Sorin’s journey passed quietly in some senses, with no sign of life disturbing his travels, but his nightmares remained. He had gone back to building and staring deeply into a fire, procrastinating sleep, where he would have to relive the touch of a necromancer who had caused countless deaths. Sorin did not hold it against Wuthum as he was in the throes of a curse that made him mad and delusional, but the scars within his mind remained, and he hoped that they would not change him or bleed into physical reactions.
Sorin moved swiftly through the changing landscape, from the eerie quiet of the fen to the gentle roll of grasslands and forests, where he hunted the occasional beast, storing their bodies in the enchanted storage ring Wuthum had gifted him. Vestian, his bonded familiar, darted through the skies, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. After two weeks of swift travel, Sorin crested a hill, and the grand city of Cestead came into view.
Nestled in the fertile grasslands along the northern edge of the North Sea, Cestead was a sprawling metropolis surrounded by a dense patchwork of forest and fields. Its towering stone walls gleamed in the late afternoon light, protecting the vast array of academies within. Unlike other cities where a single, central academy dominated, Cestead was home to multiple warrior academies, each competing fiercely for prestige and dominance. These academies were scattered throughout the city, each a fortress in its own right, with their own towering spires, banners, and unique architecture.
The unique trait of Cestead with its multiple academies led to it having a reputation for particularly fierce warriors being produced within its walls. However, that competition came with the downsides of the city constantly infighting due to the academies vying for the most amount of resources.
Other cities had a more unified structure with their single academy. Within these academies everyone, regardless of which God or Goddess they followed, were instructed together. This academy focused training method within the Dark Pantheon differed greatly from the Light Pantheon where they trained with those who worshiped the same God or Goddess in their individual temples with only the most talented mixing to train together.
The outer walls of Cestead stood high and proud, built from pale stone and fortified by iron gates that gleamed in the sunlight. Large carvings of historical battles, legendary warriors, and famous duels decorated the walls, a reminder of the city’s dedication to martial prowess. Tall watchtowers dotted the perimeter, their guards scanning the horizon for any sign of danger, though the city itself exuded an air of security and stability.
Beyond the walls, the first thing Sorin noticed was the sheer diversity of the city’s layout. There was no grand central district, no singular focal point. Instead, Cestead was a patchwork of districts, each dominated by its own academy.
To the west, the banners of Darkplight Institute flew proudly, their emblem—a darkened sword and a crescent moon—displayed on tall, iron-clad towers. This academy was notorious for producing not only fierce warriors but also master tacticians and enchanters who specialized in shadow magic and stealth combat. The air around the academy was thick with the scent of burning incense and the hum of magic, while its training grounds echoed with the clash of blades and the murmured incantations of dark spells.
Farther to the east, Silverblade Masters dominated the skyline, its pristine white towers gleaming under the sunlight. The academy’s emblem, a shining silver sword crossed with a spear, was known throughout Cestead. Silverblade was revered for its dedication to swordsmanship and precision combat, training warriors to become peerless duelists. From Sorin’s vantage of looking down on the city, he could see masses of students honing their skills in vast courtyards, their blades flashing as they practiced forms and techniques with expert precision.
To the north, rising like a fortress, was Stormhold Academy, a bastion of strength and power. Its stone walls were adorned with the symbol of a storm cloud pierced by a lightning bolt—representing both the unyielding might of its warriors and their mastery of storm and lightning-based magic. The academy was known for producing not just physical warriors but also battle mages capable of unleashing devastating elemental forces. Dark clouds often hovered above the spires, and from time to time, Sorin could see arcs of lightning streaking through the sky as students practiced their formidable magic.
Amid these towering institutions stood Valoria, an academy distinguished by its focus on a harmonious blend of combat, strategy, and alchemy. The academy’s emblem—a golden tree entwined with a serpent—represented both knowledge and the deadly precision of its students. Its tall spires, painted in shades of gold and green, shimmered under the sun. From where Sorin stood, he could see plumes of smoke rising from Valoria’s many alchemical laboratories, where students crafted potions and elixirs to enhance their physical abilities or inflict subtle, lethal poisons.
