It had been more than two full months since Antares first stepped into the sacred halls of the ancient temple and began to grasp the laws of this world. Sixty days shaped by a steady rhythm of learning — each morning heralded by the chime of prayer bells, each night ending beneath the warm glow of magical lanterns and ethereal lamps. Sixty nights that had seen a nameless slave slowly transform into a young man, one beginning to comprehend the intricate mosaic of these lands.
His training revolved around four foundational pillars of knowledge:
1.Imperial History — a condensed course touching even upon global chronicles, though always through the lens of the reigning dynasty.
2.Cultural Studies — from elven feasting rites to the burial customs of the mountain clans.
3.The Common Tongue — whose ancient glyphs Brendan claimed were woven from poetry itself.
4.Etiquette — an art, as Lady Lydia often said, in which even silence could serve as a dagger.
Of all the subjects, two had carved the deepest impression upon Antares' soul.
The Common Tongue drew him in not merely as a tool of speech, but as something alive — a sentient river of thought and heritage. This was thanks to Brendan, his linguistic mentor, whose lessons resembled not academic lectures, but fervent confessions. A scholar well past his youth, Brendan poured fragments of his own spirit into each session, like a lovestruck sage unveiling the hidden chambers of his heart. His fingers trembled when deciphering runes, and his voice wove strange harmonies, as if echoing the whispers of long-dead wise men.
As for history — it captured Antares with its sprawling events, yes, but also because of the man who delivered it: William, the third instructor. A teacher who could spin lifeless dates into epics worthy of song.
William was a creature of contrast: his hair was pitch-black, as if dyed in temple soot. His eyes — unnaturally blue, like alpine lakes found only on the edges of forgotten maps. His body — lean, with ink-stained fingers never scarred by the grip of a sword.
"Physical training is for those who have failed to fall in love with the dance of time," he once declared while unfurling a parchment detailing the imperial bloodline.
Antares often smirked at that, thinking to himself, "Maybe if he at least tried some pushups, his arms wouldn't look like strands of overcooked string beans."
William's lessons felt like expeditions. They began with palace intrigues and coups, but often veered into uncharted lands — places where maps ended in sketches of sea monsters and warnings written in trembling ink.
But what, truly, had bewitched Antares so deeply in the study of history?
The answer did not lie only in the content, but in the way William wielded it. Unlike many scholars who marched in step with the Empire's rigid doctrine, William granted himself the rarest of freedoms — doubt. His classroom felt more like a secret conclave, and behind its heavy oaken doors, he spoke of versions of history that, in certain provinces, could earn one a stake and a fire.
"Remember every word, but let them die in your memory," William would whisper before beginning another dangerous lecture, his ice-blue gaze gleaming like a dagger in the winter light of Zorkhalis.
And again he would murmur — not to Antares, but to himself: "The secrets of the world they call Erethna…"
The Enigma of a Name
— The Imperial interpretation was rooted in one of the oldest canonical legends:
The planet that had become Antares' new home bore a name whose origins were shrouded in the mists of time—Erethna. Even elven sages, whose chronicles stretched across countless millennia, could not trace the true beginning of the word.
According to sacred texts, the name Erethna was bestowed upon the world by the goddesses of creation themselves. In the archaic language of the First Priests, it meant "The Primordial Earth" — the motherland of all sentient beings, the cradle of civilization. Temple frescoes depicted the word in golden runes, woven like strands into the crown of existence.
— The elven version told a different tale:
Forest chroniclers insisted the word came from the tongue of ancient giants — beings whose existence was still unproven, save for scattered bones and ancestral myth. In their tradition, Erethna was translated either as "Fruit of the World" or "Sphere of Balance", depending on the school of linguistic thought. Elders claimed the true pronunciation had been lost alongside the last speakers of that ancient tongue.
There were other interpretations as well, but none so evocative — or so hotly debated — as these two.
William, ever the seeker of buried truths, suffered from his inability to uncover the real answer. His usually animated face would fall into a quiet melancholy whenever the topic arose. His ink-stained fingers would nervously trace the edge of a parchment, leaving faint, trembling trails in the paper's grain.
"But if one must choose from what's left behind…"
He always favored the imperial view.
Not from blind patriotism (though outwardly he played that role well), and not because it held any more proof than the others — for such proof no longer existed.
No, he chose it because… it was beautiful.
And for William — a man who had given his life to chasing lost meanings — sometimes the poetry of a legend meant more than the dry coldness of an unverifiable fact.
As for Antares' present location, it was quite simple.
He resided within the towering walls of Estion, a city-fortress that loomed above the valley like a stone colossus. Carved from the hardest rock and reinforced with rare alloys and runic metals, its walls gleamed in the twilight of Zorkhalis like polished frost. There was a reason they called Estion "The Adamantine Stronghold." Situated at the crossroads of mountain passes and riverways, it was practically impregnable.
Even ancient tomes declared:
"He who holds Estion holds the throat of the South."
