"Before we change the world, we must first change ourselves."
– William Astrel
The months after my father's death were brutal. My mother toiled in factories by day and on the docks at night. With each passing day, she grew frailer, her strength eroding under the weight of her labor.
I continued my studies at Roseant Primary Academy, a school for impoverished children destined for the Liberwich army. The days were grueling, and the teachers and soldiers were harsh and unforgiving. Rain or shine, we were always running, fighting, training. Our lives held no value there.
The only thing that kept me going was the army's promise of money and food. Beyond that, Roseant was the last place I wanted to be. My true dream was to act—I had a knack for it.
Observing people, slipping into different personas, wearing masks—it came naturally to me.
As the training grew more intense, I found ways to cope with the pain. I discovered a hidden passage in the walls, far from the dormitory, nearly overgrown with vines. It was narrow, but a skinny 13-year-old like me could slip through.
On the other side was a secluded part of the training forest, free from watchful eyes. It was a haven of solitude and freedom. The forest's quiet reminded me of my mother—working tirelessly, weeping herself to sleep.
I was powerless to help her, unable to even get close. The thought of her tears cut into me, the pain raw and real.
In that state of mind, acting was my only solace.
"Look, Count, here stands your son, disgraced and shamed for all to see," I said as Alexandria, adopting a man's voice, seething with fiery rage.
"This son of yours is a wretch! He spat on my honor, defiled my daughter with his dark ways, and stole the innocence of my precious flower," I continued, still channeling the furious man.
With a shift worthy of the finest stage actors, I switched roles.
"My son, is what Count Winters says true?" I asked in a voice heavy with sorrow and pain.
"Yes, sir," I answered as the son.
"Is that all, you miserable cur?" I roared, slipping back into the angry count.
"My lord, I love your daughter and would walk through purgatory to hold her in my arms," I replied as the son, my voice steady with conviction.
I would have continued my favorite performance if not for the interruption.
"You know The Words of Cameron by William Astrel is banned, don't you? Quoting or even owning it could land you in prison," a feminine voice called from the darkness of the woods.
The voice sent a chill down my spine. I spun around, scanning the shadows, but couldn't find its source. I was caught. William Astrel was a genius, but not everyone shared that view.
"Do you like Cameron?" the woman asked, her tone curious, almost inviting.
What did I have to lose? If she reported me to the teachers—or worse, the director—I wouldn't just face prison; I'd be sent to Moinspiel. Sweat beaded on my skin, my hands trembling. This mistake could cost me my life—and destroy my mother.
"Cameron was wrong to pursue Count Winters' daughter, but emotions can lead us to mistakes," I said, speaking from the heart. I believed Cameron deserved a chance to make amends.
Footsteps crunched through the undergrowth, and there she was: Lisa Thorn, the top student in my year. She was an enigma at Roseant, flawless in everything she did, appearing and vanishing without a trace. She was strange, but today, something about her seemed off—nervous, perhaps, or troubled.
"Count Winters, my son made a mistake, but I beg you to understand the heart of a young man in love," Lisa said, reciting the next line from the book with ease, catching me completely off guard.
"I always thought The Words of Cameron was underappreciated, but it seems I was mistaken," she added, offering me a warm, knowing smile.
I was speechless. She knew Astrel.
"Lisa…" I started, but before I could finish, she turned sharply and walked into the forest without looking back.
"Next week, fencing and marksmanship training starts. I'll see you in class," she said, her voice fading as she melted into the darkness, leaving me stunned and alone.
After what felt like an eternity, I returned to my dorm, changed out of my forest-soiled clothes, and lay down, my mind racing with thoughts of Lisa. Her guarded posture, her warm smile, those striking blue eyes. She'd said we'd see each other tomorrow—how could she know the academy's plans or my schedule? She spoke with such certainty.
Lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, I drifted into sleep.
The Different
"Pain is the best teacher of all."
– William Astrel
Lisa Thorn did not belong here. After our encounter in the forest, I began watching her closely.
Her walk was always upright, alert, ready for conflict. She scanned every room, noting exits and people, never leaving her back exposed. She was always prepared—ready to fight or flee.
She was unfailingly polite, smiling and engaging, but I noticed how her fingers curled, almost like claws. It was as if she could slit a throat in an instant.
During the day, I felt watched—not with malice, but with curiosity. Her appearance was impeccable: sleek black hair tied back, pale skin flawless, clothes pressed and pristine.
Beyond her polished exterior and exceptional skills, two things stood out: the faint scent of lavender, soothing and comforting, and the eerie silence of her movements. Everything about her suggested prior training and an education far beyond what the rest of us had.
In training, she fought like a professional, weaving effortlessly between boys twice her size. Her strikes were precise, her movements fluid and practiced.
And, as she'd predicted, fencing training began a week later. The instructor was Ikemar Routz, one of Dunhard's finest fencers, renowned for his lethal, practical techniques. Legend had it that during the War of the Mountains, armed only with a sword, he single-handedly killed over fifty soldiers to defend Fort Routz, now named in his honor.
With gray hair and sun-weathered skin, Ikemar sat calmly as we entered the training field, the picture of serenity. But when he opened his eyes—black as onyx, sharp as blades—his presence shifted. He stood slowly, towering over us.
"Fencing is, at its core, about killing," he said, his voice deep and commanding. "No matter what they say about its beauty, killing is what matters."
He taught us the basic stance and proper breathing, saying, "Your breath sets the rhythm." Wise words from a man teaching us to wield swords.
Once again, I found myself watching Lisa. Her movements with the wooden sword were unique, professional. She wielded the blade and breathed like someone with years of experience—not a beginner.
"Death is our enemy; it destroys the body and alienates the soul."
– Daniel Fortenberg
On October 12, 1998, Dunhard mourned the loss of High Chancellor Eliot Thorn, who passed away at 98. A legendary warrior and leader, he earned the Crystalline Eagle, the nation's highest military honor, after the First Pacification War. His enemies called him "Flying Marshal" and "Death of the Heavens." He died peacefully in his sleep, his final order naming Alessan Akur as interim Chancellor until his son came of age.
The news shook us. Thorn's death meant political, social, and economic chaos. For us pariahs, it spelled trouble—the elite and nobles would crush us in the upheaval.
That day, we had no tasks. The mood was heavy. Most of our instructors had served with Thorn during the war, and the flag flew at half-mast. All cadets gathered to pay tribute and sing Dunhard's national anthem, rows of voices united in solemn harmony.
As my eyes scanned the crowd, I noticed something: Lisa was nowhere to be seen.
"Perfection is also a flaw."
– Daniel Fortenberg