As promised, Idan had spoken with the temple priests to ensure Antares received proper education. The focus was clear: he needed to learn the language, grasp the cultural intricacies, and understand the very structure of this world.
The morning after the memory ritual, Antares—now dressed in the temple's standard dark attire, much like the rest of its residents (with the notable exceptions of Idan and Lira)—followed silently behind a temple servant. She had been assigned to guide him to his first lesson. To aid in his adjustment, Idan had temporarily entrusted Antares with his magical amulet, the same one that allowed him to comprehend all speech.
Antares still recalled their conversation from the night before. After informing the appropriate members of the clergy, Idan had returned to the infirmary—where Antares had been sent once again to rest following the strain of the ritual—and outlined what lay ahead.
***
"Antares, you awake?"
The voice came quietly as the infirmary door creaked open. Idan stepped in, careful not to disturb the sleeping.
"I am. Is there news?" Antares replied, his eyes adjusting to the low light.
"I've arranged your education. The priests here agreed to take you in and teach you. How long it will take depends entirely on you."
"That's good to hear. Thank you… truly."
Idan noticed the change in Antares' tone. For the first time, he was being addressed with clear formality—with respect. Until now, the red-haired man had spoken plainly, almost familiarly. Something had shifted.
"Hold off on the gratitude," Idan replied, fishing something from his coat pocket. He casually tossed it toward Antares. "Here."
Antares caught the amulet that the inquisitor had tossed him. He looked at it, unsure at first why it had been given to him. Then he remembered—Idan had shown it to him before, during their first meeting in the infirmary, and explained its power: the amulet allowed him to understand any speech… and to be understood in return.
"You're giving away an artifact of such power, even though you use it yourself?"
Antares's voice trembled—his fingers instinctively clenched around the warm metal surface of the amulet.
"Exactly," Idan replied, folding his arms across his chest. "It will serve as your key—not just to speech, but to belonging."Languages, customs—all will unfold before you like an open book."
"But… why?" The question hung in the air, heavy as an unspoken accusation. "Why do you trust me enough to give me this?"
"Don't go looking for hidden motives. You need it more than I do. There aren't many tongues left I can't already speak. Maybe some monstrous dialects could stump me—but that's about it. And besides, the upper circles of the Church have more of them."
He paused, letting the silence carry the weight of his words.
"This amulet is more than just a translator. It erases the barriers between races, between clans… even between species. While it hangs around your neck, any creature will hear your words in its own native tongue. Even…" — Idan traced a glowing trail in the air with his fingers — "…even those who have long forgotten the speech of men."
"No need for that." Idan stood and began heading for the door, but then stopped. "Oh—tomorrow morning at ten, head to the northern wing. You'll meet your first teacher there. His name's Brendan. Chestnut hair, tired brown eyes. likely in his early fifties, with the weariness of long hours etched in his gaze. I'll have a servant escort you—don't worry about finding your way."
"Understood."
"Brendan will tutor you in the common tongue for two hours. After that, Lady Lydia will arrive. She'll be your etiquette instructor. You'll know her when you see her—elderly, about seventy-five, with a gentle demeanor. I gathered as much while speaking with her today."
He added, "Each day will rotate between etiquette, cultural knowledge, and imperial history. One hour at a time. Learn well. You'll need it."
"Understood. I think I can manage this schedule," Antares said quietly.
"Do your best. I'm leaving for the Grand Cathedral tomorrow, so you won't be seeing me again… at least for a while," Idan replied, his voice firm yet lacking finality. "The amulet will be taken back once you leave the Church. It's not a gift, merely a hand extended to someone in need."
"That's more than enough," Antares responded, inclining his head slightly in gratitude.
"Then until we meet again." With those parting words, Idan turned and quietly closed the infirmary door behind him.
"Tomorrow, I begin my descent into this place… into this world."
Antares glanced down at the golden amulet resting in his hand, its surface adorned with tiny inlaid diamonds that shimmered faintly in the light.