The architects of old had understood this truth well. When they laid the first stones of the citadel, they knew—this place would outlast the passing of kings. And so far, it had.
Throughout all of recorded history, Estion had never lowered its banners to an enemy. Not to barbarian hordes, not to the monstrous legions of the past, not even to the siege engines crafted by the dwarven war-smiths.
Such a reputation came at a price.
The Empire funded it lavishly, as if afraid that without the weight of gold, even stone might crumble into dust. Bags of coin, rare materials, enchanted relics — all were regularly sent to Estion under the banner of "fortification efforts."
Though, really, what was the point of strengthening a fortress that had never once fallen?
And then came the most intriguing part.
Estion formally belonged to the Kingdom of Esgaria — but in truth, Esgaria was merely one province among many in the vast realm of the Aurelian Empire.
Other races, with a touch of sarcasm, often referred to it as "The Human Empire", as if to imply that behind the gleam of its laws lay nothing but human arrogance.
And not without reason.
Beneath the shadow of Aurelia's crimson dragon banner, real power had always remained in the hands of human aristocracy. Throughout the Empire's long history, not a single non-human creature had ever held a ruling position, not even in a minor city.
Dwarves were free to trade — but not to own land.
Draconids could forge weapons — but were forbidden to wield them without official sanction.
As for vampires… they were still considered "children of the night", unwelcome in daylight society — even if they were perfectly capable of walking beneath the light of Zorkhalis.
Cruel? Perhaps.
But it was this ironclad hierarchy that allowed cities like Estion to flourish. The stonework streets were flawlessly paved, the temples glittered with sacred architecture, and even market vendors displayed their wares openly and without fear — because in the Adamantine Citadel, everyone knew their place.
Aside from Esgaria, six other grand kingdoms formed the pillars of Aurelian unity: Kirnagar, Liareth, Verhia, Breganholm, Olmerat, and Talmerin.
Each was ruled by its own dynasty, upheld its own traditions, and pursued its own ambitions. Yet all — kings and archbishops alike — were bound to a single will: the will of the Emperor.
His authority was absolute.
His reach, boundless.
His shadow… touched everything.
The Seven Kingdoms of the Empire had already etched their images into Antares' memory — aided, of course, by William's colorful commentaries.
1. Kirnagar — the North. The Kingdom of Steel.
A land of ice and iron, where men learn to wield swords from the moment they can walk.
"Not a single man in all the Empire could match the courage of a Kirnagar-born," William once remarked — and that alone spoke volumes of the place.
Even nature itself forged the people's resilience. The cold did not retreat even in spring. Military camps remained snowbound well into the warmer months.
The realm was renowned for its academies, keeps, and stone bastions. Discipline and duty ran thicker than blood. Every day was a new chance to become stronger — to offer one's strength to the Empire.
To them, skipping training was worse than disease.
2. Liareth — the East. The Core of Power.
The Empire's capital city was nestled within this kingdom. Palaces, libraries, temples, and the finest academies of both sword and sorcery could all be found here.
Liareth was the land of scholars, officials, and political architects — where the Empire's laws were born and its most vital treaties signed beneath the solemn halls of the Tower of Law.
"What can I say about the people who live there?" William once chuckled. "Throw a stone in any direction, and you'll hit someone important."
Oddly enough… that summed it up quite well.
3. Esgaria — the South. The Agrarian and Spiritual Kingdom.
Endless green plains stretched across this land, a balm to the weary eyes of travelers. Thanks to its fertile soil and warm climate, Esgaria was considered the breadbasket of the Empire — a paradise for those who worked the land.
Monasteries and temples dotted the region like solemn jewels, not only as marvels of architecture, but as the spiritual heart of the south. Even the humblest of towns raised at least one temple — not for show or to tick a box in an Imperial census, but to offer sanctuary for the penitent. So that sinners had a place where their voices might still be heard.
Another of Esgaria's famed treasures was its vineyards.
"Nowhere makes wine like Esgaria," William once said, "Unless you count the dwarves' 'hot' spirits… but that's another story. My father used to say this, anyway."
And above all else, the greatest presence in Esgaria was that of the Church of Darkness. Its grand cathedral in the capital city of Oridion loomed over the rooftops like the silhouette of a sleeping giant — vast, silent, unshakable.
4. Talmerin — the West. Maritime Power. The "Fish Kingdom."
"The most interesting thing in Talmerin isn't the ships or the trade… it's the stories whispered in taverns," William once chuckled. "Take the Kraken for example. A monster the size of a fortress. Could it defeat the Leviathan, I wonder? Personally, I doubt it…"
Sea winds, constant moisture, slick cobblestones, and the ceaseless cry of gulls — such was the rhythm of life in the port cities of Talmerin. Here, not only cargo moved through the alleys, but rumors — slippery as fish scales and twice as dangerous.
Some people knew too much… and one wrong glance could earn you a trip to the bottom of the bay.
Harbors, ships, merchants, smuggling rings, spies — all of this was Talmerin.
