With their arms bent and aching under the weight of stone-filled buckets, and their bare torsos scourged by the midday sun, Marcus, Baldo, and Pit stand lined up at the edge of the training yard, barely surviving the scrutiny of Laikara's slanted green eyes.
The Fourth Captain is also with them. Hilda, however, has her attention fixed on the thunderbird. The creature remains several meters behind the soldiers, scratching and pecking at the dirt of the training yard as if the matter doesn't concern it.
"I will ask one last time. Where did you get that giant beast?" Laikara says.
Baldo is the one to answer, offering a smile just as trembling as his arms. But his words are quick and controlled; making excuses comes naturally to him.
"You see, my lady, my friend here found himself in need of a mount, and lacking the coin to be picky, I asked around the slums of the third wall. We managed to bring this lightning bird—"
"Thunderbird," Marcus whispers quickly.
"Thunderbird! It hails from afar, from the southern jungles. They are an absolute plague down there. The riders are known as lightning-madmen, true savages! The mounts, on the other hand, are quite docile despite their fearsome appearance."
"Is that so? I have never heard of such a creature before." Laikara places a hand beneath her chin. "You have piqued my intellectual curiosity. May I know the name of this smuggler? I should like to learn more about these lightning-madmen," she says, her final words ringing with skepticism.
"I humbly apologize! As a man of honor, I cannot sully a lady's reputation."
"A lady's reputation?" A vein throbs on Laikara's forehead.
"The one who gave us the idea was a woman... of the night. And precisely because of that life, forced upon her by the cruel whims of fate, of course, she made me swear never to reveal her name."
"A harlot, then." Laikara twitches her fingers as if playing with the air, her eyes roaming over the sweaty faces of Marcus and Pit. "I feel as though you are hiding something from me."
Laikara is about to invite them to accompany her to clear the matter up once and for all, but Hilda intercedes.
"I thank you for your assistance, Oracle. In Captain Lynel's absence, I shall handle everything from here on," she says in a calm voice.
Laikara casts her a sidelong glance.
"These men brought a dangerous animal into the castle."
"They frightened a couple of maids and broke a vase. As you can see, I am administering their due punishment, and rest assured, the cost of the vase will be deducted from their wages."
Hearing that last part, Baldo's eyes well up with tears.
Laikara holds Hilda's gaze for several long seconds, until it becomes evident the captain will not yield.
"I shall leave this matter to your discretion. I advise you to pay closer heed to your men's recklessness." With that biting remark, Laikara retreats back into the castle.
Hilda turns to the soldiers. Marcus, Baldo, and Pit lower their gazes as they continue struggling to bear the weight. The inquisitor finally speaks.
"I must attend to something. I will return in half an hour; wait here until I do. If I find out you drop those buckets... you will discover what it truly means to suffer."
…
Leonor takes a deep breath and, her hands protected by linen cloths, lifts the boiling cauldron from the hearth. She steps out into the backyard of the house—though calling it a yard is perhaps an exaggeration. It is barely a nook blanketed by the shadow of the second wall's outer face, flanked by a more modest stone barrier.
Marcus soaks in a wooden tub, his back resting against the rim, arms submerged, and his gaze lost above, contemplating the small patch of reddish sky visible past the crown of the wall. He still struggles to feel his arms.
A curtain of steam rises as Leonor pours the hot water into the circular tub, careful not to burn her brother. Marcus closes his eyes and mumbles a "Thank you" mixed with a sigh of relief. His muscles, aching and throbbing from days of training and the grueling punishment, welcome the caress of the warm water.
"You must be strong and well-rested to win the fight," Leonor says, turning away to heat more water.
The young soldier watches her go. Not once has Leonor shown any doubt in Marcus's victory, nor any fear of her impending fate as a slave in the hands of Wolfen the Gale. His sister's unwavering trust weighs on him far more than the buckets of stone.
"Will I truly be able to defeat him...?" he asks himself, looking back up at the sky, though he knows his answers aren't there. The only higher power aiding him lies deep within the bowels of the castle. "Perhaps I'll be struck by lightning for thinking this way, but I can't help it"
Marcus had told Baldo and Pit how he acquired his new mount in the dungeon. He also explained the conditions the crystal had imposed upon him through the imp.
