It took a full day.
A day of shifting winds, overcast skies, and dust clinging to his face and neck. Yet despite it all—Damon didn't stop.
He walked with steady steps along the winding stone road leading to the capital of the Kingdom of Neval.
His dark eyes gleamed with unmistakable fervor. His youthful face bore a maturity not born from books or teachers, but from solitude, from moving forward, and from sheer determination.
His hair was black, short, slightly falling forward, tousled by the wind as if defying it. He stood at a height of one meter eighty, with a lean but not exaggerated build—just enough strength to make one cautious.
His shoes were the first thing to catch attention.
They weren't a soldier's boots, nor were they made for riding.
They were crafted from rough, thick, worn leather, embroidered with silver threads along the seams and fastened with two straps instead of laces.
In the leather pack on his back, he carried an old map,
a sword—one he'd kept since childhood—a small water flask,
and a note from his mother that read:
*"If you strive to be a warrior, do not forget to be human first."*
Damon knew the way to the capital more from stories than from maps.
First, he crossed Valma Bridge, where pale blue waters flowed through the valley below. An old man sat playing a wooden instrument. Damon greeted him with a smile and passed by.
Then came the Lilan Forest, where the trees were dense and tangled, the birds eerily silent. He paused there briefly, took out a piece of dry bread, chewed slowly, and continued on his way.
The closer he got to the capital, the faster his heart raced.
In his mind, he pictured himself clad in Neval's gleaming armor, riding a black horse, entering the training grounds as one of the kingdom's warriors.
*"I'll prove to them that I don't need a noble name or royal blood to become a hero."*
As the sun neared the horizon, the road grew firmer, less wild.
Then came the first sign… a tall stone tower bearing Neval's banner—blue, with a silver star embroidered on it.
And then… the walls of the capital.
Massive gray stone walls, lined with archers atop them.
People streamed through the eastern gate, vendors shouted their wares, and horses pulled heavy carts.
Damon stood there, among strangers, staring at the city he had long dreamed of.
He smiled faintly, wiped the sweat from his brow,
and tightened the strap of his pack.
*"I've arrived… at last."*
And there he paused—at the edge
of the capital.
He had no idea that what awaited him beyond
those walls…
Would be entirely different from what he had imagined.
Damon stepped inside the towering walls of the capital,
his breath steady but his heart brimming with excitement.
The streets teemed with life—narrow alleys
between ancient buildings, echoing with
the footsteps of countless souls.
But Damon wasn't here to admire the scenery…
He was searching.
He approached an old man selling fruit beside
a fountain in a circular square and asked:
*"Excuse me, where do they recruit warriors in the capital?"*
The old man looked at him curiously, then pointed with his cane.
*"Walk straight down this road until you see a stone gate with the emblem of a sword and a lion... that's the place you're looking for."*
Damon thanked him and pressed on without hesitation.
After a long walk, he reached a massive wooden gate, flanked by guard towers and flying a blue banner with a golden star.
From behind it came the clashing of swords, the clanging of armor, and the loud shouts of training.
He hesitated for a moment... then stepped inside.
And then he saw her.
A woman.
She stood near the training grounds, wearing
an elegant, strange violet cloak that flowed like smoke
behind her.
Her eyes shimmered like the sunset, and her beauty was...
mesmerizing.
Her black hair was tied with golden threads,
and she was watching a soldier train—until, for a moment,
she turned her gaze toward him.
Time seemed to freeze.
Damon couldn't look away—until a rough voice
snapped him back to reality:
*"Hey, you! Who are you? What do you want?"*
He turned quickly to see a guard standing beside him,
hand on his sword.
*"I..."*
Daemon swallowed hard, then answered with confidence:
*"I want to become the strongest warrior on the continent of Falcon."*
The guard laughed, shaking his head with a mix of mockery and hidden respect.
He glanced at Damon's strange shoes and said:
*"Strange footwear for someone with big dreams."*
Then he pointed ahead:
*"Keep walking straight, then turn left at the inner courtyard... there you'll find the military recruitment area."*
Damon nodded and strode forward, his heart pounding louder than steel.
*"This is just the beginning..."*
Damon was now an official soldier in the army of the Kingdom of Neval.
He wore the golden armor with its white stripes and carried a sword heavier than he'd imagined. But his heart was lighter than ever—his dream of becoming a hero was finally taking shape.
The first days were brutal.
The commanders' shouts rang out with every sunrise. There was running along the walls, archery, dueling, lifting swords until the skin cracked and muscles trembled.
Sweat poured more than rain, and the scent of iron was the perfume of morning and evening.
Amidst it all, Damon met "Smith."
A lanky soldier with a perpetually fearful face and a voice so quiet it seemed every word might earn him punishment.
During a break, Damon sat beside him and asked:
*"Did you choose to be here?"*
Smith shook his head and answered hoarsely:
*"No… I didn't choose this. My older brother is a blacksmith. The younger one is a merchant. And me… I have no skills. Our poverty forced me into the army. They dragged me from home before I could even say goodbye to my mother."*
Damon fell silent, feeling the weight of Smith's words.
Then Smith added:
*"I'm a coward, Daemon. I can't hold a sword well, and if I see blood… I vomit. It happened yesterday. Everyone laughed at me."*
Damon smiled sincerely and patted his shoulder:
*"Being here despite your fear… that's courage in itself."*
A strange friendship began between them.
Damon trained Smith in secret after the regular sessions. He taught him how to grip
the sword without trembling, how to steady his feet,
and how to breathe properly.
There were nights when Smith cried silently,
remembering his wooden home and the scent of bread
his mother used to bake at dawn.
And Damon... never laughed at him. He sat beside him,
shared dry bread, and offered words of patience.
The soldiers had different dreams:
One dreamed of promotion and gold.
Another of owning land.
Damon... dreamed of becoming strong enough
to protect those who couldn't protect
themselves.
As for Smith? He simply dreamed of a day without
the commanders' screams or the sight of blood.