As the door softly clicked shut behind his mother, Fortis Lactresia was left alone in the glow of the late afternoon sun filtering through the ornate palace window. The polished floors beneath his bed reflected golden rays, but his thoughts were not with the comforts of the royal room.
He lay back on the silken sheets, staring at the canopy above, and began to unravel the threads of the storm that had passed—and the ones to come. He began with the mine. The miners. The horror.
Twenty-four had been trapped. Nine were confirmed dead. Three severely injured. Twelve returned alive, thanks to the narrow escape path he had discovered. He had studied those tunnels for weeks, not out of duty, but curiosity. And that curiosity had saved lives.
"But it wasn't enough," Fortis whispered to himself.
What if he hadn't been there? What if he hadn't memorized the paths? What if he hadn't trained enough to dodge the strikes of the Eltrogons? The very thought sickened him.
He had to make the mines safer.
That was his first priority.
Fortis sat upright and began scribbling on a parchment from the drawer beside his bed. Ideas flowed quickly:
Build structural reinforcements with shock-resistant alloys.
Establish a three-level alarm system using sound and light beacons.
Station an emergency squad trained in escape-route navigation.
Develop a monster-detection perimeter using vibration-triggered alert stones.
Employ part-time sworders from the academy for rotating protection shifts.
Create a subterranean communication method using echo drums or tapping codes.
Provide all workers with emergency glowstones that emit pulsing light when struck repeatedly.
He paused and smiled faintly.
"Not bad for a prince who prefers books," he murmured.
Then his gaze turned toward the long sword resting in its scabbard beside his bed. The royal sword technique. A form all princes were taught. Basic, elegant, and—he realized—utterly insufficient. It had served only as a guide to motion, not a true weapon in battle.
He had never truly fought before that day. He had trained. Yes. Posed. Practiced. Repeated forms until his muscles remembered them. But a real fight? Never. The monster in the mine had shown him his weakness.
His body was strong now, just as his mind had reached Norm Search. But his reflexes were lagging behind.
"My mind reads the battle... but my body responds too slow."
He needed to bridge that gap.
And worse, he lacked experience. True experience. Battle isn't just reflex. It's intuition, adaptation, chaos. A dance of desperation and instinct. And he had none of it.
That's when he made his decision.
He wouldn't waste time with ceremonial training. What he needed was sparring. Practice. Expeditions. Experience earned through bruises.
Fortis thought about asking one of the apprentice knights for help. Not a commander or a decorated war veteran—just someone grounded. Someone young but experienced. Maybe a sworder at the Norm Reach stage, around his late twenties, with practical battle sense. Not a nobleman who would treat him like glass, but someone honest who could test his limits.
"I need someone who can hit me without hesitation," he thought. "Someone who won't bow every time I lift my sword."
He would ask for that knight soon.
Next came the question that loomed in his heart more than his mind.
The Mindrealm.
That white space. That infinite quiet.
That man. That cat.
He clenched the sheets. "What am I, really?"
He had read many books—histories, magics, lost sciences—but nowhere had he heard of a place like the mindrealm. A space within, holding potential beyond imagination.
The man had said, "It's too empty now, but it has potential."
So the mindrealm could grow? Evolve?
But how?
Fortis had always been clever, not because he had answers, but because he knew how to ask the right questions.
He closed his eyes, breathing in slowly.
"I must get stronger. Not just in body. In spirit. In mind."
If the mindrealm grew with power, then training his essence, his will, his mental endurance—those would be keys.
Meditation? Possibly. Emotion training? Visualization? Perhaps.
He would need guidance. But from who? The cat said the man couldn't fully manifest yet—his mind was too empty.
"Then I need to fill it," Fortis muttered. "With knowledge, discipline, belief."
His mind wandered to the face of Brokas, the trembling but brave miner who had risked everything to protect his fellow workers. Brokas had shown courage not born from strength but from heart. That moment had impacted Fortis deeply.
He made another note: "Find Brokas. Reward him. He may be useful later."
The door knocked.
"Come in," Fortis said, standing and brushing off his robe.
The door creaked, revealing a towering man clad in polished black and silver armor. His presence was cold but calm, and his eyes shimmered with discipline.
Sir Gavric Vorn. The First Sword of the Royal Guard. The Sword of King Marcus himself.
His crimson cape draped behind him like a flag of war.
"Young Prince Fortis," Gavric said with a respectful bow. His voice was deep, almost hollow. "His Majesty requests your presence in the royal court."
Fortis raised a brow, smirking slightly.
"Took him long enough."
Gavric gave no reply. He stepped aside, extending a hand toward the hall.
Fortis strapped his scabbard across his waist. As he passed Gavric, he added:
"Have the miners been given medical care?"
"Yes, my prince. Three are in critical condition but stable. The rest have been sheltered and fed."
Fortis nodded. "Good. I want a detailed report on the cave structure, especially around the Eltrogon nest. And... tell the guards not to kill any Eltrogons without my word."
Gavric's brow rose. "You intend to return?"
Fortis didn't answer. He walked down the hallway, where golden banners fluttered in the wind, and the echoes of his boots merged with the memories still haunting him.
Behind him, the wind fluttered the parchment pages he had written. Ideas, plans, and questions. It was not yet a strategy. Not yet a path.
But it was something more important.
It was the beginning of resolve.
And the road to the next step.