Lord Rodel, clad in gleaming silver plate armor etched with the intricate emblems of his house, cut an imposing figure as he stood by the ornate mahogany table in his private chamber. The deep creases around his eyes spoke of countless battles fought and the weight of leadership that had been his burden for decades. His calloused fingers tapped rhythmically against the hilt of his ceremonial sword as he surveyed the two visitors who had arrived unannounced at his fortress.
The chamber, illuminated by golden light streaming through stained glass windows, fell silent as servants scurried to prepare the room for what promised to be a momentous meeting. Tapestries depicting ancient victories adorned the walls, silent witnesses to history unfolding once more within these stone walls.
"Take a seat, Reiran," Lord Rodel instructed, his deep voice carrying the unmistakable tone of a commander accustomed to immediate obedience. His eyes, sharp as a falcon's, studied the man before him—a face he had not seen in years, yet one that haunted the memories of all who had survived the great war.
Reiran—or rather Rioran Dayan in disguise—bowed his head slightly, careful not to reveal too much familiarity. How many years has it been? he thought to himself. This chamber looks exactly the same, though the man commanding it carries more silver in his beard now.
"Alright, thank you. Aelar, please have a seat as well," Rioran responded, placing a protective hand on his son's shoulder. He could feel the boy's nervous tension beneath his fingers and gave a reassuring squeeze.
Aelar swallowed hard, acutely aware of the significance of this meeting though not fully understanding why. His father had been cryptic about their journey to this fortress, simply stating it was time to meet "old friends." The young man's eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail, every potential exit—a habit his father had instilled in him from their years living in constant vigilance. He obediently took his seat, back straight, hands folded in his lap in the manner his father had taught him was proper when in the presence of nobility.
Lord Rodel raised his hand, and as if connected by invisible strings, the chamber doors swung open. "Waiters!! Prepare some coffee," he commanded, his voice echoing against the stone walls.
A servant, dressed in crisp livery bearing the Rodel family crest, bowed deeply. "Thank you, Lord. It's here in just a few seconds," he replied, backing away with practiced deference before turning to fulfill his master's wishes.
Lord Rodel settled into his high-backed chair, the wood creaking slightly under his armored frame. His eyes never left Rioran's face as he leaned forward, elbows on the table. So, the legendary hero returns from the shadows, he thought, but why now, after all this time?
"Excellent. Now, Reiran, why have you shown up only now?" Lord Rodel inquired, cutting through pleasantries with the directness of a blade. The chamber fell into such profound silence that the distant clink of cups being prepared seemed thunderous in comparison.
Rioran's mind raced, calculating how much to reveal and what to hold back. I've spent years protecting my son, keeping him hidden from those who would use him—or worse, harm him for what I've done. But we can't run forever. He opened his mouth to respond but was saved by the timely arrival of the refreshments.
"Lord Rodel, your coffee is here," announced the waiter, carefully placing an ornate silver tray bearing steaming cups of the rich, dark brew on the table. The delicate aroma of freshly ground beans filled the air, momentarily masking the tension.
"Thank you." Lord Rodel nodded dismissively to the servant before fixing his gaze back on Rioran. "Now, Reiran, do I need to ask again?" he pressed, fingers interlacing before him as he studied his visitor with the intensity of a predator.
Rioran deliberately reached for his cup, buying precious seconds to organize his thoughts. The warm ceramic felt reassuring against his battle-worn fingers. He took a slow, measured sip, savoring not just the flavor but the moment of reprieve it granted him. How much does Rodel know? How much has he suspected all these years?
"Your coffee is quite delicious," Rioran remarked casually, setting the cup down with deliberate care. His outward calm belied the storm of calculations happening behind his eyes.
Aelar glanced nervously at his father, sensing the underlying currents of the conversation but unable to decipher them. Father never evades questions unless there's danger, he thought, his hand instinctively moving closer to the concealed dagger in his boot—another lesson from years of life on the edge of society.
"Don't ignore my question!" Lord Rodel retorted, a flash of the legendary temper that had sent lesser men fleeing from his presence. His fist came down on the table hard enough to make the coffee cups jump, yet controlled enough not to spill a drop. Years of command had taught him precisely how to intimidate without creating unnecessary mess.
Rioran met Rodel's gaze unflinchingly, a silent acknowledgment passing between two warriors who had once stood shoulder to shoulder against unimaginable horrors. He deserves some truth, at least.
"Is it really that important? All that matters is that you've seen me alive," Rioran replied with a straight face, though his eyes softened almost imperceptibly. In that moment, he wasn't just answering Rodel—he was asking his old comrade to understand the weight of secrets better left undisturbed.