5. Breganholm — the Northeast. Alchemy and the Unknown.
A kingdom of mist and mystery. The very air here felt steeped in venom and secrets. In the depths of Breganholm's forests, alchemists built hidden laboratories, ancient clans studied forbidden arts, and mana thickened into fogs that pulsed with energy.
This land was the birthplace of potions and elixirs unmatched — thanks to rare herbs steeped in raw life essence, found only within its shadowed woods.
Beyond its borders lay the Monsterlands — ancient and wild, their origins lost in the abyss of prehistory. From time to time, the less intelligent among them would raid the border towns and farmlands.
"Monsters aren't just Breganholm's problem," William once said, narrowing his eyes. "They're a threat to every nation — except perhaps Aurelia itself. The only reason we still breathe is because they have no leader. But imagine if someone came along who could unite them. Lead them under a single banner. What then, I ask you? After all, they are the most numerous race in all the world…"
The people of Breganholm were not mere citizens — they were guardians of knowledge.
They preferred mysteries over truth, solitude over influence, formulas over swords.
6. Olmerat — the Southwest. Merchants, Bankers, and Manufactories. The Realm of Coin.
Even the air in Olmerat shimmered with the sound of wealth. Here, the title of merchant carried more weight than any knight's crest, and a signature on a trade contract meant more than a marriage vow.
The richest region in all the Empire, where gold mattered more than glory, and the word "profit" was sacred. The greatest trade guilds and merchant houses had built their grand halls in the capital city of Vorgrad.
Vorgrad — the city of bargains. Here, one could sell a shadow and buy a future… if they knew the right people to talk to.
"Establishing yourself there isn't easy," William admitted once, as he ran his fingers through a collection of ancient coins. "The aristocrats rule, the merchants thrive, and the common folk… well, they survive. Not exactly a place for the faint of heart."
7. Verhia — the very heart of the Empire.
The city of Tenebris, capital of Verhia, was a place where law took form — where voices weren't raised, but lowered; where men didn't argue, but bowed. Dreams weren't born here… they were carried out in silence.
It was here that the Tower of Law stood — a place where Imperial agents scrutinized the drafts of Liareth's lawmakers and decided whether or not to enshrine them into imperial reality.
At the center of it all, the Imperial Citadel pierced the heavens — a blackened monument that seemed to embody the wrath of gods turned to stone.
"The cities here aren't as wealthy as those in Olmerat. Verhia isn't as obsessed with laws and politics as Liareth, either. And yet… the Emperor always remains here, rarely visiting the other kingdoms. Perhaps… he knows something we do not. His Majesty… he commands more than just law — he holds the truth. And truth," William once murmured, "is a weapon far deadlier than any blade."
And yet, even though the Imperial Citadel stood tall in Verhia, it was Liareth that set the rhythm of politics.
As for the Empire's true heart… it forever remained veiled in shadow.
This was but a fraction of the knowledge concerning the geography and structure of the Empire.
William had shared it all with Antares—for how could one hope to grasp the flow of history, without first knowing the very ground beneath their feet?
In contrast to the mystery behind the name Erethna, whose origins had long vanished into the shadowed fog of forgotten ages, the birth of the Aurelian Empire stood tall on a pillar of historical certainty—2,765 years ago.
It was then that the fates of scattered peoples intertwined, giving rise to the majesty of imperial power.
Legend speaks of how it all began—with a battle between two beings of immense power.
Not gods… but neither were they mortals.
They clashed in a duel where the sole goal was victory itself. The reasons? History remains silent. The why was lost. Only the consequences endured.
Their struggle lasted for ten days and ten nights.
With every strike, mountain ranges crumbled, rivers evaporated into mist, and entire cities were reduced to nothing but ash and memory.
The earth groaned beneath their weight, and the skies turned black from the choking veil of rising ash and molten stone.
When at last, one of the titans fell—so say the chroniclers—the cataclysm should have ended.
But, as often is the case in this world, the hopes of the broken were not met with mercy.
Even in death, the defeated one continued to poison the very flesh of the world.
Its corpse became a wellspring of overwhelming, corruptive power—an origin of distortion, rot, and irreversible decay.
A divine punishment in cadaverous form. A hatred so potent it endured beyond life, disrupting the world's delicate balance.
Hundreds, even thousands of kilometers of land—plains, forests, rivers—became saturated with this forbidden power. So potent it warped matter itself. Living beings who simply came close to it… didn't die swiftly. No, their fate was far crueler. They suffered a torment worse than death. Their bodies convulsed under unimaginable agony.
Eyewitnesses said it was as though molten metal flowed through their veins instead of blood, burning them from within.
And even then, the suffering did not end.
Next came the unmaking of their minds—
And finally, the corruption of flesh. Those touched by this curse became something else entirely: Distorted Beasts.
The site of that ancient battle would later be named the Warped Lands—a cursed scar upon the continent, a place so saturated with unstable essence that not even spirits dared to linger.
