Alaric:

“To the East Blacksmith, please,” Alaric replied, his tone polite.

Thomas nodded, his sharp eyes glancing at the map clutched in Alaric’s hands.

“Ah, heading to the Academy, are ye? A fine place to be, lad. You’ll be among the best of ‘em.”

Alaric nodded in agreement. “I hope so. It’s been a dream of mine to study there.”

With a chuckle, Thomas gently flicked the reins, and the carriage began to move. “Well, dreams are the fuel that keeps us going, they are. After all tha' happened recently. Hold on tight, young one. We’ll get ye there in no time.”

Alaric felt a sense of comfort in Thomas’s words, and the carriage proceeded along the familiar streets. The clatter of hooves against cobblestones provided a steady rhythm as the cityscape unfolded outside the carriage window.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Alaric inquired, “Thomas, how long have you been driving carriages?”

A nostalgic smile played upon Thomas’s lips as he replied, “Oh, lad, it’s been a good thirty years or more. Carriage drivin’ runs in my family, ye see. My father, his father, and his father before him, all held the reins. It’s a tradition, it is. Gives ye a chance to see the city, meet folks from all walks o’ life.”

Alaric leaned forward, genuinely interested. “What’s the most interesting story you’ve had while driving, Thomas?” He asked.

Thomas chuckled, a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh, there’ve been many, lad. But one that comes to mind is when I had a famous playwright in the carriage, recitin’ his latest work like he was on a grand stage. Had the whole street captivated, he did. The cheers and applause… a moment I’ll never forget. However...”

The man's reigns clenched.

Thomas’s hands tightened on the reins. “The Kingdom killed ’im last month, they did. Sang a song of hope and peace. Happens now.”

"My condolences."

“Aye, lad.” Thomas replied. “Everyone has a tale to tell. Some are joyful, some are sad, but they all add color to this world. He was true to himself.”

Thomas looked at Alaric, his blue eyes piercing through him, making Alaric gasp.

It was as if he could see years upon years of time ticking away in those eyes. Loss, sorrow, pain, but even a spark of hope.

“Even though some people ask for directions, they are truly lost. Some places are ones that they can only reach themselves. No mine, no tax, no oppression can ever topple the power of those places. The power of the human spirit.”

Alaric's mouth refused to work further.

”Here we are, lad,” Thomas announced, bringing the carriage to a gentle stop. “The Acres Academy of Swordsmanship. May your dreams take flight within those walls.”

Alaric stepped down from the carriage, feeling the weight of Thomas’s words. As he began to walk away, Thomas called out to him.

“Wait, lad,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. “I want you to have this.” He held out a beautiful engraved compass, its surface gleaming in the light. “This was my old friend’s. I want to pass it on to you.”

Alaric shook his head, reluctant to accept such a precious gift. “I can’t take that, Thomas. It’s too valuable.”

Thomas’s eyes softened, and he pressed the compass into Alaric’s hand. “Please, take it. Whenever you’re lost, just look at the needle. It will always point you in the right direction.”

Overwhelmed by the gesture, Alaric nodded, clutching the compass tightly. “Thank you, Thomas. I will treasure it.”

Before he knew it, the carriage was gone and a building that reminded him of the castle stood before him.

When was the last time he had looked so closely and breathed so deeply since being imprisoned? He started to feel the wind on his back, the absence of constant pain from his scars feeling almost eerie. That pain had become a part of him, yet if he focused, he could still feel the scars. The world was beautiful. In that moment, the world was beautiful.

"For every drop of blood they spilled, I'll make them pay in oceans."

After finishing his moment of reflection, he marveled at the colorful array of faces in front of the entrance. Some had ebony skin that glistened under the warm sunlight, while others boasted olive complexions that hinted at distant lands. There were students with caramel hues, fair porcelain skin, and even individuals with freckles adorning their cheeks like constellations. The atmosphere buzzed with excitement and a small sense of tension, with students engaging in friendly sparring matches, sharing techniques, and discussing about classes.

It was almost as if nothing had happened to the Kingdom. Everything was like before.

Stone steles adorned the grounds, each bearing the name and achievements of the legendary swordsman or swordswomen. Alaric paused by one of the steles, reading the inscription that depicted the man's feats. "Grayson. Grayson Wildrow." He was part of his old guard. They were very close, but due to his wife's illness, he didn't show up to his wedding.

It was for the best. Alaric wondered if he was living fine now. He read through the feats, eyes widening, seeing achievements that he hadn't known about.