Lord Rodel leaned back in his chair, his armor creaking as he studied Rioran's face. Decades of leadership had taught him to read men like open scrolls, and what he saw in his old friend's expression caused him to temper his approach. He's afraid, Rodel realized with a start. Not for himself—Rioran Dayan never feared for himself—but for something... or someone.
"But, Reiran, many were worried about you. It's been years since you last appeared, and some thought you were dead," Lord Rodel pointed out, his tone softening as he glanced briefly at Aelar. The resemblance between father and son was unmistakable to those who had known Rioran in his prime—the same determined set of the jaw, the same watchful eyes that missed nothing.
Rioran followed Rodel's gaze to his son and felt a familiar pang of guilt. I've kept him from the world too long, from his birthright, from the chance at a normal life. But what choice did I have after what happened?
"Is that so? It's information, but it wasn't the right time for me to show myself to them," Rioran explained, each word carefully chosen. His fingers traced the rim of his coffee cup as memories flooded his mind—the screams of the dying, the sulfurous reek of demon blood, the weight of responsibility as he made the decision that would shape the future of humanity but condemn him to a life in the shadows.
Lord Rodel scrutinized Rioran's face, reading between the carefully crafted words. There's more to this story—there always is with Rioran. He decided not to press further, at least not with the boy present. "If that's your decision, then there's nothing I can do about it," he conceded with a slow nod.
Aelar, who had been silent throughout this cryptic exchange, could contain his curiosity no longer. His eyes darted between his father and this imposing lord who seemed to know far more about his father than anyone they had encountered in all their years of wandering.
"Father, what are you talking about?" Aelar asked, his voice steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest. He directed his question to Rioran but couldn't help glancing at Lord Rodel, searching for clues in the older man's weathered face.
Lord Rodel's expression softened as he regarded the boy. So much like his mother in the eyes, he thought, a flash of sadness crossing his features as he remembered another casualty of the great war. "You'll find out in the future, but not now," he replied with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
The lord's gaze lingered on Aelar, assessing him with the practiced eye of a warrior who had trained generations of soldiers. The boy had potential—it was evident in his posture, in the way his eyes constantly assessed his surroundings, in the lean muscle visible beneath his simple traveling clothes. An idea began to form in Lord Rodel's mind.
"By the way, boy, are you interested in training?" he continued, the sudden change of subject catching Aelar off guard. His eyes sparkled with interest as he awaited the young man's response.
Aelar's heart leaped in his chest. Training—real training with weapons and techniques beyond what his father could teach him in their isolated existence—had been a distant dream for as long as he could remember. His eyes sought his father's, silently pleading for permission.
Rioran, recognizing the undisguised longing in his son's expression, gave a slight nod of approval. Perhaps this is why we were meant to come here, after all. He deserves more than a life of running and hiding.
"It's also for your safety," Rioran added with uncharacteristic openness. "You can use it against potential adversaries. Use it wisely." He smiled broadly at his son, recognizing that this moment marked a significant turn in their journey together. For the first time in many years, Rioran allowed himself to hope for a future where his son might walk in daylight without fear.
Aelar straightened in his chair, hardly able to contain his excitement. Training with Lord Rodel's men would mean structure, community, and purpose—all things he had secretly yearned for during their nomadic existence. "With all sincerity, Lord Rodel, I wholeheartedly accept your offer," he replied, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.
Lord Rodel's face broke into a genuine smile, the first since their arrival. "Excellent! Brom!" he called out, his voice carrying effortlessly through the thick wooden doors of the chamber.
The doors swung open immediately, revealing a tall, powerfully built man flanked by a group of disciplined soldiers. Brom's face was a map of scars earned honorably in countless battles, and his eyes held the sharp focus of one who lived by the sword. He moved with the fluid grace of a master swordsman as he approached the table and bowed respectfully to Lord Rodel.
"Lord, why did you summon me?" Brom inquired, his deep voice resonating with the natural authority of a veteran commander. His gaze flicked briefly to the visitors, assessment and curiosity evident in his expression.
"Inform your trainees that you have a new student now," Lord Rodel instructed, gesturing toward Aelar with a casual wave of his hand that belied the significance of the moment.
Brom's eyes narrowed as he studied the young man more carefully. "Is he the one, Lord?" he asked, an undercurrent of meaning in his question that went beyond the simple words.
"Yes, can't you see?" Lord Rodel responded, his tone carrying a weight that indicated there was far more to Aelar than met the eye.