However, one academy stood near the center of the city and it was by far the most grand. Among the grand academies of Cestead, none stood as proud or as imposing as Warbringer Academy. Its towering black stone walls rose like a fortress of unmatched might, casting long shadows over the surrounding landscape. The academy’s emblem—two Niuweidao swords crossed with a shield—was emblazoned on massive banners draped from its towering spires. Warbringer Academy was renowned for producing not just warriors, but leaders of armies—commanders who excelled in both martial skill and battlefield tactics. Its training grounds were vast, with students constantly sparring, drilling, and honing their combat skills in preparation for the wars they would inevitably lead. The sound of clashing steel and the rhythmic march of boots echoed from its halls. From where Sorin stood, Warbringer Academy was a symbol of raw power, its students hardened by discipline and battle-ready in both body and mind. It was an institution that demanded respect, its reputation forged through centuries of victories and unyielding strength.
Sorin could not wait to enter the place that he had heard so much about from Magnus. Magnus was never happier than when he spoke about the academy his family created and maintained.
Sorin tore his eyes away from the destination that he had been striving towards to study the rest of the city. The city itself was a seamless blend of natural beauty and urban might. Between the towering academies were lush green parks and gardens, filled with ancient trees and vibrant flowers. To the north, the open grasslands stretched all the way to the dense forests. To the south, endless blue hinting at the vast expanse of the North Sea. The fresh, crisp air carried the scent of the sea, mixing with the earthy tones of the surrounding forests.
As Sorin made his way toward the city gates, his thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, loud squawk in his ear. Vestian, who had been comfortably perched on his shoulder, let out another mischievous cry, sending Sorin stumbling slightly. “Again?” Sorin muttered, glancing at his familiar. The small creature’s yellow, cat-like eyes gleamed with amusement, and his beak was curved into what could only be described as a pleased expression. It was clear that Vestian found endless entertainment in startling Sorin, and despite Sorin’s attempts to stay alert, the trick never seemed to get old for the little creature.
Over the days they’d spent traveling together, Sorin and Vestian had grown close. The familiar, despite his small size, had a massive appetite. He ate voraciously, consuming far more than Sorin would have expected from something his size. Yet, strangely enough, no matter how much Vestian ate, he never seemed to grow any larger. Sorin found himself constantly foraging for extra food just to keep up with Vestian’s demands, and more than once, he had joked to himself that the familiar might have secretly bonded to a follower of Voraxus, the God of Gluttony.
Despite the bond they had formed, Vestian hadn’t shown any signs of powers or special abilities yet. Sorin had expected something to manifest—a burst of strength, a flash of magic—but nothing had come. He had chalked it up to the creature still being newly hatched. Whatever powers Vestian might have were likely still dormant, waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves.
As they neared the gates of Cestead, Sorin could see a line of travelers waiting to enter the city. The gates themselves were massive, made of reinforced iron and stone, towering over the people below. Guards in silver and blue armor stood at the entrance, checking each person’s identification before allowing them through. Their armor gleamed in the sunlight, and their helmets were adorned with plumes that matched the colors of the city’s sigil. The guards carried long halberds, and their eyes were sharp as they scrutinized the travelers.
Sorin hesitated as he joined the line, realizing with a sinking feeling that he didn’t have any identification. This was the first city he had come to that wasn’t infested with undead and in complete ruin since leaving the Abil Mountains. Back in those territories, no one had asked for papers—there hadn’t been anyone alive to ask for them.
He tried to think of a few ways to talk his way through. Maybe he could explain that he was a traveler on an important mission? Or perhaps he could claim some sort of emergency situation? Sorin was still turning over different ideas in his head when he reached the front of the line.
The guard in front of him was tall and imposing, his face shadowed beneath the visor of his helm. His armor was finely crafted, with the sigil of Cestead engraved on the chest plate, and he bore a long, well-maintained halberd. His eyes fixed on Sorin, and just as Sorin was about to awkwardly explain that he didn’t have any identification, the guard’s gaze landed on the hilt of his swords upon his back.
Before Sorin could utter a word, the guard spoke. “He’s part of Warbringer Academy, look at the hilt of his swords.”
