Mist Over Askelor the thick morning mist still blanketed Askelor as a black carriage rumbled softly over the cobblestone road toward Soren's estate. Inside, he sat upright his face like a cold, unreadable sculpture. Silvain and Aldric sat at his sides, calm but watchful, like shadows that never left their master's heels.
Soren gazed out the window, observing a world that seemed unchanged from yesterday, or even from years ago. Yet he knew everything had shifted. The world never waited for anyone.
Those children at the academy... he thought. Too young. Too naïve.
They believed power was everything. But power without control was inevitable ruin.
They imagined that with magic and blades, they could carve out destiny. But the world…
The world chews such dreams without mercy.
Silvain broke the silence in a low voice.
"What are you thinking, Archon?"
Soren turned his gaze from the window to the darkness within the carriage.
"I'm thinking of wasted time. Of how they must walk through fire not to become heroes, but simply to avoid being consumed by it. This world isn't a stage for children craving recognition. It's a brutal arena that crowns its victors without compromise."
Aldric responded curtly,
"And those who survive are the ones who know when to burnand when to let the fire die."
Soren let out a quiet, cold laugh, devoid of warmth.
"If they fail, then they were never meant to be victors. Just ashes swept away by the wind. I don't have the time to nurture dreams that will never become."
The carriage began to slow signaling their arrival in Askelor. Soren drew a deep breath, his mind shifting toward greater matters.
The rebellion in the southeast. The voices beginning to echo. The unseen fractures.
He had already received Lucard's report. The information was like scattered puzzle pieces a riddle that had to be solved soon. One wrong move could collapse everything.
As the carriage came to a halt, the household staff swiftly assembled to greet them. Soren offered a silent nod and walked into his study. There, a pile of reports waited atop his desk. With piercing eyes, he dove into the details.
These people think rebellion is about hungry peasants and burdensome taxes.
They forget rebellion is born from fear... and hidden ambition.
And there is always someone pulling the strings from the shadows.
He paused, his eyes drifting toward the window.
"A world ruled by rulers... always hungers for a new one. But fire that burns too quickly only scorches the hand that holds it."
He turned, speaking a sentence that was almost a whisper to himself, but loud enough to fill the dim room.
"These children are not yet ready to become the fire.
The world still belongs to its rulers... and I am one of them."
A thin smile curled on his lips laced with dry sarcasm.
If they are not ready... so be it.
There will always be another generation. One that's harder. Colder.
One that can look at the world without illusion.
With measured steps, Soren began the next phase of his plan while the shadows of the future wrapped around him like a black cloak that never loosens.