The only surviving detail about one of the combatants… was its name: The Reaper of Life.
Some believe it was never truly slain. That deep beneath those cursed soils, something still stirs. Waiting. Watching. And one day… it may rise again, to plunge the world once more into despair.
But in times of great despair, true heroes always rise. Strong. Unshaken. Grand.
And in those dark days, he appeared—the First Emperor, Aurelion Ruinwald, whose name would henceforth become a symbol of new beginnings.
When the people, shattered by loss, wandered without direction or hope… it was Aurelion who gathered them.
He was like a radiant beam of Zorkhalis' light—piercing even the thickest clouds, coloring the gray world with brilliance and warmth.
He stood firm, like a cliff against the storm, shielding the broken from the raging winds of ruin.
Aurelion led them—not backward, not into hiding, but forward—toward a world where they could become strong once more.
People from every fallen city… no, every fallen kingdom, followed the path lit by their newfound guiding star.
And thus, under the leadership of Aurelion the Great, the people rebuilt.
From ash and dust, they forged a new world—one that would one day grow into the grandeur of the Empire.
In reverence to Aurelion—the man without whom they would have remained weak and scattered—they named their new realm: Aurelia.
To govern this newborn order, the grandchildren of the First Emperor divided the land into seven provinces, placing at the head of each one their most loyal companions.
With time, humanity spread across the continent, expanding ever outward, "growing" into the size and strength the Empire now possessed.
And through it all—for more than two and a half millennia—the Ruinwald dynasty has never been broken. Not once has anyone outside their bloodline ruled the Aurelian Empire. Their blood… is the lifeblood of Aurelia. Their will… is its law.
Though William was best known as the teacher of history, he also taught Antares about the cultures of the senitars.
And while Antares was attentive and curious during their studies of history or language, the culture lessons were… well…
If one had to sum it up in a word: tedious.
Or better yet—gloriously, divinely boring.
All those rituals, festive customs, paintings, statues, sacred dances, sacred embroidery, sacred dishes, sacred toilet seats…
It was like having lukewarm water poured directly into one's brain.
While Brendan made the written word sing, William—noble as his efforts were—fought a losing battle against Antares' growing apathy.
Still, some fragments did lodge themselves in his memory. For example, the world of senitars extended far beyond humans. Among them were the Elves, divided into High Elves, Low Elves, and the Shadowborn.
They resided in one of the largest—if not the largest—forests on the continent: Silarna Laer'Thal, or in the ancient elvish tongue: The Greatwood of the Elves.
The forest was said to be so vividly green, so full of life, that not even Erethna's starry sky could rival it in beauty.
And when the season turned to autumn… words became meaningless.
You could describe it in poems, in songs, in tapestries—but no one would believe you, not until their own blind eyes witnessed the majesty of Silarna.
Among the elves, status was as clear as moonlight.
The High Elves were the sovereigns. Their kingdom was called Arum-Tannel—for their domain encircled a single, sacred entity.
At the very heart of the continent, where the winds converge and the land holds its breath, there has stood—since time immemorial—a tree.
Not just any tree.
Its crown reaches so high it seems to whisper to the clouds.
Its roots—according to elven lore—stretch across the world itself.
From its roots, life was said to bloom. Not merely flowers and birds, but entire races—perhaps even the elves themselves.
They called it the Great Tree, or more reverently, the Mother Tree—a being of such sacred power that all elves, from noblest to outcast, swore their lives to protect it from defilement.
"High Elves," William once explained with a gleam in his eye, "can commune with the forest. They speak to the roots… and sometimes, the roots answer.
But what's truly remarkable—only the most worthy among them are granted the blessing of the Tree itself."
The Low Elves were the most numerous among their kind. Their territory spanned nearly the entire Great Forest and was known as Il'Morras.
According to William, their architecture was nothing short of astonishing.
Their dwellings rose not only from the firm forest floor but also high within the treetops, forming entire settlements suspended above the ground.
And most curious of all — even with the thick canopy overhead, those lofty perches offered a sweeping view of the surroundings.
As if the forest itself parted its leaves for their eyes, granting them the sight denied to others.
"You know what's funny about elves?" William once mused, lips curled in a half-smile. "You see a beautiful elven girl on the street. Looks twenty.
Then you strike up a conversation and… boom, turns out she's a thousand years old. Awkward, right?"
Last came the Shadowborn, the dark elves.
They made their home in the deepest recesses of the forest—Nar'Tehar—where not even the light of Zorkhalis could pierce the veil of the towering leaves.
Recognized as a sovereign state only seventy-six years ago, the Shadowborn fought for centuries to earn their place.
"True warriors," William said with deep reverence, "whose bravery became legend. But in battle… they were terrors. Fiercer than wyverns, more relentless than storms.
They clawed their right to equality from the fangs of prejudice. With grit, with fury, with unwavering loyalty to their homeland. That's the kind of stubbornness that earns respect."