"No one can know how you got the bird, and the bird cannot leave the castle boundaries," Dowmy had said.
Knowing he was a terrible liar, Marcus had to keep his mouth shut and let Baldo handle quelling the obvious curiosity the mount would arouse. The thunderbird is an immense and powerful creature; many showed interest, but the most dangerous attention came from the head of the Oracles.
Fortunately, the captain helped them, allowing the bird to stay temporarily in the army's stables. The horses grew incredibly restless in the bird's presence, while the bird itself was surprisingly calm in comparison.
"The crystal decided to lend me its strength. I refuse to squander such a blessed gift"
Marcus didn't question the crystal's reasons for keeping the bird's origins a secret. What he couldn't stop wondering, however, was what the dungeon core saw in him, or more specifically, what it expected of him.
"If the crystal were a god, it would be easy to know what it wants... Loyalty, prayers, offerings"
He had tried to learn more about dungeon cores in a library. Since Marcus doesn't know how to read, a librarian had been tasked with reciting several passages from books written by famous adventurers:
How to Enter a Dungeon and Live to Tell the Tale, Volume I, by Zequio Thousand-Faces.
Dungeons of the World, Volume IV, by Melindra, the Sorceress of the Antipodes.
I Fell in Love in a Dungeon, by Fausta Last-Orchid.
In every book, the message was the same: Dungeons are anomalous structures riddled with dangers, filled with treasures meant to lure the unwary into those very perils. Each dungeon is ruled by a dungeon core—entities of solidified aether that seek only to expand their domains and devour invaders to grow stronger.
The most famous known dungeon in history was Aldebaran, boasting over 364 confirmed floors and sprawling across an area the size of a small country. Aldebaran was like all the rest—inhuman and lethal. When its dungeon core was destroyed, the ground collapsed, forming the Canyon of Aldebaran, where people still scavenge for treasures among the rubble to this day.
When Marcus tried asking the librarian about good dungeons that help humans, the man glared at him as if Marcus had insulted his mother, calling him an ignorant fool for asking such rampant idiocy.
"I'm just an empty-headed soldier, not a scholar. If I try to make sense of these things, my head will split open"
Marcus sinks into the water until only his nose remains above the surface. The only thing he is sure of is that he doesn't care what the books say—a good dungeon does exist.
…
Tomorrow marks the official start of the festivities in honor of the hero, Saint Valentine. Today is the final day to register for the jousts.
Henry helps his son don the armor, handing him the helm last, then picks up a highly polished metal tray from the bed so Marcus can see his reflection. Marcus doesn't look right away; instead, he stares at the helm resting between his deerskin and bark gloves.
The helm is a cylinder made of Ironbreak wood. Its true name in the druidic tongue is a secret, but in the common tongue, it is known as such for its tendency to notch steel axes. It is a dense wood, heavy enough to sink in water. The helm is a single piece with a slit for the face that closes near the chin. Thin vines with green, heart-shaped leaves tumble from the crest—the same kind of plant that grows from the pauldrons, forming a mantle capable of covering the entire armor if necessary.
It is obvious to Marcus that Henry has a druid friend; otherwise, how could his father have acquired such a piece?
"In the common tongue, these vines are called No-Secrets-For-The-Heart, because their colors shift to match the feelings of the one who touches them. Right now, they are a dull green because you harbor doubts. I am certain that when the moment of truth arrives, they will shine in a thousand colors," Henry says, trying to keep his tone calm and solemn, but the worry in his eyes betrays him. "However, they are also known as Vampire's Root, because when the leaves sense blood nearby, they come alive and creep toward it to drink. For the warrior wearing them, this is a blessing, as the plant secretes a sap that closes and disinfects wounds. That does not mean you should neglect your body, though. These armors are the final defense of the druids, not the most reliable nor the absolute."
Henry places a hand on Marcus's shoulder. Father and son look at each other in silence, as if unable to find the words to convey the emotions swelling in their hearts. The leaves shift to a bright, clear green.
"I... I will make you proud, Father."
Henry wants to tell him to just focus on coming back alive, but considering that Leonor's fate is also on the line, he is forced to ask his son to give it his all. Though not out loud—asking his son to burn away his life for victory would tear his throat apart.
"You said your comrades would provide you with a sword and shield," Henry says.