The other guard, standing beside him, glanced over and nodded in agreement. “Right you are. Go on through, young man,” the first guard said, waving Sorin through without another word.
Sorin blinked, momentarily stunned. That was it? He had been preparing to craft a convincing explanation, but they had just waved him through, assuming he was part of Warbringer Academy based solely on the crest upon his swords. The situation seemed oddly convenient—too easy, in fact.
As he passed through the gates and into the city, Sorin couldn’t shake the feeling that this had been a bit of a security risk. If all it took was having the right kind of swords to get through without question, it made him wonder how many people could slip into the city under false pretenses. Still, he wasn’t about to complain about his luck, even if it did leave him feeling uneasy.
Vestian, still perched smugly on his shoulder, let out another small squawk, this time quieter, almost as if mocking Sorin’s surprise. Sorin shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It's not like you knew they would let us through either?” he muttered to the familiar, who merely blinked, looking far too pleased with himself.
Sorin made his way through the bustling streets of Cestead and he couldn’t help but comment to Vestian, who was perched comfortably on his shoulder. “This city is crowded beyond anything I’ve seen in the mountains or forests,” he said, his eyes sweeping over the packed thoroughfares. People of all kinds—merchants, students, warriors—moved through the streets, their conversations blending into a constant hum of activity. Vestian squawked in response, flapping his wings momentarily as if to agree with Sorin's observation.
This movement from Vestian drew attention to the familiar. Some pointed and looked curiously at the creature upon Sorin’s shoulder. None seemed afraid or disturbed by the familiar however. Sorin speculated that they found Vestian unusual in appearance, but did not see him as a threat.
The sheer density of the city felt overwhelming to Sorin. He was used to the quiet of the wilds, or even the desolate stillness of the undead-infested cities he had traveled through before. This place was alive—too alive, almost—and the noise, the smells, and the endless press of people reminded him of being swarmed by the undead. There was a chaotic energy here that he wasn’t quite used to. "Feels like that time in the city of the undead when they came from every direction," Sorin muttered to Vestian, who chirped softly in agreement despite not even having been hatched at the time of the event.
He passed through several districts, each with its own distinct feel and character. The first area he entered was lined with shops, their open stalls and storefronts displaying a wide range of goods. Artisans sold finely crafted weapons, enchanted armor, and tools of every kind. Blacksmiths hammered out swords in the open air, while enchanters whispered over their work, infusing blades with magical properties. Shiny, intricately engraved blades hung from racks, while shields and armor pieces gleamed under the sun. Sorin slowed his pace to glance at a few of the items, impressed by the craftsmanship. Sorin had no idea what any of the enchantments were or how effective they would be so he kept moving—he had more pressing matters.
Next, he passed by a row of taverns, each one spilling noise and the smell of roasted meats and ale into the streets. Warriors and students crowded around tables inside and out, some deep in conversation, others already deep in their cups despite the early hour. The signs above each establishment were painted with bold colors and symbols: one showed a dragon coiled around a tankard, another a sword crossed with a mug. Laughter and the clink of mugs filled the air, and for a moment, Sorin considered stopping for a drink, but he pushed the thought aside.
After a short while, Sorin moved past an apothecary, its windows filled with jars of strange herbs, glowing potions, and dark vials. The pungent scent of brewed potions wafted into the street, an overwhelming mix of herbs, roots, and alchemical compounds. Inside, Sorin caught sight of a healer leaning over a cauldron, their hands moving with precision as they mixed a glowing concoction. There were rows upon rows of potions for sale, some labeled for healing, others for stamina, and a few with more sinister names—poisons, crafted for stealth and assassination.
As Sorin turned a few corners, the mood of the street shifted, and he found himself standing before a slave market. Unlike the lively shops and taverns, the atmosphere here was serious and hushed. People moved quietly, inspecting the "goods" on display with cold calculation. Sorin lingered, his gaze drawn to the sight before him, though he knew the dark truth of what he was seeing. Magnus had taught him much about the world, including the grim realities of slave markets.