Brom crossed his arms over his broad chest, considering the boy with newfound interest. "Is that so? We'll gauge his capabilities before he officially becomes a student," he remarked, already formulating training regimens in his mind, wondering if this unassuming young man could possibly live up to whatever Lord Rodel saw in him.
Lord Rodel beckoned Brom closer and lowered his voice to a whisper that Aelar couldn't quite catch despite his straining ears. "The responsibility is yours. But treat him differently from your other students; he's the son of the former leader of—"
Brom's eyes widened dramatically, and he straightened so abruptly that his sword clanked against his armor. The son of Rioran Dayan—THE Rioran Dayan! His mind raced with the implications. The legendary hero's bloodline hadn't ended as everyone believed. This changed everything.
With newfound reverence, Brom approached Aelar, who shifted uncomfortably under the sudden intensity of the swordmaster's gaze. Rioran watched the interaction with hawkish vigilance, his hand casually dropping to the concealed blade at his hip—a movement so subtle only the most trained eye would catch it. If there's any threat to my son, even here among old allies, I will end it without hesitation.
"I'm Brom Lorend," the swordmaster introduced himself with formal courtesy. "Starting tomorrow, I'll be your teacher, Aelar. Make sure you're ready for what lies ahead." His voice carried both warning and promise—this would be no easy path, but the rewards would be worth the hardship.
Rioran observed the nervousness flitting across Aelar's face—the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, the almost imperceptible straightening of his shoulders. But beneath that superficial anxiety, Rioran recognized the gleam of eagerness in his son's eyes. He's been waiting for this chance his entire life, Rioran realized with a mixture of pride and melancholy. To be more than a fugitive's son, to find his own path.
"Well done, well done," Lord Rodel nodded approvingly, hands clasped before him on the table. "Now, let's discuss—"
His words were cut short as the heavy chamber door burst open with such force that it slammed against the stone wall, the sound reverberating through the room like a thunderclap. The soldiers flanking Brom instinctively reached for their weapons, while Rioran's hand closed around the hilt of his hidden blade.
"Daddy~~!!!" a high, exuberant voice called out as a whirlwind of energy and flowing fabric burst into the chamber.
Lord Rodel's face transformed from commanding lord to exasperated father in an instant. "Alena, didn't I tell you not to open the door without warning?!" he scolded, though there was more resignation than real anger in his tone.
The newcomer—a young woman with Lord Rodel's stubborn jaw but softened by feminine features—skidded to a halt before the table. Her training clothes were smudged with dirt and what appeared to be tree sap, and her hair had partially escaped its practical braid. Despite her disheveled appearance, there was no mistaking her noble bearing or the confidence with which she carried herself.
"Why, Daddy? Our door is sturdy enough," Alena argued with the logic of one accustomed to testing boundaries. Her bright eyes surveyed the visitors with unabashed curiosity, lingering particularly on Aelar.
Lord Rodel pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture of familiar frustration. "Can't you see I have visitors? Please go to your room for a moment," he requested, his tone making it clear this was not truly a request but a command thinly veiled in politeness.
Alena's bottom lip protruded in a practiced pout as she crossed her arms. "Eeehhhh~~, but Dad, I still have training to do in the training area," she complained, shifting her weight from one foot to the other like a restless colt.
From the doorway, an elegantly dressed woman—clearly Alena's personal maid—stepped forward with the weary determination of one who had fought this particular battle many times before. "Miss Alena, we need to go to your room to wash you now; you're too stinky," she insisted, wrinkling her nose for dramatic effect.
Alena sniffed at her sleeve and grimaced, conceding the point. "Oh, okay~," she replied, turning to follow her maid. But before she left, her eyes locked onto Aelar with sudden recognition, and she pointed at him with unrestrained excitement.
"Daddy, he's the cute boy I saw outside the gate!" she exclaimed, her face lighting up with delight.
Lord Rodel's eyebrows shot up in surprise as he turned to Aelar. "Huh?! What are you talking about, Alena? Is that true, Aelar?" he asked, confusion evident in his furrowed brow.
Aelar, mortified by the sudden attention and the young lady's description of him, felt heat rising to his cheeks. He slid partially behind his father's broad shoulders, a childhood habit he thought he had outgrown. "....Yes, Lord Rodel," he admitted reluctantly, embarrassment coloring his voice.
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 new 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 own 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 own 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 own son had been denied the safety and prosperity that sacrifice had bought 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 actually 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.
"It began when I reached the Demon King's chamber, alone after losing so many along the way..."