New Beginnings

With halting words, Aelar recounted their brief encounter at the fortress gate—how he had been admiring the imposing architecture when the young lady had approached him, asking if he was a recruit. Before he could properly respond, she had been called away by her maid, leaving him flustered and confused.

Throughout the explanation, Alena nodded vigorously, her smile growing wider. Her maid, however, was growing visibly impatient.

"Climb up, Miss Alena," the maid urged, gesturing toward the staircase visible through the open doorway.

"Okay~," Alena sang out, but not before casting one last curious glance at Aelar. She skipped away, her energy seeming to leave a vacuum in the chamber as the door closed behind her.

Lord Rodel released a deep, weary sigh, shaking his head with the resignation of a man who had long since accepted that some forces of nature, like his daughter, could not be contained. "What a headache," he muttered, massaging his temples. "I'm sorry for my daughter's behavior; she is always like that. Always into training, especially cutting down trees. Many trees were felled because of her." A fond smile softened his features as memories overtook him. "She's like her mother; my wife used to beat me up all the time during our training days."

The mention of his wife brought a nostalgic chuckle to his lips, his eyes momentarily distant with remembrance. Rioran added his laugh, surprised by how good it felt to share a moment of genuine mirth after years of vigilance and solitude. Some things never change, he thought, even after war and loss reshape the world.

"Alright, Brom," Lord Rodel said, returning to the matter at hand. "Take Aelar to his new dorm. I still need to have a conversation with his father." The subtle emphasis on "conversation" made it clear that important matters were to be discussed in private.

"Yes, My Lord," Brom replied with a respectful bow. "Aelar, let's go," he beckoned, already moving toward the door.

Aelar hesitated, looking to his father with uncertainty clouding his features. For as long as he could remember, they had never been separated. They had faced every danger, every hardship together. The prospect of leaving his father alone—even in a supposedly safe environment—sent a jolt of anxiety through him.

"Father, is it okay?" he asked quietly, needing reassurance that this separation was part of the plan, that it wasn't a mistake that would end in disaster as so many encounters had during their years of hiding.

Rioran placed both hands on his son's shoulders, looking directly into eyes so like his own. He's not a child anymore, Rioran reminded himself. He needs this chance to become his own man, to forge his path outside of my shadow.

"Of course, you need this," Rioran said firmly, his voice steady with conviction. "Don't worry; nothing will happen to me." The promise was one he had made many times over their years together—sometimes truthfully, sometimes as a necessary lie to ease his son's fears. This time, he believed it. They were among old allies, and the immediate dangers that had forced them into hiding seemed distant within these fortress walls.

Aelar searched his father's face, finding the reassurance he needed in the calm certainty he saw there. "Alright, Father, I'll go ahead," he said, straightening his shoulders and offering a small smile before turning to follow Brom.

Lord Rodel turned to the soldiers who had remained at attention throughout the family drama. "And my men, go back to your duties. This is a private talk; you all understand?"

"SIR, YES SIR!" they responded in unison, filing out of the chamber with disciplined precision. The heavy door closed behind them with a solid thud, leaving Rioran and Lord Rodel alone at last.

The jovial atmosphere evaporated like morning mist under a harsh sun. Lord Rodel's face hardened, the friendly mask of hospitality slipping away to reveal the battle-hardened commander beneath. He leaned forward, hands flat on the table, eyes boring into Rioran with an intensity that would have made lesser men quail.

"Now that they're gone, spill the truth," he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "What went down after you wiped out those demons on the day of the Demon and Humanity War? Lay it bare, Rioran Dayan, the once bigwig and hero of Padayan Country."

Rioran's shoulders sagged slightly as the weight of his true identity settled fully upon them. For years he had been "Reiran," a wandering mercenary with a son, nothing more. Now, faced with his old title, his old responsibility, he felt the crushing burden of history pressing down upon him once more.

There's no running from the past anymore, he thought grimly, reaching for his coffee cup only to find it empty, much like the reserves of energy he had spent years maintaining. It's time for the truth, or at least as much of it as I dare reveal.

Meanwhile, Aelar stepped outside the fortress's main hall, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight. The courtyard before him buzzed with activity—soldiers drilling in formation, servants carrying supplies, merchants hawking their wares at small stalls set up along the perimeter. Life, vibrant and ordinary, unfolded all around him in a tapestry of color and sound that was almost overwhelming after years spent in the quiet shadows of existence.

This place... It's so alive, Aelar thought, his steps slowing as he took in the scene. The contrast between this bustling community and the desolate, monster-haunted ruins where he and his father had made their temporary homes was jarring. Here, children laughed and played without fear; there, silence had been their only safety.

Memories of stories his father had told him—tales of great cities and thriving kingdoms before the demon war—now took physical form before his eyes. This wasn't just a fortress; it was a pocket of the world as it once was, as it should be. A lump formed in Aelar's throat as he realized how much he had missed without ever knowing it.

"Why are you staring like that? Move!" Brom's gruff voice snapped Aelar back to the present, the swordmaster already several paces ahead and looking back with impatience.