He continued through the grounds, some scattered names of people he had been close to, dueled with, and traveled alongside. As he neared the entrance to the academy, he spotted a stone statue of a young boy, two swords at his sides, a bow on his back, and three daggers tucked into his right boot. Alaric looked at the inscription.

“Alaric Elowenstar Lutria,” it read.

Himself.

He read the inscription. "The prodigious crown prince of the 109th Royal Family. Attained the title of Lutra's Best Duelist by age 9. Thwarted three assassination attempts against the Royal Family and revered as one of history's strongest masters of all 9 pieces of weaponry."

Below that, he spotted red text. "Missing."

A girl appeared seemingly out of nowhere and remarked, “He was never known to enjoy his privilege. Many warriors couldn’t even meet his supposedly flaming, but deep eyes. Yet, he was still considerate of the Nobles and people.”

Alaric turned around, and she met his gaze unflinchingly. He muttered under his breath, “Maybe I’m not as intimidating anymore.”

Then, in a measured tone, he asked, “Do you think of the commoners as bugs to be squashed?”

She looked at the statue thoughtfully. “You know, it's said that every day and night, every single second, the crown prince trained relentlessly. The only time he lowered his sword was during diplomatic speeches. He was incredibly deterministic. Almost too strong. I couldn’t care less whether people are nobles or not; if they possess that level of mental strength, I would respect them nonetheless.”

Alaric turned his head, studying her face. “Does that mean you’re from one of the lesser noble families?”

She hesitated, her cheeks coloring faintly. But the girl remained quiet.

“It's rare to see someone care about the past. It was great to have this conversation, but I should get going. There’s a lot on my schedule,” he said, adjusting the strap of his bag.

As Alaric began to walk away, the girl suddenly called out, “Wait!”

"By chance, are you here to take the exams?"

He turned back, his eyes blazing with intensity, causing her to instinctively step back. "How do you know that?" he demanded, his gaze piercing through her with a chilling coolness.

She stammered, “It’s just that everyone has a uniform and you don’t. I’m also taking the exams.”

Alaric relaxed slightly, chiding himself. “Ah, I see. Yes, I’m here to apply for the trials.”

She extended a hand and said, “Nice to meet you! My name is Astrid Akronglade.”

Alaric recognized the name. Her family specialized in woodworking, and as he had suspected, their Lord held a lower-class noble seat.

He took a closer look. An annoying personality, unnatural pink hair, but with a tinge of red in her black eyes. She would definitely stand out in a crowd.

After the pleasantries were over, the two started to walk into the Academy, Alaric leading the way. Strategically, the more people that surrounded him, the more escape routes he would have if something went awry.

They continued his journey through the throngs of students, occasionally catching glimpses of instructors imparting their wisdom in the training halls. The air was thick with the clashing of swords, the rhythmic thumping of footsteps, and the echoes of triumphant cheers that filled the academy’s courtyard. Alaric’s excitement grew with every step he took, knowing that he had found a place where he could lay down for a while and eventually hone back his skills. Years ago, his weapons were like his second skin, and being separated from them had dulled his senses.

He finally entered the pavilion with Astrid in tow, going through the center path. There was a man standing guard, and Alaric looked around for the person administering the trial.

“Hey, excuse me, where is the trial conducted?”

The man snapped his head towards Alaric. He looked irritated.

He took out his sword and said, “Right here, right now.”

Alaric jumped back, while a lazy sword swing tried to cut him down in the courtyard. A crowd started gathering. He wouldn’t let these people prey on him just as he entered the doors.

Alaric’s hands flashed. A moment later, both of his swords were out.

Alaric understood why the man told him he couldn't take the exams. The Academy was truly a classist club as he had thought.

“Fight me, commoner. A duel on the only pride we have as warriors, on the history of our Kingdom.”

The crowd gasped, and whispers rippled through the nobles.

“Jehlen,” they murmured, “One of the 6 Masters in our school. Master of history.”

Alaric stood stunned, trying to process the revelation.

Astrid voiced his disbelief, “Wait, what?”

Jehlen stepped forward, his eyes filled with a mix of challenge and disdain. “You see, commoner, the history of our kingdom is written in blood and honor. Let’s see if you know the tales that have shaped our land.”

His new companion yelled at him. "Come on Alec! You better not chicken out!"

As ridiculous as the duel sounded, he couldn’t let Jehlen or anyone else belittle him.

Turning back to Astrid, with a hint of exasperation on his face, he said, "This is all your fault."

His eccentric new friend started chanting, and the audience echoed after her.

"Fight. Fight. Fight!"

“Very well,” Alaric replied firmly. “Ask your questions.”

