The snow fell softer that morning.
Not lighter—winter never allowed that—but quieter, as if the mountains themselves were listening.
Narkun Ka stood in the doorway of the Hendrix home with a small pack at his feet, staring at it like it might disappear if he looked long enough. Inside were only the essentials: spare clothes, dried rations, a training wrap, and the worn card Samantha had given him—the king symbol etched deep enough to never fade.
He was eight years old.
And he was leaving home.
The house behind him was warm, filled with the familiar scent of cooked grain, old wood, and iron polish. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Every sound felt heavier than it should have.
Ray leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed, jaw tight. Rex sat on a bench tying and retying his boots, even though they were already secure. Max stood near the table, still as stone.
Samantha knelt in front of Narkun.
She adjusted his scarf slowly, carefully, like if she took long enough the moment might never finish.
"You remember what I told you," she said quietly.
Narkun nodded. "Breathe before I act."
"And?"
"Feel before I fight."
She smiled faintly. "And?"
Narkun hesitated, then said softly, "Come back."
Her hands stilled for just a moment.
Then she pulled him into her arms.
The hug was fierce.
Not gentle. Not hesitant.
It was the kind of embrace meant to carve memory into bone.
Ray turned his head away.
Rex stood abruptly and walked to the window.
Max closed his eyes.
Samantha pressed her forehead against Narkun's hair. "You were found in the cold," she whispered. "But you are not alone. Never forget that."
Narkun's fingers curled into her sleeves.
"I don't want to go," he admitted.
"I know," she said. "But staying would hurt you more."
She pulled back and looked him in the eyes—really looked.
"You are not a mistake," she said firmly. "You are not a weapon. You are not something to be afraid of."
Narkun swallowed hard.
"Even if they say I am?"
She cupped his face. "Especially then."
She stood and stepped aside.
Ray moved next.
He hesitated only a second before pulling Narkun into a rough hug, one arm locked tight around his shoulders.
"You better not get soft," Ray muttered. "If you do, I'll beat it out of you when you come back."
Narkun snorted weakly. "You can try."
Ray chuckled—then his voice cracked. He released him abruptly and stepped away.
Rex was last.
He knelt so they were eye level.
"Listen to me," Rex said quietly. "The academy isn't home. They don't care who you are—only what you can do."
Narkun nodded.
"So don't give them everything," Rex continued. "Learn. Watch. Survive."
Rex placed a small metal charm into Narkun's palm—a simple ring etched with the Hendrix crest.
"For luck," he said.
"For grounding," Narkun replied.
Rex smiled.
Max approached last.
He didn't hug Narkun.
He placed both hands on the boy's shoulders and looked down at him, eyes sharp and steady.
"You will be tested," Max said. "Not just your strength. Your restraint."
Narkun nodded.
"If you ever feel like you're losing yourself," Max continued, "remember this—control is not weakness. It is proof that you choose who you are."
Narkun straightened. "I'll remember."
Max nodded once.
That was all.
The door opened.
Cold air rushed in.
And with it—the future.
The academy transport sled waited at the edge of the village square, reinforced with runes and thick iron runners. Two guards stood beside it, faces unreadable.
The elders watched from a distance.
No ceremony.
No celebration.
Just necessity.
Narkun picked up his pack.
Samantha stepped forward one last time and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"Come back to us," she whispered.
Narkun nodded.
Then he stepped onto the sled.
The runners groaned.
The sled pulled away.
And just like that—home began to shrink behind him.
The academy rose from the mountains like a scar.
Stone walls carved directly into the cliff face, layered with watchtowers and training platforms suspended over open air. Massive gates marked with old symbols loomed ahead, flanked by statues of warriors and beasts alike.
Narkun stared.
The pressure hit him immediately.
Not physical.
Intentional.
This place was built to press back.
The sled stopped.
"Out," one guard said.
Narkun stepped down.
The gates opened.
And the academy swallowed him whole.
Inside, the world changed.
The air felt thicker. Every sound echoed. Students moved through the courtyard in disciplined lines—some older, some younger, all focused.
Some glanced at him.
Most stared.
Whispers followed him like shadows.
"That's him."
"The kid."
"The one who killed an Ursid."
Narkun kept walking.
A tall woman in academy robes approached, her hair bound tightly, eyes sharp and assessing.
"Instructor Vale," she said. "Follow."
She didn't ask.
They walked through corridors lined with banners—rank insignias, elemental crests, beast emblems.
"You are not here as a normal student," Vale said. "You are here because the elders are afraid."
Narkun said nothing.
"That fear will shape everything you experience here," she continued. "Some will challenge you. Some will avoid you. Some will try to break you."
She stopped and turned.
"And some," she said, "will want what you are."
They entered a small chamber.
"This is early integration," Vale said. "You will train, study, and sleep apart from the main classes until further notice."
She handed him a simple uniform.
"No insignia," she added. "Earn those."
Narkun took it.
"Today," Vale said, "you observe."
She opened the door.
Inside, dozens of students trained in formation—sparring, channeling energy, synchronizing with bonded creatures.
The moment Narkun stepped in—
The room reacted.
Energy wavered.
Several students stumbled.
A few beasts snarled.
One instructor cursed softly.
Vale's eyes narrowed.
"So it begins," she murmured.
That night, Narkun lay alone on a narrow bed, staring at the ceiling.
The academy was loud—even in silence.
He pulled out the card.
The king symbol caught the dim light.
"I didn't want this," he whispered.
Something stirred deep inside him.
And yet, a voice replied, you walked forward.
Narkun closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, training would begin.
Tomorrow, the world would start pushing back.
But tonight—
Tonight, he held onto home.
And refused to let go.