At dawn, the heavy iron bell rang across the stone courtyard, its echo rolling through the tall towers and sleeping dormitories. The sound was deep, commanding, impossible to ignore. It marked the beginning of another day in the Knights' Academy.
Students stirred from their wooden bunks, hurriedly donning their uniforms. The dorm monitors ensured no one lingered; punctuality was not only encouraged, it was enforced.
The academy followed a strict schedule, its rhythm defined by both mind and body. Lectures in the Grand Hall fed the students' knowledge, while the courtyard demanded physical skill, endurance, and precision. The mental lessons were essential, yet the true heart of the academy was the training yard, where swords rang and boots struck the stone with unrelenting discipline.
It was there that Sir Aldric made his entrance for the first time that morning. The students had heard rumors of him—an experienced knight who had seen countless battles, his presence both feared and respected. His posture was upright, like a blade itself.
Sir Aldric, of graceful build, had long dark hair neatly tied back. Most striking was the crisp white cravat at his neck, secured with a brooch shaped like a robin redbreast.
The students scrambled into position, forming uneven lines, until his piercing glare straightened them into perfect order.
"Your sword is more than steel," Sir Aldric declared, pacing before them. "It is memory, honor, and duty. Those who raise it without discipline are nothing but butchers." As he walked back and forth, his eyes paused on Sikakama, the lone girl in the middle of the row, before he continued, "Here, you will learn to wield it with purpose."
The first lessons were harsh. Students practiced stances, footwork, and parries until their arms burned and sweat dripped onto the gravel. It was the foundation—strength and endurance, beaten into their muscles with every repetition.
Then came the trials of balance and agility. Sikakama moved with a natural grace, her steps light and steady along the narrow beam, as if she were born for such tests. Midway across, one boy lost his footing and slipped, arms flailing. In a swift motion, Sikakama caught his hand before he fell.
"Thank you," he breathed, his voice still trembling.
Only after that came the lessons in swordsmanship. Mistakes were corrected not with cruelty but with exactness; Aldric's hand would strike a shoulder or adjust a grip, his corrections swift and sharp. At one point, when Sikakama's posture faltered, he delivered a quick tap to her back, forcing her to straighten.
"You have the talent, but you lack discipline. Your style follows a free pattern and must be tamed," he said to Sikakama, his voice firm yet measured.
"Understood, sir," Sikakama replied, bowing slightly, her voice calm and resolute.
By the time the sun began to sink, the training yard was bathed in the glow of a fiery orange sky. Long shadows stretched across the gravel, and birds traced arcs above the towers, their wings catching the fading light.
Sir Aldric stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze lifted to the sky, watching the birds cut across the fading light.
"Days like these will pass before you even realize it. Each dawn will ring, each sunset will fade, and one day you will look back and wonder where the time has gone. You will choose your path, chase your dreams, and carve your destiny."
His gaze swept the rows of weary but eager faces.
"So live these days wisely. One day, when you are older, you will remember these days. And if you live them well—if you give them meaning—then when you recall them, you will smile."
The words lingered in the evening air, settling into the hearts of the young trainees like embers glowing in the twilight.
The hall lay beneath the castle, accessed by a narrow stone staircase that wound down from the main corridors. The vaulted ceiling pressed low above, lit by torches set into iron sconces, their flames casting flickering shadows across the rough-hewn stone walls. Long wooden tables and benches filled the chamber, worn smooth by years of use, where young knights gathered to share meals and stories. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread mingled with the cool, earthy air of the underground space.
Each spoke of why they had joined the academy. One sought strength and honor; another admitted he was drawn by wealth and prestige.
A calm, disdainful voice suddenly cut through the chatter: "Fools."
The word sliced through the noise, carrying a tone of icy superiority. Several students turned, their eyes drawn to a young blonde-haired boy sitting alone. The torchlight carved sharp angles into his face, his expression cold and detached, his blue eyes glimmering with a lifeless chill.
"Do you really think you can mock us just because you believe you're the best here?" one student demanded, stepping forward.
The boy's reply was heavy and merciless: "Children chasing a title for material gain… nothing but fools."
Anger flared instantly. The student lunged, grabbing the boy by the collar and yanking him to his feet. "Look at those eyes—blue as any noble's," he spat. "People like you and your kind shouldn't mix with the common folk. Isn't that what you believe?"
"The tension between nobles and commoners never fades—you'll often see fights like this," explained the young man sitting beside Sikakama. His dark hair, neatly tied back, framed a composed face. He idly played with the food on his plate, turning it with his fork.
"Is this meat cooked properly? I've never tasted a dish prepared by another chef before."
Sikakama rose from her seat.
"You'd better not get involved," he warned.
But she ignored him.
"I'll send you back crying to your mother," the angry student shouted, raising his fist to strike.
A sudden, firm hand seized his arm—it was Sikakama. "Stop this," she commanded, her voice steady and calm.
The boy sneered, turning to her with mocking contempt. "And what's it to you? You're a woman," he scoffed, laughing as his gaze swept the room. With a cruel smirk he added, "Do they even allow women to become knights now?"
Her tone mocking: "Why not, since they allowed a clown to become a knight?"
Fury twisted across his face as he raised his hand to strike her. "You w—" he began, but before he could finish, a sudden force grabbed him from behind. In an instant he was hurled through the air, crashing down across the table with a thunderous impact. Plates, goblets, and silverware flew in every direction, shattering as they struck the stone floor.
"And you… I expected the one who drew the sword to be worthy, but all I see is… another fool."
For a heartbeat the hall was silent, broken only by the crackle of torchlight. All eyes followed the blonde boy as he scrambled to his feet and stormed out, leaving behind a trail of broken dishes and overturned benches.
By the time the night bell tolled, the dormitories fell silent, broken only by the weary sighs of exhausted students.
The day began much like the one before, yet Sikakama had already become a target. The boy's disdain had hardened into spite, and on this day he tormented her again and again—words, shoves, and cruel laughter echoing wherever she walked.
By midday, he drove her from the balance post, sending her crashing to the ground.
"Hey, don't block the way, you failure… don't think of yourself as a hero."
Pain flared, but before she could rise, the young man who had warned her before stepped forward and extended his hand. His voice was quiet, edged with reproach:
"I told you not to interfere… now they'll never leave you alone."
She took his hand, her gaze steady.
"I did nothing wrong. They were bullying someone because of his family, and I stopped them. I don't see where my mistake lies."
He studied her for a moment, then allowed a faint smile to touch his lips.
"They're fools, nothing more. My name is Edward Lancaster."
"Sikakama," she replied flatly.
"A strange name… but strange things often carry beauty."
In the lectures, Sikakama sat among the rows of students, quietly following the lessons. There, her eyes caught the blond boy who had caused such a scene the night before. Despite his coldness and contempt for others, he seemed different in the lecture hall. She watched how carefully he wrote his notes, missing not a single word from the professor. He didn't speak much, nor did he try to draw attention, yet his focus was sharp, his presence more alert than any other student. It was as if the lessons were the only battlefield he truly respected.
When the professor suddenly called his name—Alex—to answer a question, Sikakama finally learned what he was called. The name lingered in her mind, sharper now that it had a voice attached to it.
Beside her, Edward leaned slightly closer, his tone casual yet edged with curiosity.
"They say he joined the academy in an unusual way," he murmured, eyes following Alex as he stood to speak. "No one really knows why, but… he isn't like the rest of us."
Sikakama glanced at him, frowning.
"What do you mean?"
Edward only smirked faintly and shook his head. "You'll see. Some mysteries are better left to reveal themselves."