The slaves stood in pens or behind iron bars, some in chains, others simply held in place by force or fear. Some of them wore normal clothing, while others were stripped bare, their expressions hollow, as though they had long since accepted their fate. There were different types of slaves being auctioned off—laborers, gladiators, and even a few who had been captured for more specialized purposes.
But it was the ones with collars around their necks that caught Sorin’s attention. These were the prized slaves, the "top tier." Their collars gleamed with the faint light of enchantments, intricate runes carved into the metal. Slave collars, as Magnus had explained, were powerful objects. The most basic enchanted collars forced mortals to obey their owners’ commands, binding them through a magical compulsion. Even the weakest of these collars were expensive, limiting their use to only the wealthiest owners or for the most valuable slaves.
More potent were the collars blessed by priests of Tyrannus the God of Hierarchy and Slavery. His followers specialized in subjugation. These collars could bind not only mortals but also those with power, forcing followers of any God or Goddess to obey if they were not strong enough to resist the divine magic woven into the metal. Sorin knew that these collars were exceedingly rare and costly, used only on slaves who were both powerful and defiant. The idea of wearing such a thing and being controlled by another disgusted him. Sorin would never want to be controlled in such a manner. He would rather go back to being tortured by Wuthum in his tower.
However, Sorin would have been lying to himself that the idea of owning a slave that he had absolute domain over didn’t intrigue him. Sorin felt a bit guilty at the thought, knowing that his brother would strongly disapprove of such thoughts and would be vehemently against slavery. Sorin laughed a bit to himself thinking that he really was the evil twin born to the God of Darkness compared to his straight and narrow brother.
The slaves wearing these blessed collars were watched carefully by guards, their eyes downcast but their bodies strong and able. They were kept apart from the others, who wore no such devices. Those without collars were less valuable—regular slaves, kept only through brute force and fear, often sold for labor or other menial tasks. Without the magical compulsion of a collar, they were considered far less reliable and far less expensive. Sorin could see that these normal slaves were bought and sold quickly, but the collared ones? They were showcased, presented to the wealthiest buyers with care.
Sorin lingered longer than he intended, watching the transactions unfold. The world was truly a brutal place. Eventually, Sorin tore his gaze away from the market. His mind turned back to his mission. He had seen enough here to confirm that Cestead was a city of power and wealth, where strength in all its forms—whether martial, magical, or even through the control of others—was prized above all else. Granted that may be the law for the world, not just Cestead.
Sorin continued his way toward Warbringer Academy. When he arrived his eyes fixed on the formidable structure before him. The academy's exterior was every bit as grand and imposing as he had imagined. Massive black stone walls rose high into the sky, each stone meticulously crafted and worn by the weight of centuries. At the top of the walls, tall banners flew proudly in the wind, emblazoned with the academy’s emblem—twin Niuweidao swords crossed with a shield. These banners bore the academy's deep crimson and steel gray colors, the same hues that adorned the armor of its elite warriors.
The front of the academy was fortified like a castle, with iron gates set into an archway flanked by towering statues of legendary Warbringer graduates, each posed in battle stance with their weapons raised. Sorin noticed the two newest statues in the line. The first he recognized, it was his mentor Magnus Warbringer. Sorin smiled at seeing his mentor. He missed the man. The second statue looked incredibly similar to Magnus, but the man was far bulkier like a bull. Sorin looked down at the base of the statue and saw the name embossed there, Zane Warbringer. The very man Sorin was coming to meet.
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
Sorin looked down the path and towards the gates. The gates were adorned with intricate engravings of battle scenes, depicting the academy's storied history. The path leading up to the entrance was wide and lined with large, looming trees, their branches swaying lightly in the breeze.
Sorin approached the entrance, assuming it was open to the public or at least to anyone with important business since the gates were wide open. However, as he neared, two guards stepped forward, blocking his way. Both wore the uniform of the Warbringer Academy, a heavy leather-and-steel armor set that was both practical and imposing. Their uniforms were adorned with the academy's crimson and steel-gray colors, their breastplates engraved with the academy’s emblem, and their shoulders marked with pauldrons that signified their rank. Each guard carried a large, wickedly sharp halberd in one hand, the other resting on a shortsword sheathed at their waist. Sorin could tell from their aura and bearing that both of them held the Rank of Disciple—strong enough on their own to be a serious threat to him let alone together.
