Early morning found Oryth standing beside his parents outside the first family's door. Marcus knocked, and when it opened, he delivered the news they'd come to give.
The mother's scream was something Oryth would never forget.
Five of the fallen knights had families here in the Morvhal territory. Those five they visited in person, Marcus delivering the news himself at each door while Oryth stood beside him and carried the weight of every tear. For the remaining three, whose families lived in distant lands, his parents had already dispatched trusted messengers to make the journey personally—it wouldn't be a letter, Marcus had said firmly. No family deserved to learn this from ink on paper. Their bodies would be buried here on Morvhal territory, with proper markers, until arrangements could be made or their kin chose to visit.
They visited each of the five homes. Five families who'd sent their sons and fathers and brothers off thinking they'd return. Five times Oryth watched grief tear through people who'd done nothing to deserve this pain.
At each door, Marcus spoke the formal words. At each door, they offered support—financial assistance, anything the families needed. At each door, they returned bodies wrapped for burial.
And at each door, Oryth felt something twist deeper inside him. Pain so intense it was physical. Guilt that sat in his stomach like a stone. But underneath those familiar feelings, something new was growing. Something darker.
Revenge.
He'd never felt it before, not even in his previous life. Never experienced this cold, focused rage at whoever had orchestrated the attack. These families were innocent. Their loved ones had been innocent. They'd died for what—money? Politics? Some noble's grudge?
Someone had ordered this. Someone had hired those mercenaries. Someone was responsible.
And Oryth was going to find out who.
The pain of each family's tears, each child asking when their father would come home, each widow collapsing—it was molding him, changing him in ways he couldn't fully understand yet. But he could feel the seed of it taking root. The determination to make someone pay for this.
By the time they returned home, the atmosphere was heavy with grief. The second goodbye was harder than the first had been. His parents' worry was palpable, written in every line of their faces.
"Are you sure?" Elara asked for the third time. "You don't have to go now. You could wait—"
"I need to," Oryth said. "The academy will be safer. And I need to get stronger."
The two adventurer parties he'd hired—eight people total between them—stood ready with the horses. They'd assured Marcus and Elara multiple times that nothing would happen to Oryth. That they were experienced, capable, prepared for anything.
They'd decided to leave the carriage behind and travel by horse. Faster, more maneuverable, less of a target. Davan would accompany them to the capital, then return to notify his parents that Oryth had arrived safely.
Before they left, Oryth pulled his parents aside.
"I'm worried about you," he said. "About your safety. You should increase the number of knights who can use mana, if you can afford it. Hire more guards. Be careful."
Marcus gripped his shoulder. "We already have plans for that. Don't worry about us—focus on staying alive and learning."
"Promise me you'll be careful."
"We promise," Elara said, pulling him into another tight embrace. "And you promise us the same."
"I promise."
Then they were riding, and the estate was shrinking behind them, and Oryth was left alone with his thoughts and the steady rhythm of hoofbeats.
Who were the attackers? The question circled endlessly in his mind. Why had they targeted him specifically?
Was it because his family had become wealthy through the clothing business? That seemed possible—success bred envy, and envy could drive people to violence. Or maybe someone objected to selling affordable clothing to common people. Perhaps some noble thought it disrupted the natural order, undermined their authority, threatened their interests.
The way the attack had been executed suggested they'd wanted to capture him alive. Probably for ransom—demand money from his parents in exchange for his safe return. Or maybe to force his family to do something, give up the business, leave the region, who knew what.
But he couldn't be sure of any of it. Just speculation built on speculation.
And what about his parents? Would they truly be okay? Should he turn back, stay with them, protect them himself?
No. He'd committed to this path. Had to see it through.
But the frustration was intense. Too many unknowns. Too many uncertainties. He needed information, needed to understand who was behind this and why. Needed manpower to investigate, to protect his family, to act.
But could he trust people? Anyone he hired might betray him, might be working for whoever had ordered the attack in the first place. Loyalty could be bought, but it could also be bought away.
What about alternatives? Could he create subordinates through magic? Golems, maybe, or animated corpses like necromancy? Would such constructs be intelligent enough to follow complex orders, to adapt to changing situations?
And money—should he break his self-imposed rule and start producing gold? Use it to bribe people for information, to build a network of informants?
He cursed silently. Again, too many unknowns. Too many variables he couldn't control or predict.
Slow down. Think methodically. One step at a time.
First priority: gather information. Once he reached the capital and the academy, he could start reconnaissance. Learn what resources were available. Figure out what was possible.
For now, the safest assumption was that he couldn't trust anyone. And what he lacked most was information.
The journey took two days of hard riding. The adventurers were professional and alert, rotating watch shifts during their brief rests, keeping eyes on the roads. Nothing happened. No attacks, no suspicious encounters. Just miles of countryside rolling past.
When the capital finally came into view, Oryth felt genuine awe.
The city was massive, sprawling across the landscape like a living thing. And the diversity—the sheer diversity of it. People from every human culture that had survived the Collapse walked the streets together, drawn here from dozens of fallen kingdoms and scattered refugee communities, their traditions and appearances mingling in ways that would have been impossible in the world that had come before.
He caught fragments of foreign tongues as they rode through the outer districts. Some he almost recognized, similarities to languages from his previous world that made him wonder about the connections between them. Others were completely alien, sounds strung together in patterns his ear couldn't parse at all.
The view reminded him of the capital's origins, of the history he'd read. This was where the survivors had gathered after the Collapse. Where refugees from dozens of fallen human kingdoms had converged, bringing their cultures and languages and traditions. A melting pot born from desperation and survival.