And then there were the dwarves.
If you ever see a short, perpetually grumbling bearded figure who smells of coal, steel, and ale—
congratulations. You've found yourself a dwarf.
But that was only the surface.
They weren't just beer-loving blacksmiths who grunted through life in stone halls.
No, dwarves were craftsmen in the truest sense—where craft bordered on art, and art on magic.
They forged swords that were passed down as heirlooms.
They built entire cities beneath the mountains, where forges rang like mountain hearts.
Their smiths could forge weapons from bark and beast fang—and somehow make them deadlier than steel.
Their technology was so advanced that even mages sought dwarven wisdom when enchantments fell short.
And among them—stood the finest warriors of close combat.
Strength, endurance, stubbornness… as if sculpted from the very granite they called home.
"They'll forge a weapon, hurl it at you, watch it shatter on your armor, and then fix it with the same hammer… like that was the plan all along,"
William chuckled once, fingering a small dwarven trinket carved from obsidian and brass.
Vampires — the folk of the night, forever cloaked in whispers and fear.
No, blood is not essential for their survival. But its taste, its aroma, the ritual itself — for many, it became more than instinct. It became culture.
And a dangerous habit.
Thus, relations with them have always teetered on a blade's edge.
After countless wars, hundreds of deaths, and dozens of scorched villages, a peace treaty was finally signed. Fragile. Temporary. Yet somehow… it holds. For now.
Their kingdom lies deep within the Mist-Shrouded Reaches — a land where the skies are cloaked in eternal twilight, and the light of Zorkhalis never pierces the heavy clouds. In those lands, it is said, even the shadows have whispers of their own.
"Vampires are strong and dangerous, and their cunning knows no bounds. I'd trust a drunk dwarf swinging an axe before I'd believe a word from one of those blood-drinkers with their polished lies," William would mutter, eyes narrowed in distrust.
Dragonkin — descendants of ancient dragons, bearing echoes of flame and primordial glory.
Their scales are as tough as royal plate, their bones like forged steel.
Their wrath… a volcanic eruption incarnate.
Even the weakest among them could easily overpower ten trained warriors.
They dwell in lands where cliffs outnumber trees, where the wind howls forgotten songs, and the ground breathes with ancestral dust.
To others, these places might seem barren.
But to the dragonkin, they are sacred — the cradle of strength and legacy.
"I once met a dragonkin on an expedition," William recalled. "Silent as a grave, that one. When he finally spoke… let's just say the old tales hadn't exaggerated. If anything, they fell short."
Beastfolk — a people shrouded in mystery, spoken of in half-truths and sideways glances.
Their homeland bears the name Therion — a nominal vassal of the Aurelian Empire. But the truth… is layered.
There are two main kinds among them:
— Anthrokin — beastfolk whose bodies resemble humans, save for a pair of ears, a swaying tail, claws, or other animalistic traits.
— Primalkin — beings in whom the beast prevails: muzzles like wolves, paws like bears, the feline grace of panthers.
Yet behind those forms lies intelligence, discipline, and thought — often sharper than any human blade.
The Empire has long sought to "civilize" their realm — or, as many would say, to rob them of their freedom. The result? A brittle peace and a simmering grudge.
"Therion's boiling over," William admitted, weariness in his voice. "And it's hard to say we're not to blame. We took from them something sacred — their freedom — and now we wonder why they bristle. If war comes… it won't be madness. It'll be desperation."
The beastfolk are strong, their numbers vast, and their culture… deeper than most dare admit. And the children of Therion remember.
Of course, there are other beings — monsters, dragons, and entities whose values (if any) remain unknown to humans.
To distinguish between creatures of instinct and creatures of thought, a term was introduced long ago: Senitars.
It refers to all sentient beings — those capable of reason, speech, and reflection.
A word meant to separate goblins, orcs, ogres and even monstrous hybrids who could think… from beasts like minotaurs, slimes, ghouls, and the undead, who know only hunger and command.
Over the course of two relentless months of study, Antares had finally begun to feel confident in the language of this world.
Thanks to Brendan, his speech in the Common Tongue had become coherent—if still colored by a noticeable accent. He couldn't weave ornate phrases or speak with the finesse of a Liareth diplomat, but that wasn't the point. What mattered was that he could be understood.
He could now hold conversations, ask questions, express his thoughts without the constant fear of being misinterpreted. As for etiquette… Lydia had poured into him everything she had.
Bows, noble address, hand placement, table manners, posture — even how to pause in conversation just long enough to seem refined rather than confused — all of it had become part of his daily mannerisms.
He no longer looked like a wildling bumbling his way through a hall of lords.
No.
If summoned before a baron, he would bow with perfect restraint. If invited to a banquet, he would not disgrace himself with clumsy behavior.
He had learned much — and he knew, deep down, that this was only the foundation of what he would still have to master in this vast and intricate world.
Antares, by now thoroughly accustomed to life within the temple, walked the corridors alone.