"What's your business here?" one of them asked coldly, his eyes narrowing as he looked Sorin over.
Sorin gave a polite nod, trying to remain calm. "I’m here to see Zane Warbringer. I have important news for him."
Both guards exchanged glances, and then the second one scoffed loudly. "Piss off. Do you think just anyone can waltz in here and meet Zane Warbringer?"
Sorin sighed, keeping his tone patient. “I’m here on behalf of someone important. I bring a message—”
“A message?” The first guard sneered, stepping closer. “From who? Let me guess—the Overlord of the city himself has sent you with a message of great importance.”
Sorin hesitated. They were clearly hostile and he would need to explain himself. He was technically not carrying a message, but his task from Wuthum involved Zane. He doubted these guards would believe him if he mentioned Wuthum, given the reputation of the Fen. Before he could clarify further, his eyes darted to the guards’ expressions as they both suddenly noticed the swords strapped to his back.
“Hold on,” the second guard said, his tone darkening as his eyes locked onto the hilts of Sorin’s twin swords. “Those weapons... how did you get those? Only those who graduate from Warbringer Academy carry swords with the seal of the academy at the hilt.”
Sorin remembered swords, realizing too late what had caught their attention. The seal of Warbringer, faintly visible on the hilts, had been what got him into the city. Of course they were recognizable and now the very thing that had helped Sorin was about to get into trouble. “I didn’t steal these. They were—”
“Stolen,” the first guard interrupted, his voice rising with accusation. “You’re a spy from another academy, aren’t you? Trying to sneak your way in. Only graduates obtain weapons carrying the seal of the academy and you are clearly not one of those based on your strength. Where’d you get them?” His hand tightened on his weapon, and the tension in the air thickened as both guards now looked ready to escalate the situation.
Sorin's patience was wearing thin. He raised his hands in a placating gesture. “These swords were given to me. I’m not a spy, and I’m certainly not trying to infiltrate—”
Before he could finish, the first guard stepped forward aggressively, halberd raised slightly. “Enough with your lies. Where did you get them?”
The second guard mirrored his movements, hand resting on the hilt of his shortsword. “Tell us now, or we’ll see how quickly you bleed.”
Sorin clenched his jaw, his hands flexed ready to draw his weapons in defense of himself. He could feel the tension rising, knowing full well that, even armed, he was outmatched. These guards were of the Disciple Rank—powerful warriors in their own right—and he wasn’t confident he could hold his own against two of them.
Just as Sorin was about to draw his weapons, a sharp, authoritative voice cut through the tension. “What’s going on here?”
The guards immediately stiffened, turning as a woman strode toward them with purpose. She was tall and poised, with chestnut hair pulled back into a neat bun. Her striking green eyes held a piercing gaze, and her features were sharp and refined, exuding both competence and command. She wore a white button down blouse and a skirt. Although she wore no armor, her blouse was marked with the emblem of Warbringer Academy. At her waist was a small sheath with a long dagger, though the air of confidence about her suggested she rarely needed to draw it or carry it. Her presence alone demanded respect.
“Secretary Johanna Fenton,” the first guard muttered under his breath, his earlier confidence quickly fading. The second guard shot a nervous glance at his companion as Johanna approached, her expression unreadable but clearly displeased with the scene unfolding before her.
The guards parted slightly as Johanna came to stand in front of Sorin. Her sharp eyes flicked between him and the guards. “Do you plan to harass every person who approaches the academy, or is this some special treatment?” she asked, her tone laced with sarcasm but still icy.
The first guard cleared his throat, trying to recover his composure. “This man was trying to sneak in, ma’am. He says he’s here to see Zane Warbringer, but we believe he’s lying. Look at his swords—they bear the seal of Warbringer Academy. He’s clearly not a graduate. We think he might be a spy from another academy, or worse.”
Johanna’s eyes narrowed as she inspected Sorin more closely, her gaze settling on the twin swords at his back. For a moment, she said nothing, her face betraying no emotion. Then, with a fluid motion, she stepped toward Sorin, her expression hardening. “Those are Warbringer swords,” she remarked, her voice cool. “Where did you get them?”