How strong were the Skarreth, really? Strong enough to nearly destroy humanity entirely. And how strong was he compared to them? Compared to other mages, other fighters?
The question nagged at him as they rode deeper into the city.
The streets grew more crowded. He saw beggars huddled in doorways, hands outstretched. Priests from various religions stood on corners, preaching to whoever would listen. Oryth's opinion of organized religion had been set in his previous life and hadn't changed—every religion was just a cult earning coins through lies, exploiting people's fear and hope for profit.
In darker alleys, he spotted children watching the crowds with calculating eyes. Pickpockets, probably, or thieves looking for easy marks. The desperation was palpable even from horseback.
They passed through a market square that illustrated the Collapse's legacy in the most unexpected way. Stalls displayed goods that clearly hadn't originated in this part of the continent—fabrics woven in patterns and dyed in colors that suggested techniques requiring plants or minerals Oryth had never seen growing anywhere near Morvhal territory, pottery glazed in styles that implied specific clay compositions he doubted were common here, spices and oils whose smells were sharp and unfamiliar. He spotted what looked like a citrus fruit selling for a price that made the vendor beside it look nervous just having it on display. A few stalls over, someone was selling small glass vials of what a handwritten sign claimed was dye extracted from a particular insect—he had no idea what insect, or where they were farmed, or how someone had managed to establish that trade at all.
His best guess was that the people who'd fled the Collapse hadn't only gathered in this city. Eryndor was a kingdom, after all—it had territory, towns and smaller cities scattered across Valdros, and presumably communities of survivors who'd settled wherever they could and brought their knowledge with them. Some artisan in a southern corner of the kingdom had probably spent decades figuring out how to cultivate something that thrived naturally in whatever homeland they'd lost, adapting it to soil and climate that only partially cooperated. The results were expensive, rare, and apparently worth the journey to sell here. Things that had once been common trade goods in their lands of origin had become luxuries, either because the raw materials were scarce on this continent or because the expertise to produce them properly had nearly died out with the people who'd carried it.
Food smells drifted from cooking stalls nearby—roasting meat he recognized, something fried in oil that smelled vaguely sweet, and underneath it all something pungent and herbal that he couldn't place and wasn't sure he wanted to.
The streets themselves were dense with signage, boards and painted notices crowding above doorways in at least four different scripts. Some shops had given up on text entirely and hung carved wooden symbols instead—a boot, a needle, a flame—presumably because no single written language could be assumed to reach everyone passing by. A tavern on the corner had its name rendered three different ways across its front wall, each version presumably the same word in a different tongue. The noise level was constant and layered: haggling in languages he didn't know, a street performer somewhere out of sight drawing a crowd, the clatter of a cart over cobblestones, two men arguing in rapid tones that might have been heated or might have just been how they talked. The capital was larger and louder and more compressed than anything he'd experienced, and it made his head of a different kind of busy than he was used to—not the productive kind, but the kind that made it hard to think clearly.
The academy loomed ahead, and Oryth felt his breath catch.
It was massive. Easily larger than what he'd imagined a crown castle would be, sprawling across multiple city blocks with walls that looked more like fortifications than decoration. Multiple towers rose above the walls, and he could see the tops of larger buildings inside.
Guards stood at the entrance gates, armored and alert. As their group approached, one of them raised a hand to stop them.
"Identify yourselves."
Davan spoke up. "I'm Davan, guard to House Morvhal. This is Oryth Morvhal, here to enroll at the academy. These are hired escorts."
The guard nodded, looking Oryth over. "Student registration is at the reception desk," he said, pointing to a building just inside the gates. "End of the queue. After successful registration, you'll be permitted entry. Escorts and guards aren't allowed past the gates unless they're registered servants—slaves or maids employed for student upkeep."
Oryth had expected this. He dismounted, as did Davan and the adventurers. They'd gotten to know each other over the journey, sharing stories during breaks when they'd let the horses rest.
"Thank you," Oryth said to Davan. "For everything. Are you going to sightsee the capital?"
"I'm going to visit an old friend," Davan replied. "Then head straight back to your parents to let them know you arrived safely."
Oryth turned to the adventurers. Both parties had proven competent and pleasant company over the journey.
"Give it your all in there," one of them said with a grin. "Maybe you'll become an adventurer like us someday."
"Maybe I will," Oryth replied, matching the grin. "And when I do, I'll find you so you can be my babysitters again."
That got laughs from the group. "What about you?" Oryth asked. "Heading back to the town where I hired you, or trying your luck here?"
"Back to town tomorrow," another adventurer answered. "We'll try some of the capital's delicacies tonight, but then we're gone. This place gives us the creeps—too much corruption, walls have ears, you know? And some of those cults on the streets..." He shook his head. "Not for us. We prefer places where you can see threats coming."
"Good luck," Oryth said. "Maybe we'll see each other again someday."
"Maybe so. Stay safe, kid."
They clasped hands, said their final goodbyes. Davan gripped Oryth's shoulder once more, his expression serious.
"Be careful. Learn well. And don't do anything stupid."
"I'll try."
Then they were leaving, and Oryth was alone.
He turned toward the reception building and joined the queue. About a dozen people ahead of him, mostly young—prospective students like himself. He settled in to wait, letting his gaze wander over the academy grounds he could see beyond the gates.
A voice spoke from behind him, casual and conversational.
"Have you killed somebody recently?"
His heart skipped a beat.