Jehlen nodded, a smirk playing on his lips. “First question: During the War of the Seven Crowns, who was the general that led our forces to victory in the Battle of Pinewick?”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Alaric didn’t hesitate. “General Thalor Vantine. He utilized the winding trees and rocks to ambush the enemy, securing a pivotal victory to the end of the War.”

Jehlen’s smirk faltered slightly, but he pressed on. “Correct. Next question: The Treaty of Varil was signed under which king’s reign, and what was its significance?”

It was simple to him. “King Eldric. The treaty marked the end of the century-long feud with the southern kingdoms, establishing the un-fragmented Kingdom of Lutra.”

The crowd murmured in approval, impressed by Alaric’s knowledge. Jehlen’s expression hardened, realizing this was not going to be an easy victory.

"Last question." The supposed "History" master took a deep breath, and after a long thirty seconds, he opened his eyes in full confidence, a smile forming across his face.

"I guarantee you won't be able to answer this, formidable opponent. The human nature is to rely on hope. Back in the primitive days, humans used to worship the elements. About one thousand years ago, these beings were coined as the Gods. There were many long lost books founded on this basis, all pointing to their existence being in conjunction with a metric. What is that metric?"

Alaric furrowed his brow, pondering the question deeply. The challenge posed by Jehlen was unlike any he had faced before. He mulled over the words carefully, searching his memory for any clue that could unlock the answer.

Minutes passed, each second feeling like an eternity as Alaric’s mind raced through ancient texts and teachings. But the answer eluded him. He couldn’t recall any specific metric associated with the worship of ancient gods or elements.

His thoughts drifted.

Younger, way younger Alaric stood bathed in moonlight, standing on the balcony of the Imperial Palace. His mother cradled him in her arms, her gentle voice pointing out the constellations scattered across the night sky.

"There it is, Alaric. The Void Star, known here as The North Star."

Alaric's gaze fixated on her, captivated by her wisdom and the sadness that lingered beneath her smile.

She traced a finger along his nose, her touch both tender and solemn. "It seems you are staring at me because you already understand."

Her words resonated deeply within him, echoing an ancient promise.

"If it is in kismet," she murmured softly, "we will meet again."

In that moment, under the vast expanse of stars, Alaric felt the weight of destiny. They would meet again. Alive or dead. Under the stars or not.

His eyes opened slowly. "The metric is fate or destiny. Otherwise known as kismet."

Jehlen stepped back, disbelief washing over his face. “No way…”

The crowd erupted, a mix of shock and outrage filling the air. Nobles began to shout, accusing Alaric of cheating, unable to accept that the "History" Master could lose.

“He cheated!” someone yelled.

Alaric realized he stood no chance against the enraged circle of Nobles. Just as the tension reached its breaking point, a sage-lookalike stepped forward, his massive beard commanding attention.

“Hold on, no harm shall befall the boy. He was merely undergoing his trial,” the old man declared.

"Vice Leader..." He heard someone mumble.

Alaric could sense the man’s ulterior motives from years away.

Alaric immediately retrieved his bag, producing a gold card, which he handed to the old man. After spotting the item, the Nobles around him averted their gazes and slowly dispersed.

The old man’s tone changed abruptly as he exclaimed, “Why didn’t you say so! Sad that you've already become a target by beating one of our Top 6. You as well, follow me.” He gestured towards Astrid, who was gawking at him.

"Who even are you Alec?" She whispered.

Alaric felt a surge of irritation. "An Ansout."

“Haha, you don't seem happy,” the old man remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice.“

“He forced me into this nonsense duel just because he assumed I was a commoner. These trials advocate for fairness, but are deferent to the upper class,” Alaric voiced his concerns.

The old man interrupted him. “Ah, but you are of higher class, are you not?”

“Yes, but…” Alaric began, only to be cut off once more.”

"Then let us not discuss it further. Prioritize yourself before others,” the old man interjected. Alaric couldn’t help but be struck by those words.

“My name is Alec. And yours?” Alaric inquired, attempting to chip away at the man’s pride.

He had noticed a slight flicker of anger beneath the jesting expression. “You will know soon enough,” he replied cryptically.

“Hmm, okay,” Alaric responded, his curiosity piqued.

The playful smile vanished from the man’s face.

"Astrid, was it? Alec as well, take rest. Tomorrow, both of you will be my disciples. Attending normal class in the mornings and my sessions in the evenings."

Veritas:

Veritas sat alone at the weathered bar, the dim light of flickering candles casting shifting shadows across his face. His fingers traced the rim of his mug, the amber liquid within swirling as he stared into its depths, lost in memories that clawed at the edges of his consciousness.