Sorin straightened, meeting her gaze. “They were given to me by a previous graduate. He was my mentor,” he replied, his voice steady despite the weight of her stare.
“And who was that?” Johanna asked with a raised eyebrow. Sorin cursed internally. This woman was really going to drag it out of him.
“My mentor was Magnus Warbringer,” Sorin replied, trying to sound confident and trustworthy.
At the mention of Magnus’s name, Johanna’s eyes flickered with surprise, though she quickly masked it. “Magnus Warbringer?” she repeated, her tone softer but still guarded. Her gaze lingered on Sorin, as if trying to assess the truth in his words.
“I came to deliver a message to Zane Warbringer,” Sorin explained, though he didn’t elaborate on the details. He knew Wuthum’s involvement would be met with skepticism, but Magnus’s name held weight—at least, he hoped it would.
Johanna remained silent for a moment, her eyes scanning Sorin’s face before shifting back to the guards. “Step down,” she commanded, her tone sharp. “If this man claims to have a message for Zane, we will let him speak. You two can keep your paranoia in check.”
The guards hesitated for a moment before reluctantly stepping back, lowering their weapons. They were clearly skeptical and did not believe Sorin’s claim of being mentored and sent by Magnus Warbringer himself.
Johanna turned her attention back to Sorin, her expression unreadable. “You’re lucky I arrived when I did,” she said, her voice low. “We’ll see if your claim holds any truth. Follow me. And don't try anything reckless, or I’ll personally make sure you regret it. Additionally, if you are lying just say so. It will be less painful for me to kill you than Headmaster Zane.”
Without another word, Johanna spun on her heel and strode through the gates of Warbringer Academy, her shoes clicking on the cobblestones. Sorin let out a quiet breath of relief, lowering his hands from his swords as he followed her inside, his mind racing.
As he passed through the gates, Sorin couldn’t help but think that his entry had been a little too close for comfort. He glanced back at the guards, both of whom were still glaring at him. Clearly, they hadn’t been convinced, but for now, Sorin’s mention of Magnus had bought him a chance.
And that chance might be all he needed. Magnus had said Zane would recognize the swords and from there Zane would listen to Sorin and trust him.
Johanna led Sorin through the vast and imposing grounds of Warbringer Academy, her pace brisk and purposeful. The academy was even more impressive up close than it had appeared from outside. As they walked, Sorin took in the sights, his eyes darting from one area of the academy to another.
The classrooms they passed were built of solid stone, with large windows that let in streams of light. Inside, students sat in rows, their eyes focused on instructors at the front who drilled them in both combat theory and battlefield strategy. Sorin could hear muffled voices reciting lessons on formations, tactics, and the history of legendary battles. The intensity in the air was palpable; every student seemed to understand that they were training to become the next generation of war leaders.
To the left, they passed the outdoor training grounds, a massive space filled with warriors honing their physical skills. Rows of students sparred with each other under the watchful eyes of instructors, their movements sharp and precise. Some swung swords and axes in perfect arcs, while others were engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Off to one side, a group practiced with warhammers and shields, their powerful swings echoing across the yard. Beyond them, archers practiced their aim at distant targets, their arrows flying through the air with deadly precision.
Farther along, Sorin caught sight of the armory, a stone building brimming with weapons and armor. Its entrance was flanked by two immense statues of legendary warriors, their stony eyes watching over those who entered. Inside, rows of weapon racks gleamed, showcasing everything from swords and polearms to axes and shields. Armor stands displayed gleaming sets of chainmail and plate, and the faint scent of oiled metal filled the air.
They passed the mess hall next, a large, open building filled with the sound of clattering plates and the low murmur of conversation. The tables were long and wooden, packed with students who were wolfing down food between training sessions. The scent of roasted meats and fresh bread filled the air, and Sorin’s stomach growled faintly as he caught a whiff of the hearty meals being served.
Finally, after winding through several more hallways and courtyards, Johanna stopped in front of a large wooden door marked with a silver plaque that read “Headmaster’s Office.” She rapped her knuckles against the door firmly.