The maid no longer accompanied him — there was simply no need. For more than a month, he had wandered these halls, moved between classrooms and courtyards of the Temple of the Church of Darkness like a quiet shadow himself.
The evening light of Zorkhalis slipped across the polished stone tiles, dyeing the corridor in warm gold. The fading brilliance of the celestial star foretold the coming of night.
Zorkhalis sank slowly, as if descending into a murky lake — and with it, its glow dimmed, swallowed by the depths below.
Over these past two months — filled with study and adaptation — Antares had learned something most crucial: how to exist without a past. A past that seemed forever lost to the winds.
This temple had become more than just a place of learning.
It had become… a home.
A sanctuary that had taken in a nameless, historyless slave — and gave him walls, purpose, structure.
But as with all things, even sanctuary cannot last forever.
When the fledgling grows its wings, the nest — no matter how warm — must eventually be left behind.
And Antares knew… this was only the beginning of his journey. It was time to move forward.
His thoughts were so deep, so weighty, that he hadn't even noticed when he wandered into the temple garden.
The choice before him was heavy. To leave a place that had given him so much…
Deep down, Antares couldn't help but feel as if that choice carried the scent of betrayal.
— "What would Idan or Lira do… if they stood where I stand?" — he wondered aloud.
Lira… she would have stayed. That woman clung to comfort like a moth to warmth.
And Idan?
If he were not bound by oath to the Goddess of Darkness…
The answer was clear. Idan was strong — not just in flesh, but in will. Everyone who had ever met him knew it.
He would have chosen the harder path, the uncertain one. He would have left.
Even though Antares hadn't spent much time with the Grand Inquisitor, he was sure of it.
Idan would've stepped into the unknown — seeking not safety, but challenge.
Not certainty, but greatness.
Before long, Antares found himself seated on a stone bench in the garden, bathed in the soft glow of enchanted lanterns.
Above, the leaves rustled gently, whispering secrets to the wind. Nearby, water murmured from a fountain.
Yes, he could stay. He could harden his body, spend years sharpening his will, training until his flesh became a temple of strength. He could pass the Trials — prove the purity of his resolve and the nobility of his intentions — and eventually become an Inquisitor under Idan's banner.
But…
That path was a cage. A well-decorated cage, but a cage nonetheless.
— "And what would be different in the service of a noble?" — Antares asked himself.
Everything.
At the very least, he'd be allowed to leave the temple walls.
To walk the streets.
To purchase his own scrolls or materials.
To breathe a different air.
Estion…
It was a city, yes — but one that felt more like a prison. And you could only leave with the warden's permission.
People…
Despite being a stranger here, Antares had grown fond of them.
He remembered Brendan — his voice, soft and drawn-out, like honey brewed in the northern provinces.
His lessons had never been lectures… they were revelations.
Even now, when Antares uttered a simple phrase aloud, he could feel the words lining up properly, intonation bending meaning like light through glass — and that, in itself, brought him joy.
He remembered Lydia, her cold but wise hands that adjusted his collar when he sat slouched.
She didn't just teach etiquette — she taught dignity.
"You can be anyone," she once said, "but if you don't know how to bow, you don't know how to survive."
And of course — William.
Antares could still hear his dry sarcasm when the lessons got too abstract, the sudden passion in his voice when a historical date touched a deeper truth.
The man had a knack for turning dusty parchment into living drama, and every now and then, he would throw in a joke so deadpan that it left the whole class stunned in silence… only to burst into laughter moments later.
Even now, Antares found himself smirking, recalling how William once compared the fall of a dynasty to "a drunk noble trying to dance politics on a frozen lake."
Even Lyra, whom he saw only rarely in the corridors, would always pause and exchange a few words with him, asking how his studies were going. She never smiled — but she always asked.
All of it… was precious.
But still — not enough to make him stay.
"…It's decided," Antares whispered, rising from the stone bench.
His resolve felt so solid, it could make even the statues question themselves.
"Tomorrow, I'll go to the High Priest and request a transfer.
And hopefully… I'll be sent to nobles who aren't monsters."
The moment those words left his mouth — thunder cracked overhead.
From the night sky, dark and weighty like a verdict unspoken, crystalline drops of rain began to fall.
As if the world itself had answered:
"No," it seemed to say.
"You will go where even faith and pride are set ablaze."
The sudden downpour forced Antares to abandon his quiet communion with the garden and return indoors before the rain soaked him through.
On his way back to his chamber, a strange kind of inspiration lit his expression.
"Tomorrow… the life I've known — the two short months I can remember — will change forever."
With that thought, Antares closed the door to his modest room.
He lay down without further hesitation.
And for the first time in a while…
he looked forward to the day to come.
The next morning, Antares rose early.
After making his bed and brushing his teeth, he walked with steady steps to the second floor — toward the southern wing of the temple, directly to the office of the High Priest.
His decision had crystallized overnight. Now came the moment to voice it.
He approached the wooden door and knocked twice.
