Chapter 1: The Honey-Hued Spark
The world was a symphony of simple sounds. First, the rhythmic creak of the wagon's wooden axle, a weary groan that had long since become a familiar comfort. Second, the steady, soft thud of four hooves on the packed-earth road, a sound like a slow and patient heartbeat. The air itself was still, heavy with the sweet scent of sun-baked soil and wildflowers. To the left and right, a sea of tall, green grass swayed in a gentle, almost imperceptible breeze, stretching towards a horizon hazed by the afternoon sun.
For a long while, these were the only sounds. Then, a new note joined the chorus. A flash of movement, a blur of feathers darting low over the grassy expanse. A small bird, no bigger than a man's fist, chased an unseen insect. As it swooped sharply, its body pulsed with a sudden, brilliant glow, the color of warm honey. The light flared for a single, breathtaking moment, a tiny sun burning against the green canvas, before vanishing as the bird disappeared into the tall stalks. A moment later, a butterfly with wings like powdered sky was tasting the nectar of a purple thistle. As the wagon rumbled past, the draft from its passage sent a whisper through the air, stirring the grass and causing the butterfly to flutter away in a startled, silent dance.
From his position at the back of the open wagon, a young man watched the road unfold in reverse. He rested his chin on his palm, his gaze distant, taking in the fading scene of the glowing bird and the disturbed butterfly. His hair was the color of jet, falling in straight, clean lines across his brow, and his eyes held the same deep, black intensity. They were thoughtful eyes, currently watching the twin ruts in the road stretch out behind them, a long, fading scar marking their journey. He let out a soft sigh, the sound swallowed by the vast, quiet landscape.
Finally, he shifted, turning his attention to the front of the wagon. "Old man," he said, his voice clear and steady. "Are we not there yet?"
The driver, a man whose face was a roadmap of wrinkles and whose back was permanently stooped from years at the reins, did not turn. His eyes remained on the path ahead and the two aging horses that pulled them. "Just a few more minutes, lad. Patience is a virtue of the traveler."
The young man's gaze drifted to the other side of the wagon. On a simple wooden bench lay a girl, seemingly lost to the world in a deep sleep. A length of clean, blue cloth was tied carefully around her eyes, covering them completely. Her breathing was even and calm, a stark contrast to the wagon's constant, jarring vibrations. A cascade of black hair, as dark as his own, spilled over the edge of the bench. Near the tips, however, the color shifted, melting into strands of a deep, startling blue, like the heart of a flame. He found himself marveling, not for the first time, at her ability to rest so peacefully amidst the ceaseless rattling. How could anyone sleep so soundly on these unforgiving roads?
"Why don't you have the horses use their Minma?" the young man asked, his voice softer this time. "We could have been there an hour ago."
The old driver chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. "They are old, you see. Like me. The Minma is a fire that burns in the young. In the old, the embers cool. To force it would be to risk snuffing them out entirely."
"Then why not replace them?" the boy pressed, his logic simple and direct.
The old man finally turned his head slightly, a gentle, knowing smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. From his vantage point, the distant silhouette of a village was just beginning to resolve against the horizon—a cluster of thatched roofs and a thin plume of smoke rising into the sky. "It is easier to say such things than to do them, lad. These two… they have spent more than twenty years with me. We have seen the turning of eighty seasons together. They are not just livestock. They are family."
The young man fell silent, his gaze returning to the road behind them. He understood the words, but the sentiment felt foreign, a language from a different time. He said nothing more, simply watching the world pass by as the wagon continued its slow, deliberate crawl.
Minutes later, the rumbling of the wheels changed tone as they moved from packed earth to worn cobblestone. "Here we are," the old driver announced, his voice filled with a quiet finality. They had arrived at a sturdy-looking wooden gate, flanked by two guards in simple leather armor. Each man held a long spear, its tip gleaming in the sun. On the breastplate of their armor was a small, engraved metal plate that read: Butita Village - Saita Kingdom Certified Guard.
The young man swung his legs over the side of the wagon and hopped down, his boots landing softly on the stone. He stretched, feeling the stiffness in his muscles from the long ride. He cast one last look at the girl. She hadn't stirred, her chest rising and falling in the same peaceful rhythm. He turned and walked towards the front, where the old driver was already speaking in low tones to one of the guards.
Reaching into a small pouch at his belt, the young man produced a silver coin. The seal stamped upon it was not of a native bird or a local mountain, but of a winding serpent—the mark of the far-off Tania Kingdom. He pressed it into the driver's calloused hand. "Thank you for the ride."
The old man's eyes widened slightly at the sight of the coin. "You've come a long way, lad… a very long way."
The young man's attention was on the guards' insignia. A small, genuine smile touched his lips for the first time. "The Saita Kingdom," he said, more to himself than to anyone else. "So this really is the right path."
One of the guards, a man with a thick neck and a weary expression, looked him up and down. "Let me guess," the guard said, his voice flat. "Judging by your age and the fact you're coming from so far away, you're planning on taking the entrance exam for Raganda Academy, aren't you?"
The old driver's jaw dropped. "Is that true, lad? The Raganda Academy?"
The young man rubbed the back of his neck, a hint of sheepishness in his posture. "Haha, is it that obvious?"
"What's your name, boy?" the other guard asked, his gaze sharper.
"Fulan," he replied simply.
"Fulan," the first guard repeated, nodding. "Well, you're on the right track. This is Butita village. It's safe here. The next village is Saikono, and that's the closest settlement to the capital. From there, the academy is easy to find." The guard paused, his expression souring. "Unfortunately, there's a problem. The road between Butita and Saikono is currently… closed. No merchants or travelers are passing through."
Fulan's brow furrowed. "Why? What happened?"
"The Nine Spider-Feet gang has taken over the pass," the guard explained with a sigh of profound irritation. "A nasty band of cutthroats."
"Isn't that a job for the Knights?" Fulan asked, a note of confusion in his voice.
"We sent a request to the nearest garrison a week ago," the guard grumbled, leaning heavily on his spear. "But you know the Knights. They probably enjoy their warm beds and easy meals too much. They love to delay and procrastinate."
"I cannot overlook that last statement."
The voice was feminine, clear as a bell, and carried an unexpected authority that cut through the afternoon haze. It came from behind them.
Every head turned in unison. There, standing just a few feet from the back of the wagon, was the girl. The blue bandages were still tied firmly over her eyes, but she was no longer sleeping. She stood with a poise that was utterly captivating. She wore a simple, long-sleeved tunic of a deep blue that matched the tips of her hair, worn over loose-fitting trousers of a dark grey fabric. A light shawl rested over her hair. Her hands were held loosely at her sides, and she took a slow, deliberate step forward, her head tilted as if she were listening to the world rather than seeing it.
"The Knights are the pride of this entire kingdom," she stated, her voice calm but unwavering as she came to a stop beside Fulan. "The fact that they have not yet responded to your request is not proof of laziness. It is a clear sign of the sheer volume of tasks they must handle to protect us all. Therefore, I cannot allow such disrespectful slander to come from a lazy guard like you."
The guard's jaw tightened, and the slightest twitch of irritation flickered at his eyebrow. He stared at the blindfolded girl who had just arrived in his village and coolly insulted him to his face, and for a moment, the air at the gate of Butita crackled with a new and sudden tension.