A New World

By the time the sun had risen the rain had already stopped. At the mornings first rays of light Gabriel and Lowell were leaving the cave.

As Gabriel walked ahead Lowell turned around for the last time. This might be the last time he would step foot in this place.

Lowell then remembered something and took out the wooden sword out of his inventory. It was the same wooden sword he had practiced alongside with his master.

He had sweated, bled and cried himself to sleep with this sword. The sword's edges were all chipped, it was a testament of how hard he had trained with it.

With a practiced motion, Lowell placed the old, chipped wooden sword on the makeshift bed within the cave. It wasn't just any sword—it was the first weapon he'd ever held, the one he'd clumsily swung, and the one that had borne witness to his journey from a novice to a skilled warrior.

The sword was more than a relic; it was a symbol of his growth, his failures, and his triumphs.

"Lowell hurry we need to leave." Lowell ran towards the cave's entrance as heard his master's call.

As Lowell stepped back, his gaze lingered on the worn wood. It was as if he was leaving a part of himself behind, a token of who he once was.

The sword's scars and chips mirrored his own experiences—every notch a lesson learned, every crack a challenge overcome.

He turned and walked towards the cave's entrance, each step echoing a quiet farewell to the past. As he emerged into the sunlight, his master's eyes met his with a glint of pride and encouragement. No words were needed; the bond between them spoke volumes.

With one last look at the wooden sword resting in the cave, Lowell and his master began their journey. The world awaited, filled with new challenges and adventures.

.....

"Everyone! Come and see the new delicacies we have to offer!"

The city of Veloria , the jewel of the Arcanis Empire, was alive with anticipation. Flags bearing the empire's crest fluttered from every rooftop, and the streets thrummed with the collective excitement of its people.

It was the day before the Grand Tournament, a spectacle that drew competitors and spectators from lands far and wide.

Market stalls overflowed with vibrant goods, from exotic fruits to finely woven textiles, their sellers' voices rising in a harmonious cacophony.

Children weaved through the crowd, their laughter mingling with the sound of musicians playing lively tunes. The air was thick with the aroma of street food, a tantalizing blend of spices and sizzling meats.

In the northern part of the city, removed from the bustling market squares and crowded streets, stood the magnificent royal palace.

An imposing structure of marble and gold, its towering spires reached for the sky, a symbol of the empire's enduring strength and glory. The palace was a haven of order and authority amidst the vibrant chaos of the city.

inside the throne room, the atmosphere was one of awe and reverence. Seated on an elevated throne of ornate design was Emperor Aslan Ashbourne, a man whose very presence commanded respect.

His broad shoulders and powerful frame were draped in rich, flowing robes that spoke of his noble lineage and the immense power he wielded. With a gaze that could pierce through the bravest of souls, his eyes held a mix of wisdom and an unwavering resolve.

An official stepped forward, bowing deeply before speaking. "Your Majesty, all preparations for the Grand Tournament are complete. The royal children from the other four kingdoms have been invited, and the messengers are ready to be set in three months time."

Emperor Aslan nodded approvingly. His voice, deep and authoritative, resonated through the room. "Well done," he said, each word carrying the weight of his authority. He turned his gaze towards the shadowed corner of the room. "Kieran," he called, his voice firm and commanding.

From the shadows emerged Prince Kieran Ashbourne. His golden hair shimmered under the light, and his golden, swirly eyes held an unyielding coldness. His fluffy short hair framed his face, adding an air of youthful vigor to his otherwise emotionless demeanor. He moved with a calm precision, his expression devoid of warmth.

"Kieran," the emperor said, "I want you to oversee the final arrangements. Ensure everything goes smoothly and that our guests are well taken care of."

Prince Kieran nodded curtly, his eyes unwavering. "Yes, Your Majesty. I will see to it personally."

There was no warmth in his voice, no hint of affection—only a rigid respect for his father's authority.

As Kieran left the throne room, the weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders.

The excitement of the city below was a sharp contrast to his cold exterior. He knew that the success of the tournament was not just about the festivities—it was a reflection of the empire's strength and unity.