Sixteen years had passed since the blood on the Capital's marble had dried. In that time, the Iron Decree of King Yvenius had transformed Rividia from a fractured land of bickering lords into a disciplined, albeit fearful, empire.
But at the northernmost fringes of the kingdom, far from the reach of proclamations of the throne. life moved at a different oace.
The border town of Oakands was a quiet place, nestled agaisnt the rugged peaks that seperated Rividia from the wilder lands beyond.
It was a morning of gold and crystal. The sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue, and the air carried the faint, sweet scent or ripening crops. In the distance, the rhythmic creak of merchant carriages echoed as they brought goods from the interior, their wheels kicking up dust on the well-worn trade roads.
On the outskirts of the town lay a vast, shimmering field of paddies, looking like a sea of glimmering gold. Right in the center stood a massive, ancient oak tree, its wide canopy offering a sanctuary of cool shade.Beneath its branches, two figures sat in quiet contemplation.
Athel, a boy of sixteen, watched the wind ripple through the fields. He stood abruptly, his youthful energy unable to stay contained any longer.
"Mother," he said, turning to the woman beside him. "Do you think... do you think I could ever become a noble?"
Octavia, looked up, her expression softening into a soothing, motherly smile. "What brought on such a grand thought, Athel?"
"I was thinking about what you told me," the boy replied, walking toward the edge of the shade where the sunlight hit a stray stalk of grain. He reached out to touch it, his eyes distant. "You said the King is generous to those who prove their worth. If I can show I'm capable, then maybe he would grant us a real house. A title. You wouldn't have to work the fields anymore."
Octavia stood slowly, brushing the grass from her skirts. She stepped toward her son and placed a gentle hand on his head, smoothing his messy black hair. "Athel, my dear heart... whatever the world decides you are, I am happy just being here with you. A title doesn't make a man, his spirit does."
The warmth of the moment was shattered by the sound of heavy boots trampling through the vegetation.
A group of men approached, their leather armor creaking with every step. Polished metal plates set on their shoulders, and on their chests was the unmistakable sigil of the Royal Crest. They were soldiers of the crown, and they moved with the practied arrogance of thise who held the King's authority.
The soldiers stopped several paces away, their hands resting near the pommels of their blades. They offered a curt, shallow bow.
"Excuse us," the lead soldier said, his eyes scanning the pair. "Are you the lady known as Octavia?"
Octavia stepped slightly in front of Athel, her posture straightening. "Yes, sirs. I am Octavia. Is something wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong, my lady," the soldier replied, through his tone was devoid of any real warmth. "We are from the Royal Army's northern detachment. We've arrived in Oakands for the annual checkups."
Octavia nodded, though her hand tightened slightly on Athel's shoulder. They had complied with these "checkups" for the last eight years. It was a strange tradition, the Royal Army would sweep through the border towns, examining families and documenting the youth. Most people believed it was a search for talent, especially for children with high magic affinities who could be taken to the capital to serve the throne.
As they were escorted back into the town square, the quiet atmosphere of Oakands had been replaced by military precision. Tents had been erected, and the square was crowded with carriages and soldiers is gleaming gear.
As they walked through the crowd, Athel noticed the shift in the air. The townspeople were staring. Their eyes weren't just on the soldiers, but they were also on his mother. Octavia was a striking woman, possessing a mature, effortless beauty that seemed out of place in a famring village. Her braided brown hair caught the sunlight, and her emereald-green eyes were sharp and clear.
But the whispers followed Athel, too. Though he wore commoner's clothes, he had a well-built physique from yeas of manual labor, and his features were unusually refined. With his jet-black hair and intense gaze, he looked less like a farm boy and more like a statue carved from obsidian.