“Who is it?” a booming voice growled from the other side. “I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed!”
Johanna straightened and replied, “Sir, I have a boy here who claims to have a message from Magnus Warbringer.”
For a moment, there was complete silence on the other side of the door, and Sorin could feel the air grow heavier with anticipation. Then, the same voice called out, this time sharper. “Come in.”
Sorin turned to Vestian on his shoulder and whispered “It might be better if you stay out here in the hallway Vestian. I don’t want you to be caught up with anything if this goes south.”
Vestian let out a small chirp before flapping his wings and fluttering over to a nearby coat rack to perch himself on top of. He got himself comfortable and turned his eyes to watch Sorin.
Johanna then opened the door, gesturing for Sorin to follow her inside. Zane Warbringer’s office was as grand and intimidating as the man himself. It was lined with bookshelves full of battle strategies, maps, and records of past campaigns. Weapons hung from the walls—swords, axes, and hammers, all polished and well-maintained. Behind the large desk sat Zane Warbringer, a hulking figure of a man with broad shoulders and a face weathered from years of battle. His dark hair was streaked with silver, and his eyes, sharp and piercing, bore into Sorin with an intensity that made him feel as though he was being sized up.
“Sit,” Zane growled, pointing to the chair across from his desk.
Sorin did as he was told, sitting down stiffly, unsure of how this was going to play out. Zane leaned forward, placing his thick arms on the desk, his eyes never leaving Sorin. “You claim to have a message from Magnus,” he said, his tone low and dangerous. “Prove it.”
Sorin swallowed, his hand instinctively moving to the sword strapped to his back. He slowly drew one of his twin swords, careful to show that he posed no threat. Not that a mere Acolyte could even scratch someone of the Exarch Rank. He placed it on Zane’s desk with a soft clink, the gleaming blade catching the light.
Zane didn’t react to the blade being drawn, his eyes locked on Sorin’s face, but the moment his gaze shifted to the sword, a flicker of surprise crossed his features. He reached for the sword, his large hand closing around the hilt, lifting it as if it weighed nothing. As he turned the blade over, inspecting its craftsmanship and the seal etched into the hilt, the look of recognition deepened.
“This sword…” Zane murmured, his voice quieter now, filled with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. He ran his thumb over the worn grip, his eyes narrowing as memories of his brother seemed to flood back. “This is my brother’s sword from when he was a graduated Disciple.”
He set the blade down with care, his expression hardening once more as he looked directly at Sorin. “Johanna, leave us,” he ordered, his tone final.
Johanna gave a respectful nod and silently exited the room, closing the door behind her.
Once they were alone, Zane leaned forward, his eyes boring into Sorin’s. “Now, who in the hell are you, and how did you come to possess my brother’s swords?”
Sorin took a deep breath, his fingers trembling slightly as he tried to steady himself. His eyes shifted down to the sword Zane had placed on the desk, the weight of the memories pressing down on him. "Magnus… he was my mentor. He raised me for the last eighteen years," Sorin began, his voice unsteady. "I got these swords from him during our training."
Zane’s expression remained stony, but he leaned back slightly, his arms crossing over his broad chest as he listened. Sorin could feel Zane’s eyes on him, scrutinizing every word, every movement.
"We were supposed to make the journey here together," Sorin continued, his voice starting to break. "But Magnus... he was killed. Killed by a follower of Solarius named Lief Stoneheart."
Zane’s eyes darkened at the mention of Solarius and the news of his brother’s death, but he remained silent, waiting for Sorin to continue. However it was clear based on Zane’s changing expression that he was about to explode in anger. Even with the pain of the memory overwhelming Sorin as he recounted the events, his throat tightening, could tell Zane was on the verge of destroying something. Sorin tried to hold his sorrow back so he could convey the news to his mentor’s brother with decency, but his voice cracked as he spoke, and tears began to well up in his eyes.
"It was my fault," Sorin whispered, his voice filled with anguish. "Magnus was only killed because he was trying to protect me. I shouldn't have been there. I was so foolish. I…" His words faltered, and for a moment, the weight of guilt consumed him. Sorin's head lowered, and tears began to spill down his cheeks.