A raspy voice responded from within:
"Enter."
Stepping inside, he was met with a familiar sight:
A desk stacked with documents.
Walls adorned with old paintings.
A faint emptiness, softened by a few potted plants.
And a cozy couch in the far corner, untouched by time or use.
He had been here once before — when he and Idan had waited for Lyra to prepare the memory-reading ritual. The room hadn't changed.
Behind the desk sat the old priest Antares had only glimpsed from afar until now — bald at the crown, draped in temple robes adorned with a silver mantle that set him apart from the others.
This was the High Priest of the Temple — Head Ronald.
A man whose duties spanned far beyond prayer. He oversaw not only the spiritual wellbeing of the temple's residents, but also its financial operations — and, by some miracle, did so with kindness in his eyes.
To all who lived under this roof, he referred to them either as his children or, when appropriate, brothers and sisters.
Ronald looked up and met Antares's eyes. The young man bowed slightly — just as Lydia had taught him. A proper bow, not too shallow and not too deep. Just right, as befits one addressing their superior.
"Ah… one of the new ones?" Ronald's voice was kind, his gesture casual as he motioned to the cushioned chair across from him. "Come in. Sit down. What brings you here, my boy?"
"Thank you… but I'll stand," Antares replied. "High Priest Ronald, I have a request."
He paused — just briefly. Then, gathering himself, he spoke:
"I'd like to leave the temple. Would you be able to recommend a place I could go?"
Ronald studied him, the same warmth lingering in his gaze — but now joined by something else. Understanding, perhaps. Or nostalgia.
"Is that so?" he said softly. "It's always hard to part ways with someone like you… But a bird, once its wings are strong, does not remain in the nest."
He gave a slow nod. "If that is your wish, no one has the right to bind you here. Of course I can offer a suggestion. One moment."
He opened a drawer beneath his desk and began rummaging through its contents. Papers rustled, wood creaked, and after a few seconds, he pulled out two neatly folded parchments.
"There are two noble houses currently seeking reliable and well-trained retainers.
I have no doubts about your abilities — Sister Lydia keeps me well-informed of her students. And among them, she always mentioned the newcomer with crimson eyes, who picks up everything like a sponge."
He slid the papers across the desk toward Antares, then began to explain.
"One of these nobles is Baron Heldar von Velzen, from the Kingdom of Olmerat.
His estate is located in the capital — Vorgrad — and the lands under his jurisdiction lie throughout the surrounding region. A fine choice.
In fact," Ronald gave a gentle smile, his eyes closing for a second, "I personally recommend this one. You'll find many opportunities there. I know that's what you're truly looking for."
"— And the second…?"
"The second noble house belongs to Viscount Florens de Valmont. His estate lies in the kingdom of Breganholm — more precisely, in the city of Kivatra. That's far to the northeast. Cold lands. For someone accustomed to the warmth of Esgaria, adapting there might prove difficult. Moreover, his domains border the lands of monsters. Olmerat, on the other hand, is close to us and has a similar climate. That is why I recommended the House of Velzen to you."
Antares did not deliberate long. If the High Priest said so, then that was enough.
"I grateful to you… if you write recommendation… in Olmerat," he said, accent thick, but determination clear.
"Of course, my boy," Ronald nodded gently. "Today I shall write your letter of recommendation and a formal character report. Then we'll send it to Vorgrad. Once they respond, you'll be sent there by carriage from the temple."
"Thank you. Truly."
"I'm always glad to help those who seek their path. I only hope you find a home that welcomes you as warmly as ours did."
The conversation complete, Antares offered a respectful nod — just as Lydia had taught him — and upon receiving a silent nod in return, turned and exited the office.
As he walked the long corridor back toward his room, he glanced one last time at the door now behind him. Silence reigned — only the distant chime of bellflowers echoed from the chapel.
He drew in a deep breath — for the first time in weeks — and stepped forward.
Everything else… would come in time.
— — —
Four days had passed since Antares' conversation with High Priest Ronald. That afternoon, a temple maid came to his quarters to inform him that the elder priest awaited him again — with news regarding his transfer.
He once more walked the familiar corridor of the second floor. Before he could even knock, the muffled voice of the High Priest called from inside:
"Come in."
Upon entering, Antares found not only Ronald seated behind his desk — but also someone else.
Lira.
The court mage stood by the window, arms folded, dressed just as she had been during their first meeting: a loose shirt, dark brown trousers — as if her entire wardrobe consisted of nothing else. This time, however, her chestnut hair was concealed beneath a pointed spellcaster's hat.
Without ceremony, Lira gestured for him to come closer. Ronald, as always, spoke in a tone both warm and formal:
"Antares," he said, choosing to address him by name this time, "I have good news. Fortunately, the House of Velzen has accepted our request. You've been appointed as a junior butler in their household."
A flicker of emotion stirred in Antares' chest. The corner of his mouth tugged upward in what might've become a smile — had he not reined it in quickly, offering instead a quiet but sincere:
"Thank you."
