The capital of the principality did not sleep.
Aren understood it the moment his carriage crossed the outer walls. At that hour, when in smaller domains the world faded with the last song of the birds, here there were still torches lit, distant voices, and constant footsteps on the stone roads.
The air smelled of iron, smoke, and freshly baked bread—a strange mixture he never expected to find so late at night.
Above the towers, banners bearing the prince's symbol waved in the wind. Aren knew them well. He had seen them on seals and official documents, but seeing them so large, so visible, and repeated felt different.
'It almost feels like the prince is watching us,' he thought with a faint smile.
The carriage moved along wide avenues, between rows of stone and wooden buildings. Aren watched from inside, his back straight and his hands resting on his knees. Around him, he saw other carriages and carts carrying more young people, some in silence, others murmuring among themselves. Not all of them were human.
He saw a dwarf with a braided beard checking the straps of his pack. Farther ahead, an elf with sharp features observed the city with apparent indifference. In one of the carts, a gnome with bright eyes and restless fingers turned a small metal piece in his hands, unable to stop looking at it. Sitting across from him was a halfling with an expression hard to read, whom Aren mistook for a child for a moment.
They all seemed to be heading in the same direction. Aren was slightly surprised. He knew of the other races, but in his small territory he had never had the chance to see them in person.
'There will be a lot of competition,' he thought.
The carriage turned into a narrower street and began to climb. The market stalls were left behind. The streets now felt more sober.
Then the fortress appeared.
It was a block of gray stone, tall and severe. It had no heroic statues or commemorative plaques. Only high walls, square towers, and a reinforced gate of dark metal that looked like it could withstand the charge of a dragon.
Aren felt the air grow colder.
It was not the weather, but the nerves of standing before something that seemed impossible to bend.
"Fortress of the Order of the Solar Blade," announced the driver. "We have arrived."
Aren stepped down and immediately felt the weight of the place.
The air felt different. Heavier. As if the walls themselves were watching and judging every applicant.
He saw the other aspirants step down from their transports and stand beside him.
'I'm not the only one who wanted to arrive early.'
In front of the entrance waited officers in uniform armor. It was not shiny or ornate. It was practical, worn from use, with the symbol of the order engraved on the chest: a vertical sword piercing an incomplete circle.
One of the officers stepped forward.
"Form lines," he ordered calmly. "Five per row."
He did not raise his voice, yet authority carried in every word.
The aspirants obeyed. Not out of fear, but from an immediate understanding of who was in command.
Aren ended up in the third row. To his left, the halfling took his place without looking at anyone. To his right, the gnome adjusted the collar of his small cloak and swallowed.
The officer walked along the lines with a quick, severe glance.
"From this moment on, you abandon everything. Inheritance, lineage, and status," he continued. "You are not the pride of your little town or the future of your house. You are only aspirants, and you will be judged as such."
Aren clenched his jaw.
'As if that could be forgotten so easily,' he thought with a quiet sigh.
Even so, part of him understood the intent. From now on, the name Valenfort would not save him.
"This Order serves His Majesty, the prince," the officer declared, giving a solemn salute to the national banner. "We safeguard stability, law, and the defense of our borders."
He paused, stopping near a few aspirants who looked nervous.
"We do not need dreamers or idealists. We seek obedience, discipline, and endurance."
Everyone heard one of the aspirants let out a frightened whimper.
"Anyone unwilling to obey may leave now. There will be no punishment for withdrawing today. Only shame."
The silence was absolute.
No one moved.
A sharp pain tightened in Aren's stomach. For a moment, he saw his mother's face and heard her cold, worried voice. Then he saw his father, still and calm, looking at him as if he knew this path was inevitable.
'I did not come all this way to turn back.'
The officer returned to his position and nodded, satisfied.
"Good. Enter."
The gates opened with a deep, heavy sound.
The interior of the fortress was a world apart.
A vast central courtyard stretched before them, its stone floor marked by wear. On the sides, raised galleries connected different buildings. There were barracks, armories, a common dining hall, and a structure Aren recognized by the shape of its windows and the silence surrounding it: a chapel, or something similar.
In the courtyard, groups of knights trained with real weapons under the supervision of veteran instructors. There were no unnecessary shouts. Only precise corrections, impacts, and heavy breathing. In one corner, he saw a pair of clerics in simple robes speaking with an officer.
Aren looked at them for only a second.
'At least they have good medical care,' he thought.
"Aspirants!" a voice thundered from the center of the courtyard. "Halt!"
The recruits stopped at once.
A captain stood there, taller than most. His armor, like his face, bore the marks of battle. It was worn, yet it stood out far more than that of the other knights.
"I am Captain Rorik," he said. "From today onward, your bodies and your time belong to the Order. And the Order belongs to the prince."
His gaze swept over the aspirants, lingering for a second on those who were not human.
"As you know, size isn't relevant here. Blood and origin aren't relevant either," he declared. "What matters is whether you serve… or whether you are nothing but a burden."
His words fell like a hammer.
Rorik pointed toward a side building.
"That is registration. You will be assigned barracks, basic equipment, and a number. You will earn the right to be called by your names if you survive the selection."
The lines began to move forward. Aren advanced along with the others. With each step, the fortress seemed to close in on him a little more.
This was the first step toward fulfilling his dream and the promise he had made to Lylia.