***
When Antares and the attendant stopped before the door to the study chamber in the northern wing of the temple, her soft voice brought him back to the present.
"We've arrived, my lord. Your teacher is waiting inside."
This time, Antares understood her words—clear and precise. The amulet that Idan had "loaned" him still hung around his neck, glowing faintly with silent purpose.
The door creaked open slightly, its surface etched with a modest motif of rising flames. Antares stepped through the threshold, casting a calm yet alert gaze over the room.
The chamber was spacious, yet without ostentation: solid oak shelves filled with neatly arranged tomes, a broad desk topped with ink and parchment, and several comfortable chairs arranged with purposeful symmetry. On the far wall hung a large map of the known world, marked with inked notations and subtle glyphs. The air held the scent of aged parchment, order, and quiet intellect.
Behind the desk sat a man—Brendan. Chestnut hair streaked with gray, tired brown eyes, and a carefully trimmed beard. As soon as he looked up from his documents and saw Antares, he rose to greet him.
"Good afternoon," he said, his voice calm and warm like the last light of an autumn day. "You must be Antares. The High Inquisitor informed me of your arrival." With a gentle gesture, he motioned toward one of the chairs. "Please, take a seat. We can begin."
There was a strange dissonance in the air—Brendan spoke to him with respect, as one might to a guest or a noble. Antares wasn't used to that. Not so soon after being locked in a cage.
He nodded and took the offered seat, the fabric beneath him soft and refined.
"The Inquisitor described you quite vividly," Brendan said, adjusting his glasses. "'Tall man with hair like fire, and eyes you wouldn't mistake for anyone else's'—his exact words. Though," he smiled faintly, "he forgot to mention the amulet of the Church hanging around your neck. Interesting choice."
His fingers brushed over a stack of books, selecting the topmost one—a worn but well-loved volume with weathered corners and a faded spine.
"Today, we begin with the foundations of the common tongue," Brendan said, opening the book. A faint fragrance of old ink and knowledge drifted into the air. "It's not a difficult language to learn—especially with a… companion like yours." His gaze lingered for a second on the amulet.
"But it's not just about words. It's about the meaning hidden beneath them."
He traced a line across the page, and Antares noticed how the ink shimmered ever so slightly—a faint echo of magic humming through the parchment.
"Let's start with greetings and basic expressions," Brendan continued. "In this world, manners can be the line between life and death. Especially for someone like you."
Outside, a bird flitted past the window, casting a swift, fleeting shadow over the book. Brendan lifted his gaze—and in that moment, Antares saw something deeper than duty in the man's eyes.
"Are you ready to begin?" the teacher asked, with the quiet patience of someone who understood the true weight of every word he was about to teach.
Antares drew in a breath, then nodded.
In that instant, he understood: this was no ordinary tutor.
This was a guide—into a world entirely his own.
— — —
The lesson in the common tongue was nearing its end. The light of Zorkhalis still poured through the tall windows, tracing golden lines across the floor.
Antares leaned over the scroll before him, the amulet at his neck pulsing faintly in rhythm with the words he spoke. In these two hours, he had come to understand something crucial—this language was more than a tool for communication. It was the lifeblood that coursed through the arteries of civilization.
"Imagine this," Brendan's voice had taken on a deeper timbre, his ink-stained fingers gliding across the page, "thousands of years ago, in the ashes of the Great War, sages and god-touched emissaries gathered. From each tongue, they took fragments—guttural growls of monsters, the whispers of forest spirits—and wove them into a new speech." His eyes shimmered with a strange inner fire. "A language capable of reaching both monsters and elf alike."
A chill ran down Antares's spine. There was no dry academia in the teacher's tone—only the burning zeal of an archaeologist uncovering forgotten truths. Even the air in the room seemed to thicken, echoing with the phantom voices of a long-dead age.
"But why this language?" Antares asked, unable to hold back. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk with unconscious tension.
