see the two men down, and Traibel standing their in a relaxed stance.

"If you wish me to go, you'll need to make me go yourself, Mr. Third-year instructor Malik 'Rage-Blade' Hizzer." Traibel called out, a mocking tone entering his voice.

Malik froze in shock at hearing that name. It had been nearly a decade since ha had earned the name "Rage-Blade" from the late Jurian Emperor. Nobody should have known it...

"Who are you?" questioned Malik in a dangerously calm tone, placing one hand on his sword. "How do you know that name?"

Traibel now had a full-blown grin on his face as he drew the sword at his waist. It was a saber, about three feet long. But this was a strange blade. It curved like a normal saber, but it curved forwards instead of backwards, and it grew thicker the closer to the tip it got befor narrowing to a sharp point.

"I wonder, How do I know that name? Maybe I came from Jurias? Maybe I'm a challenger that heard old tales of your glory days. Or maybe I'm simply here to enter the school, and I recognized you from tales my mother told me. Beat me, and maybe I'll tell you. Of course, If I win, I want something."

Hearing this, Malik narrowed his eyes. "What are you after, you brat?"

"I will only answer if you beat me. But, I don't think you will. You see, you may be an incredibly skilled veteran, but I'm better." Responded Traibel, his smile falling away as he launched himself across the ten feet separating the two in a heartbeat.

As Malik prepared to intercept the attack, and the crowd surged back from the two men, Razza watched from the ramparts above.

"Haha, I wonder... What will you show me, I wonder?" chuckled Razza.

And so the curtain lifted on a play of darkness they would change the world.