Levi's Welcome Tour

Freya rubbed her eyes, trying to shake off the grogginess. Crystal blue irises blinked into the morning light, a little duller than they used to be. Her dark brown long hair and uneven at the ends—framed a face that should have looked twenty-two, but exhaustion had etched soft shadows under her eyes.

She was a slim girl with slightly tanned skin, about 5'5", with a long, slender nose and full lips that rarely smiled lately. Her hands, calloused and dry, told a story she didn't speak out loud—of rope, splinters, and saltwater.

Not old. But worn.

The kind of worn that comes not with time, but with survival.

She shifted uncomfortably in the stiff hospital sheets, her fingers tracing the seams of her blanket.

How far am I from Mevelior?

How long have I been out?

Beside her stood a young nurse, neatly dressed and holding a folded bundle of clothes. She had a soft, freckled face and wore her dark hair in a tight braid tucked under her cap. Her uniform was crisp, though a little faded at the edges, and she smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender. Her eyes—warm brown and quietly tired—met Freya's with a small, practiced smile that said she'd done this a hundred times before, but she still cared just enough.

"Here," she said with a small smile, handing Freya a clean pair of cadet-issued attire—dark slacks, a charcoal tunic, and boots that looked like they'd seen more miles than she had memories. "You'll want to change into these."

Freya quickly changed into them. She didn't question, she didn't have a change of clothes as she was dragged here in Stovia

"He'll be here soon" the nurse added

"He?"

Before the nurse could answer, there was a sharp, polite knock at the door.

The door creaked open to reveal a tall man perhaps in his mid 40's, broad-shouldered and strong as a wall. His grey shirt was crisp, tucked into deep navy trousers, a tie clipped in place beneath a pair of old-fashioned suspenders. A black military cap sat snug over a head of unruly salt-and-pepper hair, and a dark eyepatch stretched over his right eye like a war-worn secret.

The nurse straightened. "This is Mr. Levi Shepard, admission manager for the Stovia Cadet Corps."

He stepped forward with a warm grin, extending a gloved hand.

"Levi Shepard. Friends call me Levi. Or, y'know, 'handsome old fox,' depending on the crowd," he chuckled with a wink. "I'm the admissions manager of this fine institution where we turn green sprouts into battle-hardened meatheads."

Freya blinked, slowly accepting the handshake. "Hi… Freya. Uh, nice to meet you."

His grip was firm. Surprisingly so. She tried not to flinch under the sheer strength of it—or his towering presence.

Admission manager? she thought. He looks like he could throw a tank across the field.

"Right, right. I know, you're thinking, 'What's this old fossil doing walking around when he should be in a rocking chair sipping tea with regrets,' huh?" he grinned, elbowing the air as if nudging a ghost. "But I still got one good eye and enough charm to melt steel."

Freya didn't know whether to laugh or back away slowly.

Levi clapped his hands together once. "Well! Come, come, dear cadet. Let me walk you through the glorious halls of the Stovia Cadet Corps—where we turn orphans, geniuses, and troublemakers into the Kingdom's most obedient weapons. Or at least that's the marketing slogan."

He turned on his heel dramatically and gestured for her to follow. "You're lucky I'm your guide. The others are grumpy, old, and boring. Unlike me—grumpy, old, and dashing."

As Freya walked behind him, her eyes scanned the halls of the facility. Everything looked clean, organized, strict. But walking next to Levi was like following a windstorm of sarcasm and unexpected energy.

"You know," he added, peeking over his shoulder with a sly grin, "if you get lost around here, just look for the guy who smells like books, whiskey, and heartbreak—that's me."

She raised an eyebrow. "Books and whiskey?"

He smirked. "Two things that never broke my heart. Unlike Lieutenant Valencia, back in '83… Ah, but I digress! You're too young to hear about such scandals."

Freya tried to hide the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. For someone who looked like he belonged in war memorials, Levi was… strangely alive. Warm, loud, unpredictable.

The kind of man you'd never expect to survive a battlefield—because the battlefield would get tired of him first.

As Freya followed Levi through the clean, echoing halls of the facility, her mind drifted—half-listening to his ramblings about cafeteria food conspiracy theories and suspiciously attractive field medics—into something deeper.

The Bulletin Board said "The Kingdom of Stovia".

A land as strange and stubborn as its people.

Geographically, it was one of the most gifted territories on the continent—carved in the rough, oval-like shape locals often referred to as Velthra's Plate, named after the ancient goddess of abundance who, legend said, dropped her rice cake into the earth and formed the land itself.

To the north, Stovia's edge kissed the ocean, its cliffs standing tall like silent guardians of the sea. On its left, the western front, a range of high, jagged mountains known as the Braecliff Teeth acted as a natural wall—unyielding and eternal. The right flank was swallowed by the Dreimire Forest, dense and whispering, full of mystery and ancient beasts best left undisturbed.