"We'll have a carriage prepared for you, my boy," Ronald continued, shifting into his familiar tone of guidance. "You've learned enough to step beyond these walls — but never allow yourself to think you've learned all there is. Always hunger for more. The world outside is rarely as magical as those within believe it to be."
Lira gave a simple nod in agreement, her expression unreadable beneath the brim of her hat.
"Lira will escort you to the carriage. Provisions for the road have been prepared — no need to worry about that. May your journey be safe, my boy."
"I grateful… to you. Not just to you, but… also want to thank temple," Antares said, his tongue stumbling through the longer sentence. And yet, the very fact that he tried — that he spoke with effort — gave his words weight and sincerity.
"Follow me, red-eyes," Lira said as she stepped forward, her voice as dry as ever. "Just don't come crying later that Olmerat's a disappointment. It was your decision. No one forced it on you."
With that, she led the way down the corridor, heading toward the temple gates where a carriage was being prepared. Antares followed in silence.
"By the way," she said suddenly, glancing back over her shoulder, "why isn't the Inquisitor's amulet around your neck? Don't tell me you lost it."
"No… I take it off… to practice."
"Ah. Right. You were still learning the language."
A short silence settled between them — not awkward, but thoughtful. Then, Antares broke it.
"You… live here long?"
"Long enough," she replied after a beat. "About fifteen years now. I've trained in magic here all that time — diving deeper and deeper into its world, trying to understand it from every angle." Her voice softened. "I was a street orphan. Wandering a village, scrounging for scraps. That's where Elder Ronald found me."
A faint flame flickered behind her eyes — not burning bright, but low and weary, born from old memory.
"He saw something in me… magical potential. Bought books. Lots of them — just to test his theory. When it turned out he was right, he offered to bring me here, to Estion, to the Temple of the Church of Darkness. And I had no reason to refuse. So I came."
Her face — once stoic — now held the weight of a life endured.
"This temple… became my whole world. My home. My family. And I'm grateful to Ronald for everything. I know you didn't ask for some tearful story, but… I wanted to share it. Because you, Antares, remind me of myself. You were alone. No family. No friends. No memories. And yet — you had the courage to leave the only safe place you knew, to face the world. I… didn't. I was too afraid."
She paused, her voice catching for a moment.
"I envy you."
Antares said nothing. His grasp of the language wasn't perfect — but he understood her perfectly. He had no reply, no words of comfort. So, he chose silence. It said more than clumsy phrases ever could.
By then, they had reached the carriage. The supplies for the road had already been loaded — the servants had done their work well.
"Amulet," Lira said flatly, extending her hand just as Antares was about to climb aboard.
He reached into his pocket and retrieved the artifact — the same one he always kept with him, just in case he encountered words he didn't yet know — and placed it into her palm without a word.
"I just realized something," Antares mused suddenly as he climbed toward the carriage. "How did the amulet work for Idan when he kept it in his pocket? For me, it only functioned when I wore it around my neck… Maybe there's another way to activate it?"
He quickly shook the thoughts away — now was not the time for such distractions. His journey was about to begin.
The horses were already hitched, the carriage set and the driver seated. Antares gripped the side rail and began to climb into the wagon when—
"Lira!"
The girl stopped mid-step. She turned, startled, and looked back at him with curious eyes.
"You know… I didn't want to leave this temple at first either," Antares said, his accent thick, but the meaning clear. "But if you stay… always in same place… you stop growing. Stop blaming self… for fear. You choose how to live. If I… can step out… anyone can."
The words were simple. Crude, even. They lacked elegance, lacked the polish of a courtly speaker. But they were honest — and more importantly, they were hers.
Lira stood frozen, watching him. She hadn't taken a vow. She wasn't bound to the church. She wasn't a Sister, nor a Seeker, nor a sworn servant. She was here by choice — by habit. What had held her in place all these years wasn't duty, but fear. Fear of the world beyond the walls. Fear of stepping into the unknown.
And thus the crimson-eyed youth who spoke so little—he who had come without past, without roots, without future—uttered words she hadn't realized she'd been waiting to hear.
"You little bastard… So you did know my name after all," she thought, a small laugh escaping her lips.
A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye. Not one of sorrow — but of something far older. A tear born from the need to be seen. To be heard. To be understood — not just as a mage, but as a person. A child once left behind who still yearned for someone to say, "It's okay to leave."
The wheels of the carriage creaked as the driver snapped the reins. Antares was already leaving. The temple shrank behind him with every turn of the wheel.
In his chest, he felt a strange warmth — not pride, exactly, but something close. A soft flicker of gratitude… that for once, he'd been the one offering strength, rather than asking for it.
"Next stop… Vorgrad."
Thus began Antares' journey — beyond the safety of stone and scripture, into a world of ambition and shadows. What awaited him there?
A peaceful life of quiet service?
Or the tangled web of nobility, secrets, and power?
That… he would soon discover.