The great bronze bell of Eldoria's castle tolled thrice, its deep, resonant notes rolling through the streets like waves on a distant shore. It was a call reserved for only the most urgent matters, and within minutes, the central square was crowded with townsfolk, merchants, soldiers, and nobles alike. The air buzzed with speculation—news of the recent attack had already spread like wildfire, but no one knew exactly what the King would say.
Alexander stood near the front, Fenrir at his side. The wolf's ears twitched with every metallic chime, his yellow eyes scanning the crowd warily. Beside Alexander stood Lyra, her gaze fixed on the castle balcony. She looked different in the daylight, sharper somehow—like a person who had learned to live with secrets.
The heavy gates creaked open. A line of guards in polished steel marched out first, forming a wall of protection. Then King Aldric himself appeared on the balcony, his crimson cloak rippling in the wind. His voice, though not loud, carried to the farthest edge of the crowd with commanding clarity.
"People of Eldoria," he began, "three nights past, our kingdom faced an attack unlike any we have seen in decades. Shadows moved in our streets—unseen by most until it was too late. Twenty-three lives were lost, homes burned, and whispers speak of an enemy we had hoped never to face again."
A hush fell over the square.
"The Council has confirmed it," the King continued grimly. "Ashborn… has returned."
Alexander felt a shiver crawl up his spine. The name was a legend, one his father had told him about in quiet, firelit rooms—a sorcerer-king from centuries ago, a conqueror who had once brought all kingdoms to their knees before being sealed away by the combined might of the Five Orders. To hear that name now… meant the seal had broken.
The King's jaw tightened. "We do not yet know how he walks among us again, but we cannot wait for him to strike. Eldoria will not sit idle. Today, we take our first step toward defense."
He raised a scroll and unrolled it, the parchment snapping in the wind.
"By decree of the Royal Council, we shall form the First Response Team—a unit trained to near perfection in every skill: combat, tactics, survival, investigation. This team will be the spearpoint of our defense, ready to answer any threat in the shortest time possible."
A murmur rippled through the crowd—some excited, others fearful.
"Starting next week, there will be an open probation period of forty days," the King announced. "Anyone who believes they have the strength, intelligence, and will to serve may enter. You will be tested daily. Fail even one standard, and you will be dismissed. Only twelve will remain at the end."
Gasps and hushed conversations erupted everywhere.
Alexander's mind spun. Forty days? Daily standards? This was no ordinary recruitment—it sounded like something only the very best could survive.
"This program," the King went on, "will last two years. Those who endure will emerge as our sharpest blade, our fastest shield, and the first to stand when the kingdom calls."
With that, he stepped back. The herald's voice rang out, repeating the announcement for those further back, but Alexander barely heard it. He glanced at Lyra. She was staring at the balcony, her eyes bright—not with fear, but with a strange spark of determination.
"You're thinking about joining, aren't you?" he asked.
"Maybe," she said, a small smirk tugging at her lips. "The question is… are you?"
Alexander grinned. "I wouldn't miss it."
Fenrir gave a low, approving growl, as if the wolf had already decided they were in.