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1.7

Alaric:

Alaric’s heart pounded in his chest as he weaved through the narrow alleyways, his twin swords poised for both attack and defense. Arrows whistled through the air, coming perilously close to his body, but his agility and quick reflexes allowed him to dodge them with uncanny grace.

The alleyways became a deadly dance floor, as Alaric deflected arrows with his swords. With each swing and parry, he danced between the onslaught of projectiles, determined to prove his mettle amidst the chaos. As he fought his way through, Alaric’s eyes never wavered from the path ahead.

Finally breaking free from the labyrinthine alleyways, Alaric emerged onto a deserted street, arrows still raining down upon him. Seeking cover, he sprinted towards the nearest building, ducking behind a crumbling stone wall. The swordsman pressed himself against it, listening intently for any signs of approaching danger. The sound of arrows grew fainter with each passing moment until silence enveloped the street. Alaric cautiously peered out from his hiding spot, scanning the area for any remaining threats. Satisfied that the danger had subsided, he emerged from his concealment and continued his journey, ever vigilant.

Moving swiftly and silently, Alaric made his way towards the edge of town, keeping to the shadows as he navigated through the eerily empty streets. His senses remained heightened, his muscles taut with anticipation, ready to react at a moment’s notice. As he neared the outskirts, the sound of arrows resumed, prompting Alaric to take cover once more. He sought refuge behind a large overturned cart, shielding himself from the deadly rain of projectiles. Alaric remained still, waiting for the onslaught to cease.

Minutes felt like an eternity as Alaric huddled behind the cart, his breath held in anticipation. Gradually, the sound of arrows faded away, replaced by an eerie stillness. Confident that the danger had finally passed, he cautiously emerged from his hiding place, scanning the area one last time. With a sigh of relief, Alaric resumed his journey towards the safety of the open road. With each step, he moved forward.

Alaric finally arrived at the academy. He had been attacked three times in the last few days, not counting the strange incident involving history. It was becoming a habit, and Alaric found himself getting back into shape. He had that bizarre silver-haired assassin to thank for it. He hadn't realized how much his injuries were limiting his movement.

The old man who had saved him yesterday stood by the entrance, watching him through the crowd of students. It was as if an invisible barrier surrounded him; no student came within two feet of him. Yet, as Alaric moved through the crowd, people bumped into him on purpose, whispering to each other.

The man beckoned him closer, and Alaric approached cautiously. He glanced at the sky, recalling his lessons on telling time by the sun’s position. He knew he was early.

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“Alec. You’re here. I see you’re doing well.” The familiar voice called out to Alaric, resonating with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. The prince couldn’t help but wonder how he managed to survive those archers.

“I’m doing quite well. Are archers normal around these parts?” Alaric inquired, his voice filled with a hint of skepticism.

After all, the swordsman had grown accustomed to the unpredictable nature of the circumstances he found himself in.

“Bah, they aren’t,” the old man said, circling Alaric with a calculating gaze.

As he observed the prince, Alaric could sense a tad bit of admiration beginning to emerge from him.

“No other wounds. You are strong. You will fare well in the future,” he remarked.

Curiosity piqued, Alaric raised an eyebrow, prompting the man to offer further clarification. “Don’t worry about the ramblings of an old man, Alec. Meet me in my office after you get your uniform,” he declared, motioning for Alaric to follow.

Alaric made his way to the supply room, where he bought and was then handed his uniform. He quickly changed, feeling the crisp fabric against his skin, and asked someone for directions.

Although they were cold to him, probably because of what happened yesterday, he understood the directions.

Eventually, he arrived at a pair of imposing twin doors, which swung open to reveal a vast, empty room. The Vice Leader, hands clasped behind his back, was confidently in a seat, his sharp shoes echoing on the marbled floor. Alaric, captivated by the ambiance, found himself captivated by the room’s design.

“My office. Anyone found here without permission receives two slashes. Discipline is the only reason the Academy is so successful, after all,” the old man explained matter-of-factually.

Reflecting on his past, Alaric recognized the lengths he had gone to improve his skills. Lost in his thoughts, he drifted off, reliving painful memories of his mother and dead siblings. The man’s voice jolted him back to reality, reminding him of the present moment.

“Take a seat,” the man continued. Alaric’s heart quickened with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. His intuition screamed at him, drawing his attention to a black-robed figure blending into a dark wardrobe. He caught a sliver of light pink hair and his eyes widened as he placed a hand on his sword.

However, the old man didn't seem to care.

"Astrid, is that you?” he asked. The figure didn’t move an inch.

The old man, unfazed, gestured and gave her permission to move. She sprang up, bubbly and cheerful. “Good morning, Alec!” she exclaimed.

"Quiet,” the man said, and Astrid instantly returned to her position, blending back into the shadows.

The man leaned forward, his presence commanding and calm. “I heard you wanted to meet me,” he said, his voice smooth and confident, a slight smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

Several figures stepped out of the darkness, wearing school uniforms. The old man’s eyes glimmered as he stroked his beard. “My name is Fitzgerald. The Rebellion's Eleventh Member of the Boards.”