Marcus nods.
"A man's character can be judged by the company he keeps. You have an honorable and brave character, my son."
"I learned it from you."
Henry squeezes his eyes shut and coughs to clear his throat.
"Your sister went to pray on your behalf. She wanted to avoid seeing you; she thinks that if she cries, it will weaken your resolve."
Marcus chuckles and shakes his head.
"It's alright. When I win, I'll make her cry tears of joy. She won't need to hold back on my account."
The leaves dim once again.
…
It is said that the Kingdom of Stoicus is the buckle that holds the belt of humanity together: the United Kingdoms. To symbolize this, Marc's crown holds twelve precious gems, one from each kingdom. The pavilion of the Master of Jousts followed the same motif, although having a stripe of color for each kingdom made it look more like a circus tent than a symbol of grandeur.
Marcus takes a deep breath to gather his courage and enters. He is already a bit unsettled by all the stares he received on the way from his house; as a result, the leaves of his armor display a dull, timid blue.
He steps inside.
He spots a wide marble desk, and behind it, an obese man with beady eyes who constantly uses a handkerchief to wipe away his sweat. The man wears a loose gray tunic with two medals pinned near his chest: a gold one bearing the symbol of crossed pickaxes, and a silver one showing two mounted warriors a hairsbreadth away from clashing lances.
Two assistants accompany the Master of Jousts. The first is a serious-faced young girl with glasses, clutching several scrolls against her flat chest. She is in charge of refilling the inkwell the master uses to write in the massive ledger on the desk, and of whispering words into his ear. The second assistant stands off to a far flank of the pavilion, entirely focused on sketching figures with a brush onto hemp canvases stretched over easels.
Marcus, holding his helm under his arm, approaches until he is two steps from the desk and raises his chin.
"I am here to register." His voice cracks like a strangled rooster.
The Master of Jousts doesn't even notice him; it is the assistant who whispers in his ear to make him aware of the soldier's existence. The master raises his tiny eyes, dwarfed by his wide cheeks, and studies Marcus in silence.
"Are you a druid?"
Marcus chokes on his own saliva and begins to cough. After thumping his chest a few times, he straightens up and finds his voice.
"No, no, I am a soldier of this kingdom. The armor is... my father's."
Marcus hesitates to admit it was borrowed; he feels pathetic, and as a result, the leaves turn a muted gray.
"What is your name?" the master interrogates.
"I am Marcus."
"Marcus of Stoicus." He searches for a blank page and begins to write. "What is your father's name?"
"H-Henry."
"Marcus of Stoicus, son of Henry."
The assistant leans in and whispers again. The quill pauses for a second before continuing.
"The promising youth who fought side by side with Captain Axiel and Captain Claus."
Marcus shudders and nearly drops his jaw, but manages to keep his composure. He never imagined his brief encounter with that dark elf would have made its way through the army ranks. The leaves on his armor shift, unable to settle on a single color.
"You are aware that if you lose, you must forfeit your weapon, shield, armor, and mount, correct?" the Master of Jousts asks, neither looking up nor stopping his writing.
"Er, yes, I know." Marcus clenches his fists as he says it, and the armor's leaves darken.
"Do you have the means to pay the ransom if necessary?"
Marcus does not reply.
Chubby fingers tap against the quill, hesitating over something. Once again, the assistant whispers, and the obese man frowns, looking at her.
"What on earth is a thunderbird?"
"Er, they are very common in the jungle, yes." Marcus lowers his gaze.
The Master of Jousts sighs and returns to the ledger.
"What name will you use?"
"Marcus...?" The boy hadn't thought about it, and he turns as red as a tomato, feeling as though he had shown up naked to an exam.
The Master of Jousts takes a long, drawn-out breath, as if his patience were on the line. He leans back in his chair, the seat creaking under his weight, and looks Marcus up and down for a moment before returning to the registration book.
"You shall be the Spring Soldier."
Marcus is left speechless. It isn't the kind of name he would have chosen, but it doesn't sound entirely bad either; it just feels distant, like the moniker of a hero.
"Lastly, which maiden shall offer you her favor?"
Once again, Marcus goes mute, his mind blank. The absolute last thing he had thought about when coming here was a maiden's favor.
The canvas artist chuckles. The Master of Jousts sighs once more.