The dawn broke gently over the capital, golden rays spilling across the silver rooftops of Lactresia's royapalace. A soft breeze rolled in from the eastern cliffs, brushing against the banners that carried the royal crest. The palace guards shifted in formation as Sir Gavric Vorn, First Sword of the Royal Guard, approached a side hall with a calm but commanding gait. Behind him, walking with quiet purpose, was Fortis Lactresia.
Gone was the quiet boy who once spent his mornings tucked behind bookshelves, avoiding anything resembling confrontation. Now, there was a shift in his presence. He didn't wear his sword for show. It was belted to his side not with pride, but with certainty. He didn't walk quickly, but with rhythm—each step measured, each pause intentional. A silent pressure followed him, like wind bending the tall grass.
Gavric, glancing at him, remarked in his steady voice, "You've changed. There's weight in your silence now."
Fortis gave a light nod. "Words are expensive when your thoughts are loud."
When they reached the grand doors of the king's personal audience chamber, two royal guards pulled them open without ceremony. The chamber was large, adorned with deep green carpets lined with silver thread. Golden sconces cast a warm glow over the carved marble walls. Maps, weapons, and family emblems told the story of Lactresia's lineage.
Inside stood three individuals. Fortis immediately recognized the figures.
To the left stood a grizzled man, well-built with weathered skin and graying hair. His gaze was sharp, yet skeptical. Fortis guessed his age to be in the mid-thirties.
To the right was a younger man, tall and lean, with the sharp posture of a soldier. His armor looked used, not polished. His face bore light scars, his black hair unkempt, his eyes surprisingly steady. This was the Fourth Sword.
And at the far end of the room, seated on a throne less imposing than the one in the public court, was the King of Lactresia.
"Father," Fortis bowed respectfully.
"Rise, Fortis," the king said. "You know why you are here."
"I can guess," Fortis replied. "The miners' rescue."
The king gave a small, almost reluctant smile. "You are correct. But more importantly, the direction you seem to be walking in."
He gestured toward the older knight. "This is your training partner. His name is Ser Ardan Grell. He holds a Norm Reach level and has practical combat experience across the border skirmishes. He's not a man who pulls punches."
Ser Ardan smirked, folding his arms. "You don't look like someone who's tasted pain, Your Highness."
"I haven't," Fortis answered plainly. "That's why I need you."
His voice wasn't proud. It wasn't loud. But something in the tone made the smirk vanish from Ardan's face.
The king gestured to the other figure. "And this is your escort knight. Fourth Sword of the Guard, Ervian Halbrecht. You'll be working closely together."
Ervian nodded. "I will follow you, protect you, and observe you. I'm loyal to His Majesty, but I serve you with the same honor."
Fortis turned to him. "Then let's learn from each other. Take care of me, Ervian."
"And you me, Prince Fortis," Ervian replied.
The formalities now aside, Fortis asked, "About the expeditions. How will I know when I can join one?"
The king leaned back. "You'll be informed through the Royal Expeditionary Command. Their captain—Ser Harlan Draem—will contact you. But understand, no expedition beyond two-finger zones until further notice."
Fortis nodded, "Will that change with strength?"
"If your growth warrants it, yes," the king answered.
There was a pause.
"And your final request?"
Fortis looked at Ervian and Ardan. "I'd prefer to speak privately, if that's allowed."
The king raised a brow, then dismissed the others with a wave. The doors closed gently.
"Now," the king asked. "Speak freely."
There was hesitation in Fortis. He looked down for a moment, then met his father's eyes.
"I want to attend the Sworder Academy."
The king blinked, leaned forward. "Didn't you refuse it in front of the High Council two years ago? Said you'd rather serve with your mind than your blade?"
"I did," Fortis admitted. "But then, I was someone who hadn't stepped into himself. I thought I understood what service meant. Now I know better. It's not about serving in ways that are convenient. It's about becoming capable—fully, entirely, painfully capable."
The king laughed, a low, genuine rumble. "Embarrassed to admit it in front of the others?"
Fortis gave a rare, shy smile. "A little."
The king's gaze softened. "Admission's closed this year."
"I'll prepare until the next one. I'm not in a rush. Only in pursuit."
The king rose from his seat. "Whatever path you walk, walk it with intent. This world doesn't reward wandering hearts."
"I know," Fortis said. "That's why I won't wander."
He bowed and turned, stepping out of the room.
Outside, Ardan Grell leaned against the wall with a scoff. "So? Did you throw another tantrum to get your way, Your Highness?"
Fortis just smiled. "Not this time."
Ervian's brows furrowed. "Watch your tone, Ser Ardan."
But Fortis raised a hand. "It's fine. He expected me to be like the rest. That's not his fault."
Ardan stared at him for a moment, caught off-guard. Then, silently, he turned and walked off.
Fortis turned to Ervian. "You don't have to shadow me every second. I know the order, but still—"
Ervian cut in, "It's not a burden, Your Highness. Besides… I think your father wants me to observe, not just protect."
Fortis nodded knowingly. "He's curious. He always is."
The two walked through the courtyard, sunlight glinting off their armor.
"Tomorrow morning," Fortis said, eyes focused ahead. "Training ground."
"Yes, Prince."
As he walked off, both knights remained behind, watching him.
"That's not just a prince," Ervian muttered. "That's someone becoming more than a title."
Ardan folded his arms. "Let's see if he survives me first."