Morning came slow over Windket, with mist clinging to rooftops, and the muddy streets shimmering faintly under the weak gold of dawn.
At the center of the village stood its largest house.
Two floors of dark timber and stone, guarded by carved wolf statues at the gate.
Windket's pride.
And it's rot.
Inside, the air smelled of oil and spice, the smell of a man who could afford too much.
Behind a wide oak desk sat Chief Roland Vale, a broad-shouldered man whose stomach spoke louder than his words.
His hair was going grey, and his eyes were the dull green of money that had never seen sunlight.
Rings lined his fingers, each clinked faintly as he tapped them on the desk, not in impatience, but habit, like a man used to being listened to.
Beside him sat his son, Darren Vale, slouched in a carved chair, legs apart, and a smirk carved into his face.
His hair, golden and neat, caught the light that filtered through the window.
He looked like every portrait of nobility Arlen once saw in storybooks, right until he opened his mouth.
In front of them, thirty men stood in neat rows.
Some were guards, some were little more than thugs in polished leather, but they all bowed to the same man.
Roland leaned forward, both hands resting on the desk. "The Royal Association will reach Windket by tomorrow noon," he said, voice deep and measured. "I want this village shining before their boots touch our soil. Spare no expense…"
"Yes, Chief," replied the captain, a scar-jawed man named Brann. His armor gleamed from polish rather than battles.
The vice-captain, Laro, nodded stiffly beside him.
Roland's eyes lingered on Darren, softening just slightly. "My son will be tested before them," he said, pride slipping into his tone. "He will not stand among peasants when they measure talent. His place must be clear."
Darren grinned. "You worry too much, father. The Association will see what I am. Vale blood doesn't disappoint."
A few of the men chuckled. The kind of laughter that lives in throats, not hearts.
Brann shifted his weight. "The Royal Association, sir… are they actually visiting every village?"
Roland nodded. "They've been crossing the kingdom for months. The royals finally realized the countryside hides more than mud and beggars. The Association scouts for talent… checks circuits, affinities… that sort of thing."
He leaned back in his chair, rings clinking softly.
"They test every youth who's come of age fifteen and above. Those with promise are recommended to the Seven Academies. The best are granted a full scholarship."
"Imagine it," Darren said, running a thumb along his knuckle. "Leaving this dump behind. Training with real knights, real mages. Finally where I belong."
Roland smiled at that, the corners of his lips folding into heavy lines. "You are what this village will be remembered for, my son. The Association will see to that."
Laro cleared his throat. "And if the examiners choose someone else, Chief? They sometimes take in apprentices, do they not?"
The room went still for a breath.
Roland's gaze lifted. "They take those worthy," he said, each word slow and heavy. "And there is no one in Windket more worthy than my son."
The guards straightened as stifling silence descended into the room.
Roland waved a hand, breaking the silence. "Prepare the square. Hang the royal banners. And make sure every brat of age is rounded up by dawn. The Association will test them all, and I don't want a single name missing from the registry."
"Yes, Chief," Brann replied.
Darren leaned close to his father. "Should I make sure he's there too?"
Roland's eyes flicked to him. "Who?"
"Trash," Darren said, smirking. "The one who lives by the edge of the village."
Then a slow grin crept across Roland Vale's face, reflecting his son's.
"Of course," he said. "Wouldn't want to deny the Royal Association a good laugh, would we?"
Roland then turned toward his men, tone shifting from amusement to command.
"Now… about that lightning last night."
The room quieted again. Even Darren's grin faltered a little.
Roland's fingers drummed once against the desk. "They say lightning never strikes the same place twice," he said slowly, "but I counted nine flashes before dawn. The entire forest lit up like the heavens had split open."
Brann straightened. "The villagers are whispering about it already, Chief. Some say it was a monster's birth. Others think the gods were angry."
Roland gave a short, humorless laugh. "Gods won't waste anger on Windket."
Laro, the vice-captain, stepped forward. "It could have been a mana storm, sir. Sometimes strong elemental pools form near fault lines. If that's the case..."
"If that's the case," Roland cut in, leaning forward, "then we might have something valuable sitting under our noses."
His eyes gleamed, half calculation, half greed. "Treasure, a relic… It doesn't matter. We cannot afford any surprises a day before the Royal Association arrives. And if there is power out there, it belongs to Windket. To me."
Brann nodded sharply. "Shall we send scouts?"
"Not scouts. Knights." Roland's gaze swept across the room. "Take fifteen men. Laro, you go with them. I want that forest combed before sunset. If you find anything that glows, hums, or breathes mana, bring it to me. If it resists, destroy it."
"Yes, Chief."
The men bowed before turning toward the door.
Roland watched them go, then looked to his son. "You'll stay here. Let the dogs dig first."
Darren smirked. "You think it's something worth keeping?"
Roland's eyes narrowed. "I think the world doesn't send nine bolts of lightning without a reason. And if fortune fell from the sky last night, I intend to be the one who picks it up."
He leaned back in his chair, fingers interlacing, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his lips. "If it's power, we'll claim it. If it's danger, we'll let the Association deal with it… After all, we're just a tiny little village on the edge of the Empire."
Darren stood, stretching lazily. "Nine bolts, huh," he said, looking toward the window. "Maybe the gods were angry after all."
Roland's voice came low. "Then let's make sure their anger profits us."