A beautiful girl filled his vision.
She stood right in front of him, her skin fair and healthy. There was not a hint of starvation on her face. She was the only bright spot in the room; around them, the house was dilapidated, the walls peeling, and the wooden table between them was so rotten it looked ready to collapse.
The table held a plate of roasted meat. It was… chicken. At least, that was what it looked like.
The girl smiled—a smile so beautiful it almost hurt to look at. Then, she opened her mouth, and with a voice like honey, she spoke.
"Eat, Brother."
Almost immediately, a wave of violent hunger struck him. He reached out, grabbed a piece of the meat, and brought it to his mouth.
But something distracted him.
It was the girl. Her face was stuck in that smiling pose. Slowly, her forehead started to unravel. The skin on her face began falling away like wet paper, exposing the raw muscle and blood underneath.
As her skin sloughed off completely, Alden, frozen in horror, looked down at his hand.
He wasn't holding chicken anymore.
He was biting into the skinless arm of a girl.
The savory taste vanished, replaced instantly by the metallic tang of iron and raw, wet flesh.
"NO!"
He jerked awake, screaming, just as a firm hand slapped him on the back of the head.
"Can you let me sleep peacefully for at least one day?"
Robert grumbled, rolling over in the bunk next to him. Alden blinked, his chest heaving as his senses slowly returned.
He wasn't in the rotting house. He was in a clean, sprawling barracks hall filled with rows of identical beds. There were at least seventy other people sleeping in the room, the air filled with the sound of snoring. Right next to him, Robert was glaring, half-asleep and angry about being woken up.
Alden rubbed his face. Right. I'm a Knight.
He got up, shook off the lingering dread of the nightmare, and freshened up. He pulled on his uniform: a sleek black inner layer, followed by a crisp white shirt with golden buttons and blue trim. When he pulled on the white trousers and checked the crest on his back, he looked sharp.
Anyone from the slums would mistake him for a noble in this gear. But he wasn't. He was merely a rookie knight at the mansion of Duke Theodore Valerian.
Duke Theodore was an important political figure in the nation of Aurelia—powerful, benevolent, and known as a great ruler. It was an honor to serve here.
Alden downed a hot cup of korken, letting the bitter brew wake him up fully. He checked the clock on the wall. It was 5:00 AM. Their shift didn't start until 7:00.
No wonder Robert slapped me, Alden thought with a wince.
He grabbed his practice sword and headed out to the training grounds.
The morning air was cool. He sat down on the grass, folding his legs beneath him. He closed his eyes and turned his focus inward, visualizing the Cores inside his body.
He felt the Aether moving through his veins. He began to circulate it, pushing the energy into his muscles. He felt them tighten, gaining strength with every breath. Then, he guided the flow into his Fire Core.
The Aether became agitated. The particles inside him vibrated, faster and faster with each cycle. His body began to sweat. His limbs trembled as his heart rate spiked. The heat was building up, demanding release.
Just as he reached his limit, Alden snapped his eyes open and thrust his hand out.
He directed the Aether out through his palm. The fine hairs on his fingers wilted from the heat. As the agitated energy left his fingertips, it ignited with a sharp whoosh, creating a controlled burst of fire.
Before he could celebrate, a heavy hand landed firmly on his back.
"How long did you manage to cycle it?"
Alden looked up. It was Fiska, his senior.
"Just under four minutes," Alden replied, wiping sweat from his brow.
Fiska whistled. "That's seriously impressive for a rookie, man. Keep that up, and you'll be able to use higher-level spells soon."
Fiska grinned and drew his own blade. "Come on. Pick up your sword. I need a sparring partner."
Alden stood up and grabbed his training sword—a dull steel longsword, heavy and chipped from use.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of the steel. Fiska stepped onto the grass, his shadow stretching long over Alden. The senior knight was a bear of a man, standing six-foot-two with forearms like tree trunks. He held his sword easily in one hand, resting the flat of the blade on his shoulder.
"Standard rules," Fiska said, his voice a low rumble. "First to land a clean touch on the torso or head wins. No active spells, just reinforcement."
"Understood."
Alden took a breath and shifted into his stance. He kept his center of gravity low, his sword held in front of him in a middle guard—The Plow. It was a defensive posture, perfect for a smaller fighter protecting his center.
Fiska grinned. He raised his sword high above his head—The High Guard. It was an aggressive stance that used his height to threaten a crushing downward blow.
"Ready?"
"Always."
Fiska moved first.
He didn't rush. He stepped in with terrifying speed for a big man, bringing his sword down in a diagonal slash. The air hissed.
Alden didn't try to block it. He knew better. If he took that hit on his guard, Fiska's strength would buckle his knees.
Instead, Alden stepped sharply to the right. He caught Fiska's blade on the flat of his own, angling his sword so the heavy strike slid harmlessly off to the side. Steel shrieked against steel, sending a shower of sparks onto the grass.
Heavy, Alden thought, his wrists vibrating from the impact.
He didn't wait. Using the momentum of the deflection, Alden snapped a quick thrust toward Fiska's chest.
Fiska twisted his hips, slapping Alden's blade aside with the crossguard of his sword. The force of the parry nearly knocked the weapon from Alden's grip. Fiska followed up immediately, using his reach to launch a horizontal cut at Alden's ribs.
Alden gritted his teeth. He flared his Fire Core.
Heat flooded his legs. His muscles twitched with explosive energy. In a blur of motion, he dropped into a crouch, letting the massive blade whistle inches above his head.
"Hah!" Fiska laughed, enjoying the challenge.
Alden exploded upward from the crouch, aiming an uppercut slash. Fiska stepped back, reading the move, and brought his sword down to bind against Alden's.
The two blades locked together.
This was the danger zone. In a bind, strength was king. Fiska leaned his weight forward, his superior mass forcing Alden's blade down. Alden's boots slid on the grass. He could feel his arms shaking under the pressure.
I can't win a contest of strength, Alden realized. I have to cheat.
He channeled a spike of Aether into his hands. The metal of his sword heated up instantly, glowing a dull cherry red.
Fiska flinched at the sudden heat radiating from the bind.
Alden used that split second of distraction. He disengaged, pulling his sword back and spinning to Fiska's exposed side. He launched a strike at the senior knight's unguarded flank.
BOOM.
A deep, resonant sound echoed across the training grounds.
It wasn't the sound of steel. It was a horn.
Alden froze, his blade inches from Fiska's ribs. Fiska stopped too, lowering his weapon and looking toward the main gates.
The Great Horn of House Valerian was blowing.
"They're early," Fiska muttered, the playfulness gone from his voice. He sheathed his sword with a sharp click. "That's the Duke's signal. The carriage is here."
Alden lowered his sword, the adrenaline fading, leaving him cold.
The Duke had returned. And with him, his son's fiancée.
"Come on, rookie," Fiska said, adjusting his uniform. "Line up. We need to look presentable for the future Lady of the house."
Alden nodded, sheathing his weapon. But as he looked toward the castle gates, the phantom taste of raw meat returned to his mouth, bitter and metallic.