"Oh, sorry, sorry," Aelar apologized, quickening his steps to catch up. "I was just captivated by this place. We don't have anything like this in our homeplace." The admission escaped before he could consider whether revealing such information was wise—another sign of how off-balance this new environment had left him.

Brom's stern expression softened slightly as understanding dawned. "What kind of place do you come from, Aelar, that it seems like you're only seeing a place like this now?" he asked, genuine curiosity tempering his authoritative manner.

As they walked through the courtyard toward the trainee quarters, Aelar found himself opening up more than he had intended. He described the harsh reality of their nomadic existence—never staying in one place long enough to call it home, always moving ahead of rumors and whispers, making shelters in the ruins of what had once been thriving communities before monsters claimed them.

"Most of the places we've stayed were just... empty," Aelar explained, his voice quieter now. "Buildings half-collapsed, fields overgrown, sometimes bones still scattered where people fell. Father always chose remote locations, places where demons had already passed through and weren't likely to return. It was safer that way, he said."

Brom fell silent, his weathered face revealing nothing of his thoughts, but his slower pace and attentive posture spoke of empathy. No child should have to grow up that way, he thought, especially not the son of Rioran Dayan. The legendary hero's sacrifice had secured humanity's future, and yet his son had been denied the safety and prosperity that sacrifice had brought for others.

They approached a long, two-story building near the training grounds—the dormitory where trainee swordsmen were housed. The structure was simple but solid, built of stone and timber with small windows designed more for defense than view.

"This will be your room for now," Brom announced, stopping before a sturdy wooden door and producing a key from his pocket. "Here's the key."

"Thank you," Aelar replied, accepting the key with a small bow of gratitude—a gesture his father had taught him was appropriate when receiving any gift, no matter how small. When Brom pushed the door open, however, Aelar couldn't hide his momentary dismay.

The room was small and functional, containing a narrow bed, a simple wooden table, and a chair. But it was the state of the space that gave Aelar pause—dust covered every surface, cobwebs hung in corners, and what appeared to be the previous occupant's discarded belongings were scattered haphazardly about. After years of living according to his father's strict standards of readiness, which included keeping their spaces immaculately clean for quick departure, the disorder felt almost like a physical assault.

Brom, observing Aelar's reaction with the keen eye of a veteran warrior who had assessed thousands of recruits, correctly read the young man's discomfort. "Sorry about your room; it's a bit dirty, but a little cleaning will do," he said pragmatically. "You'll have a place to sleep in no time." He stepped back, preparing to leave. "Alright, I'll leave you now. See you tomorrow morning at dawn by the eastern training yard."

"Thank you very much, Sir Brom," Aelar responded, squaring his shoulders and meeting the swordmaster's gaze directly. "You can count on me." The determination in his voice was unmistakable—this was not merely a polite response but a solemn vow.

Brom nodded, satisfied with what he saw. There's steel in this one, he thought approvingly. Whatever trials Rioran Dayan's son has faced, they've forged him well. "Good, I'm leaving," he stated simply, turning on his heel and striding away without further ceremony.

As Brom's footsteps receded down the corridor, Aelar's demeanor shifted. The uncertainty and wonder that had characterized his exploration of the fortress fell away, replaced by focused efficiency that would have surprised anyone who had observed only his earlier behavior. This was the Aelar that had survived alongside his father in a world hostile to their very existence—purposeful, resourceful, and utterly self-reliant.

With practiced movements, Aelar secured his door and quickly inspected every corner of his new quarters, checking for hidden entrances, structural weaknesses, and potential weapons. Finding none of immediate concern, he then turned his attention to the disorder. This won't do, he thought, lips pressing into a thin line. A cluttered space means slow reaction time in danger.

Venturing outside, Aelar gathered fallen branches, broad leaves, and various natural materials, crafting rudimentary but effective cleaning tools with the skilled hands of one who had often needed to create necessities from nothing. Within moments of returning to his room, he was engaged in a methodical cleansing of his new space, transforming chaos into order with single-minded focus.

Meanwhile, in Lord Rodel's private chamber, the atmosphere had grown heavy with unspoken histories and long-buried secrets. Rioran sat straighter now, the pretense of "Reiran" fully abandoned as he faced his old comrade-in-arms.

"The truth," Lord Rodel pressed, his voice low but insistent. "All these years of silence, of rumors and mysteries. The people deserve to know what happened when you faced the Demon King. I deserve to know why my friend vanished without a trace when victory was finally ours."

Rioran's weathered face remained impassive, but his eyes revealed the storm within—memories of darkness and light, of terrible choices and unbearable consequences. How do I explain what I barely understand myself? he wondered. How do I tell him that our 'victory' came at a price we're still paying?

"You want the truth, old friend?" Rioran finally responded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Then brace yourself, because some truths are better left buried with the dead we left on that battlefield."

Lord Rodel leaned forward, his coffee forgotten, as Rioran Dayan—hero, legend, and mystery—began to unravel the untold story of how humanity's greatest triumph had sown the seeds of its potential destruction.