Zane, for all his hardened appearance and brewing anger, shifted slightly in his chair, a flicker of empathy crossing his stern features. After a moment, he stood up from behind the desk and moved toward Sorin. Without a word, he placed a firm hand on Sorin’s shoulder, gripping it tightly. It was a simple gesture, but there was strength in it—reassurance without words, a comfort that felt more like the bond of comrades rather than something soft or emotional.
“Listen, boy,” Zane said, his voice low and gravelly, though with an unexpected gentleness. “Magnus wouldn’t want you carrying that guilt. You’re still here. You’re still breathing. And that means you’ve got to keep going. I know there’s more to this story. So pull yourself together and tell me the rest. Clearly, some things aren’t adding up.”
Sorin sniffed, wiping the tears from his face as he tried to regain his composure. Zane’s firm presence had brought him back from the edge, grounding him. He nodded slowly, though the pain still lingered in his eyes.
“I will,” Sorin said quietly. “But… you need to swear that what I’m about to tell you will never leave this room. I mean it, Sir. No one can know.”
Zane looked down at Sorin for a moment, his expression unreadable. After a beat, he gave a single, sharp nod. “I swear it. Whatever you tell me stays between us.”
Sorin exhaled, feeling a weight lift from his chest, but he knew that the revelation he was about to give would change everything. "Magnus raised me because he received a Divine Revelation about my birth sent to him by Vesperos. He was told that I had a special role to play in this world, something that would change the balance of power. That's why he abandoned the academy without a word to get to me before my birth. That's why he kept me and himself hidden for so long."
Zane’s gaze sharpened, his body tensing slightly as he listened closely.
"I’m a Demigod," Sorin said, the words coming out more softly than he had intended. “The son of Vesperos, the God of Darkness, Fear, and Secrets.”
The silence that followed felt thick, almost suffocating. Zane didn’t react immediately, his expression remaining neutral, though his eyes flickered with realization as Sorin’s words settled in. Slowly, Zane took his hand from Sorin’s shoulder and returned to his chair, sitting down with a heavy thud, his eyes never leaving Sorin.
“And my brother,” Sorin continued, his voice trembling with the weight of what came next, “wasn’t raised with me. He was with Lief Stoneheart in the same village. He’s the son of Solarius. He’s a Demigod too.”
The shock registered on Zane’s face now, though he quickly masked it. His eyes, however, betrayed his surprise. His mouth opened as if to say something, but he quickly closed it, seemingly needing a moment to process the bombshell Sorin had just dropped. The room fell into a tense, heavy silence.
Zane finally spoke, his voice low but steady. “So… let me get this straight. You, Sorin, are the son of Vesperos, the God of Darkness. And your brother—raised by Lief Stoneheart—is the son of Solarius.”
Sorin nodded, his throat tight. “Yes.”
Zane leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand across his chin, the wheels clearly turning in his mind. “Two Demigods… one from the Light, one from the Dark Pantheon. And Magnus knew about this?”
“Yes,” Sorin replied. “He knew everything. In order to protect me, he made a deal with Lief Stoneheart that they would refrain from combat till we were old enough to survive the clash. They raised us separately and trained us while awaiting the day that they would clash again so that only one Demigod survived. That… that is where I made the largest mistake of my life. If I had listened to Magnus he may have won… he may have survived.”
Zane’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing as he processed the enormity of what Sorin had just revealed. “This is… this is bigger than anything I imagined,” he muttered, more to himself than to Sorin.
Sorin shifted uncomfortably in his chair, watching as Zane’s mind worked through the implications. His secret was out now, but the burden still weighed heavily on him. All he could do now was wait for Zane’s response.
Zane leaned forward, his piercing gaze locked on Sorin. “Let’s presume you’re telling the truth,” he said slowly, his voice hard and skeptical. “I want to believe you, Sorin. You have Magnus’s swords, and that means something. But this tale…” Zane’s eyes narrowed as he searched Sorin’s face. “It’s too far-fetched. Too out of this world to believe based on the little evidence you’ve given me.”