The bar was quiet tonight, the usual chatter muted to a low hum in the background. Tankards clinked softly as they were placed on the counter, and the occasional crackle of the hearth punctuated the stillness.

Veritas was oblivious to it all, his mind a maelstrom of grief and anger.

He remembered the flames, raging like vengeful spirits consuming everything in their path. His father had been caught in that inferno.

The betrayal of Brixton still haunted his nightmares. Veritas had returned to the farm amidst the acrid scent of smoke, his heart heavy as he discovered his father's charred remains.

The burial had been a blur, his hands numb as they dug the grave, his tears lost in the rain that fell from a weeping sky.

But now, here in the tavern, he drank. Drank to drown out the screams echoing in his mind, the searing pain of loss that threatened to consume him whole. He had been at it for days, the liquid numbing his senses and letting him forget for moments at a time.

The mug trembled in his grip as he raised it to his lips once more, the liquid burning its way down his throat. His head pounded in protest, a relentless drumbeat threatening to drive him mad.

Veritas blinked, trying to focus on the worn maple chair beneath him, its surface familiar and yet distant.

His heart raced, its rhythm discordant in his chest. He fought against the haze threatening to overwhelm him, refusing to surrender to unconsciousness. But his body rebelled, muscles trembling as they gave way beneath him.

With a sudden, jarring clarity, Veritas found himself sprawled on the hard-packed earth of the tavern floor. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, gazed unseeing into the ether. And there, amidst the haze of pain and intoxication, the world around him shifted and shimmered.

Colors danced before his eyes, swirling tendrils of purple and gold intertwining like threads of fate. The air hummed with a strange energy, as if space and time were woven together in a tapestry of cosmic design.

Veritas felt himself drawn to one particular strand, shimmering before him like a lifeline in the void.

He followed it, his mind reeling as he traversed the boundaries of his own consciousness. And there, at the end of that radiant thread, stood a figure unlike any he had ever seen.

She was ethereal, her form bathed in hues of purple and gold that seemed to emanate from within. Long hair cascaded around her shoulders like a river of starlight, and her eyes held the wisdom of ages past. She wore garments that shimmered with celestial patterns, and golden earrings adorned her ears like tiny suns.

"I've been waiting for you," she said, her voice a melody that echoed through the cosmos.

Veritas struggled to find his voice, his mind grappling with the surreal encounter. "Who are you?" he managed to whisper, his words barely audible against the symphony of the universe.

"I am the Weaver of Destinies," she replied, her gaze piercing through his very soul. "I have watched your journey, Veritas. Your pain has called out to me across the tapestry of existence."

Veritas felt a surge of emotion rise within him, a mixture of awe and disbelief. "Why me?" he asked, his voice trembling with the weight of his sorrow.

The Weaver smiled. "Your path has been woven into the fabric of destiny itself, and now, you stand at a crossroads."

Tears welled in Veritas's eyes, a torrent of emotions crashing over him like waves against a shore. "I don't understand," he confessed, his voice thick with emotion.

The Weaver approached him with an ethereal grace. She reached out, plucking a shimmering spiral from the air and gently placed it upon his brow.

Veritas screamed—a primal cry torn from the depths of his soul.

It reverberated through the starspace, a symphony of agony and despair that mirrored the anguish of his shattered heart. Every sensation, every emotion he had buried deep within, surged to the surface with brutal force.

He relieved it all—the searing heat of the inferno, the acrid scent of smoke that choked his lungs, the numbing grief that threatened to swallow him whole. The weight of loss, of betrayal, bore down upon him like a crushing weight, threatening to annihilate him in its relentless grip.

Through tear-blurred eyes, Veritas saw his father's broken form once more, felt the earth beneath his knees as he dug a grave with hands that trembled with grief. The rain falling in cold sheets.

"I have no use for cowards,” her words slicing through Veritas's heart like a blade forged of power and starlight.

In a stupor of grief and rage, Veritas staggered forward. His movements were erratic, his hands hung loosely at his sides as he lunged towards the figure, fueled by a desperate need to lash out at the source of his torment.

"I'll kill you," he snarled, his words laced with venomous intent. "You have no right to make me relive that!"

The Weaver walked forward, her presence overwhelming. Veritas couldn't move as she lifted him by the neck, forcing him to look into her purple eyes. They seemed to contain every single star, every single soul, every single existence, countless happenings and not happenings, and finally, lives and deaths. His emotions started to disappear, replaced by a strange emptiness as he stared into the abyss of her gaze.

"I am destiny. I am the future. I am Fate. And I require something from you.”

A moment later, she released him.

Veritas fell to the ground, clutching his neck, his emotions flooding back with overwhelming intensity. He gasped for breath.