That left only the south—Stovia's heartline. Its lifeline.

The southern border was the kingdom's only true open land, and it served both as a bustling center for trade and a potential doorway for invasion. Fortunately, the southern terrain was vast and manageable—perfect for building, farming, and training. As a result, most of the kingdom's military presence was concentrated there, fortified over decades.

But what truly made Stovia different wasn't just its shape or size.

It was its heart.

While other neighboring counties kept their armies pure with royal bloodlines and noble descendants, Stovia broke tradition. Under the rule of the previous queen—Queen Ardyn the Resilient—the law was rewritten. The throne opened its arms to the forgotten and the fallen.

War children. Orphans. Refugees with nowhere to go. Even those born with Aetherium abilities—rare powers considered dangerous or divine depending on the region—were welcomed.

Not out of pity.

Out of strategy.

The queen had said once: "A bloodline may carry tradition, but it's hardship that breeds strength."

In Stovia, anyone could join the Cadet Corps. Anyone could rise through the ranks, earn coin, earn respect, and maybe—if they survived long enough—shape the fate of the kingdom itself.

And Stovia wasn't just another kingdom. It was the largest among its neighbors, both in land and military might. A sleeping titan. The smaller counties around it—like Velmire, Ostrevia, Elarith, Reswick counties and floating isles of Nymora—often turned to Stovia for protection, treaties, and power.

In exchange, they offered loyalty.

And loyalty, in times of war, was priceless.

Freya found herself absorbing fragments of the world Levi casually strolled through, pieces of information falling into place like scattered puzzle tiles. Some of it came from Levi's wild tangents—others from the neatly pinned bulletins on the hallway walls. Schedules. Training codes. Maps of the facility. A gold-trimmed plaque that read:

"Stovia Cadet Corps — For Strength, For Sovereignty, For All."

She barely had time to process before they passed towering archways that led into massive open training grounds. Some cadets sprinted laps in sync, others grappled in hand-to-hand combat. To their right, an enormous chamber sealed behind thick glass panels crackled with magic—aetherium users twisting energy mid-air, flames dancing in practiced symmetry, bolts of light snapping from fingertip to fingertip.

Levi continued rambling, one hand casually tucked in his suspenders, the other flailing with dramatic flair.

"Now that," he said, nodding to the glass-encased training hall, "is what we call the 'Oh-Gods-Please-Don't-Explode-The-Walls' Zone. It's for cadets with flashy powers and a habit of accidentally lighting their instructors on fire. Happened twice last week. I gave them all gold stars anyway."

As they walked, cadets and officers passed by, many tipping their heads respectfully toward Levi.

"Mr. Shepard!"

"Hey Levi!"

"Stop flirting with my mother, Levi!"

Levi responded with unshaken ease: playful winks and exaggerated bows to every female, and a snarky jab or two for the men.

"Tell your mother dinner's still on the table, Lieutenant!"

To another: "Looking sharp today, corporal. Did you finally iron your spine?"

Freya watched it all, caught somewhere between amusement and awe. She'd dreamt of places like this—huge, alive, buzzing with the pulse of purpose. She saw a small group practicing swordplay in a sandy courtyard, their blades gleaming with every clash.

Her breath caught.

She remembered—suddenly and vividly—her childhood. Her hands gripping the hilt of a wooden sword too big for her. Her voice whining to Robert Sinclair, her father, begging him for one more round of training before bed. His laugh. His patience. The way he would never go easy on her, even when she cried.

And then—

It all crashed down.

Blood. Screaming. The face of her father, fallen. The floor soaked in red.

A man with a mark.

Pain.

Interrogation.

A room with no windows.

Freya stopped cold in the hallway, her breath slicing in sharp and uneven. Cold sweat spread along her spine. Her knees nearly buckled. She clutched the wall as her vision blurred.

Then, like an echo born from the abyss of her own mind, she gasped the word:

"Dolphin."

The sound bounced off the walls like a slap.

Levi, who had walked several paces ahead, paused mid-rant about "ancient cafeteria bread being sentient," and turned sharply.

He saw her frozen there, trembling, her face pale.

No one else was around. Just him.

He approached slowly, gently, the usual humor gone from his eye.

"Hey… you alright, kid?" he asked, voice low and searching.

Freya opened her mouth, but instead of words, tears came. Her legs gave way, and she sank to the floor with her arms around her knees, shivering as the grief cracked through her like thunder.

Levi didn't ask again.

He crouched beside her—not touching, not pushing—just being there.

After a moment, when the storm in her chest began to quiet, he exhaled and offered his hand with a rare softness.

"Let's get you to your dorm," he said gently. "You can explore the rest later. One step at a time, alright?"

Freya nodded through her tears.

And for the first time in a long time, she let someone else lead her through the storm.