Brendan chuckled softly and pulled out a peculiar artifact from his drawer—a medallion lined with thirteen rotating rings.
"Because at its core lies not the legacy of one people, but of all peoples," he said, clicking the central gem. The rings stopped spinning and aligned into a familiar ancient sigil. "Each word is a shard of something timeless. Each phrase, a pulse of ancient greatness. And when you speak in the common tongue…" — his voice suddenly deepened, layered with countless harmonies, as if a chorus of beings echoed through him — "…the world itself seems to listen."
A dry crack came from beyond the window—a branch snapping under its own weight. Brendan exhaled, leaning back in his chair, and just like that, he was a weary teacher once more.
"That's enough for today. At our next lesson, we'll tackle the fundamental grammatical structures,"he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Yet in his eyes, the embers of that earlier flame still glowed. "And Antares…" — he stopped the red-haired man at the door — "you absorb knowledge quickly. There's a hunger in your gaze—a thirst for the unknown. I hope that spark stays with you… until the end of our final lesson, and long beyond."
With that, the teacher offered a parting nod and left the room, leaving his student alone—at least for a few minutes, until the next instructor arrived.
When the door clicked shut behind him, Antares finally realized how sore his fingers were—he had clutched the quill far too tightly the entire session. And he still had etiquette lessons ahead.
That layered, haunting whisper still echoed faintly in his ears, and on his tongue lingered a curious taste—as if he had been drinking honey rather than ink. Brendan's lesson hadn't merely taught him a language. It had offered him a glimpse into something profound.
— — —
Ten minutes later, just as Antares had begun to relax, the door opened once more. A slender elderly woman entered, dressed in a black ceremonial gown with a lace veil atop her head. This could only be Lydia.
Idan had said she had a gentle spirit—so, in theory, the etiquette lesson would be just as pleasant. But after such an extraordinary class in the common tongue—one into which Brendan had clearly poured his soul—it was hard to imagine anything else leaving quite the same mark.
Antares had yet to decide whether he would remain in the service of the Church… or pledge himself to a noble house. But regardless of what path he chose, etiquette was essential—especially if he were ever assigned to serve a baron… or even a count. In those circles, etiquette wasn't a formality. It was survival.
Each step Lydia took was soundless, as though she weren't walking, but gliding across the lingering dust of all the lessons that came before.
"Antares, yes?" Her voice was unexpectedly youthful—warm, like light of Zorkhalis filtered through old stained-glass in a forgotten library. "My name is Lydia. The Grand Inquisitor informed me that you are… less than familiar with our local manners."
She sat across from him, and Antares immediately noticed three things:
Her hands, adorned with a delicate mosaic of age spots, moved in graceful, fluid gestures, as if carrying on a silent conversation with the air itself. A small medallion shimmered at her neck—two serpents entwined in eternal embrace. When she smiled, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes formed intricate symbols—hieroglyphs etched by decades, each one surely a story of its own.
"Etiquette," she said, producing a fan of polished blackwood from her robes, "is not merely a set of rules. It is a language. One the world reserves only for those it deems worthy to hear it." She tapped the fan gently against her palm. "Today, we begin with how to tell a dagger from a dining fork… and a compliment from a threat."
Antares straightened unconsciously. He was ready to give another hour of his time to this place—this strange new world—if it meant becoming part of it.
— — —
His thoughts twisted and churned as Lydia laid out unfamiliar utensils before him.
— A life in the Church would mean safety, calm… and whispers behind every closed door.
— A courtly life offered freedom… but also a game of daggers, where the wrong bow could end a life.
"You walk between choices, but not yet among them. Haven't chosen your path, have you?" Lydia's voice sliced through the silence as she held up a silver spoon near his face. "Look—see your reflection?"
The surface shimmered faintly, warped and unclear.
"Uncertain. Blurred. Like your place in this world. But etiquette… etiquette is the art of becoming who you must be in that moment."
Her fingers traced the engraving on the handle. "Even if, inside, you still belong to no one."