Fate’s voice echoed in the space around them. "Most cannot look into my eyes and survive for that long. You have strength within you, Veritas. Do not waste it. What is the one thing you'd want from me? Revenge?"

He looked at her with bloodshot eyes, madness and desperation mingling in his gaze. "I want Pops back. I want him back." He staggered to his feet and shook her, but Fate didn't even budge an inch.

A smile extended across her face as she patted his head. "But I promise that as my seer, you'll meet him again. Alive or dead. Under the stars or maybe not."

“Whatever it takes,” He growled.

The Weaver leaned in close, her voice a soft whisper. "My hero, every eon, I choose one person. One person to stand above all my people, not just to proclaim prophecies that guide those lost in the darkness. In one of my favorite worlds, where the names of Gods are as common as grains of sand, your name means Truth. Therefore, you shall be known as the Seer of Truth. Be my champion of justice before you die, okay?"

Determination hardened his features. "I will. I swear it."

The Weaver's smile widened, a glimmer of childish excitement in her eyes. "When the North Star stands alone in the night sky, you'll see for the first time. You'll glimpse the world’s true form, stripped of its illusions."

The whole world faded to black.

“Maybe we can watch a movie together sometime.”

“A mo…vie?”

Alaric:

The next morning, Alaric awoke and was reminded by the inn owner to attend his session in the afternoon. The previous night, after narrowly escaping from a group of robbers, he had asked the inn owner to remind him of the meeting time. It seemed the inn owner had correctly observed Alaric’s daily routine and anticipated his absence until the end of the day. Alaric found his own predictability somewhat frustrating, yet he couldn’t deny the usefulness of such reminders in this particular situation.

As Alaric stood outside, ready to go to the morning sessions with that off-putting Sage, a figure emerged from the shadows. He recognized the person instantly—it was Richard.

Annoyed by how he didn’t hear the old man sneaking around, Alaric talked before Richard could get a word out. “Yes, I managed to get into the Academy by passing the entry exam. And somehow, a teacher has taken me as their disciple already.”

“That’s good news for you,” Richard remarked. “So, are you ready for your first mission?”

Alaric frowned. “I believe I need more time to get used to this before taking on a mission.”

“Your enrollment hinges on our deal,” Richard asserted.

Alaric stepped forward, now inches away from Richard. He stared into his blue eyes. "You don't understand what I really want. I want information. Nothing more, nothing less."

Unexpectedly, Richard recoiled, revealing surprise before he straightened his uniform and insignia, regaining his composure.

“Your green eyes creep me out sometimes."

Richard paused, then continued, “But I can’t keep bending the rules just because of the intuition I had to hire you. I’ll answer a question of yours now, and you will promise to leave in the next two weeks.”

Alaric extended his hand almost immediately, shaking Richard’s firmly. “I’m happy we’ve reached a good conclusion.”

Alaric rummaged through his bag and pulled out the Rebel Crest, its surface etched with a red phoenix.

"Have you ever seen someone with the crest of a black bird? Or even the crest of a rose surrounded by silver flowers?" he asked.

Richard paused, deep in thought, before shaking his head. "No."

Alaric grunted in disappointment.

"Alright then. I've already scheduled your meeting with the higher-ups. Don’t disappoint me.”

Alaric nodded, although Richard had already turned away and disappeared down the corridor, heading in the opposite direction from the exit.

Alaric sighed, hitting his own head in frustration. He had joined the Academy to have a place to escape to, but it was proving to be more of a hassle.

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly at his own oversight. Nonetheless, there was no turning back now.

He had made up his mind. He would stay at the Academy and get back in shape, but when his second mission from the Rebellion arrived, he would quit the Academy to pursue his real goals. Revenge and restoring the Kingdom to how it was before.

As Alaric walked through the eerily empty streets, a sense of unease washed over him. Something felt amiss. He strained to listen for any signs of activity but heard only silence. Scanning his surroundings, he couldn't discern anything out of the ordinary. Swiftly, he moved toward the cover of the nearby brick houses, weaving between them with the intention of circling back. The unconventional path would still lead him to the Academy, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was seriously wrong.

He heard the whistling of an arrow. To an ordinary person, it might have sounded like a rustle of the wind, but Alaric instinctively turned his head to the side. The arrow zipped past, so close he could feel it rush by his ear. One inch to the left, and it would have killed him instantly. Without wasting a second, Alaric sprinted for cover. Scanning the area, he couldn't spot the archer, leaving him no choice but to dodge and weave, trying to avoid the unseen assailant's deadly aim.

He could never catch a break.