Outside, a lone bird sang—its voice high, piercing. A solitary thread of sound in the stillness.
"Let us begin with bows," Lydia whispered. Her fan snapped open with the dry hiss of parchment tearing. "Because before you choose whom to serve… you must learn how to kneel."
The shadow of her fan fell across his face—cool and soft, like the touch of death.
And in that moment, Antares understood—
The lesson had only just begun.
— — —
The hour of elegance, the hour of etiquette and refined manners, was drawing to a close.
Lady Lydia did not merely lecture — she demonstrated. Her every gesture was a living lesson, and Antares absorbed them like a sponge cast into sacred ink. He caught nuances with uncanny speed, and the instructors had already begun to notice.
"You now know how to bow before a Cardinal without lowering your gaze.
How to sip from a crystal goblet — lips barely brushing the rim — so as not to insult the host, yet never risk intoxication.
How to adjust a glove to hide the tremble of your hand," her voice whispered like ancient parchment rustling in a monastery's archive — soft, deliberate, and imbued with centuries of wisdom.
She swept her hand across a silver tray, and the fine crystal glasses chimed in response — a gentle, haunting resonance, like bells tolling at the edge of a dream.
"But true etiquette…" Her fingers froze mid-air, forming a symbol that was both a greeting and a warning.
"…is when your thank you sounds like a prayer,
and your silence speaks louder than any sermon."
The room took on the scent of frankincense and dried rose petals, the fragrance of sacred halls and ceremonial receptions.
Lydia rose without a sound. Her black robes flowed behind her like a drifting plume of incense.
"Next time, we'll cover how to present yourself before the High Clergy — where every word you utter will be weighed on divine scales." She touched the serpent medallion at her throat, and for a moment it caught the light — a shimmer, a whisper, a reminder: everything in this world carried dual meaning.
"Until then… practice your bow. Let it show humility — but not servitude. That distinction will be your first step… toward mastering this elegant art."
The door closed behind her with the softest of clicks.
Antares remained alone, staring into the ruby glint of the wine glass before him.
It was not just a drink — it was a symbol.
Here, etiquette wasn't a set of rules. It was a shield, woven from glances, gestures, and unspoken truths.
In the distance, the voices of choirboys rose in sacred harmony — fragile, haunting, beautiful.
"I wonder… does etiquette teach you to notice when someone draws a cross behind your back?"
Antares mused, lightly tracing the rim of the goblet.
A faint trail remained — not of poison, but of that noble dust that seemed to settle on everything within these walls.
The lesson was over.
Three hours of tightly wound discipline left behind a rare, pleasant fatigue — the kind that came not from the body, but from the mind stretched in new directions.
Antares stepped out into the corridor. His thoughts swirled — knowledge pressing into his skull like wine poured too quickly into a full cup.
And there she was.
The same maid who had guided him that morning — already waiting, like a shadow cast from devotion.
"Has she truly been standing here this whole time?" The thought flickered, absurd yet persistent.
No — of course not. She must've simply arrived at the right time. And yet… her stillness, the way her hands folded gently at her waist — it suggested something else. A patience not born of duty, but of choice. As though she wasn't serving him because she had to — but because she had already chosen whom she would follow.
Antares walked down the stone corridor, guided by the same silent handmaid. The glow of the lamps behind them gradually dimmed, giving way to the hush of evening.
His first day was over. Difficult? Yes. Exhausting? Without question.But what he felt wasn't weariness. It was something rarer. Something quieter. Growth.
The common quarters they arrived at were simple yet neat — several carefully made beds, a shelf lined with books and magical manuals. The handmaid gave a silent nod and departed without a word, leaving him alone with this new reality.
Antares sat on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. The amulet at his neck gave off a faint warmth — whether from its lingering magic or the weight of his thoughts, he couldn't tell. Today, he had opened a door into another world.
And tomorrow… Tomorrow, he would take his first true step within it.