The morning sun cast long shadows across the marble corridors of Gloria's National Academy, its golden rays filtering through the towering stained-glass windows that depicted the glorious history of the kingdom. Students hurried past in their crisp navy uniforms, their footsteps echoing against the polished floors as they made their way to morning lectures. Among them walked Yoshua, his dark hair catching the light as he navigated the familiar halls with practiced ease.
To any observer, Yoshua appeared to be nothing more than another diligent student at the prestigious institution. At sixteen, he possessed the lean build of someone who spent considerable time in physical training, though his pale complexion suggested long hours devoted to scholarly pursuits as well. His gray eyes held an intelligence that his professors had come to respect, and his quiet demeanor earned him the friendship of many classmates who found his presence both calming and reassuring.
The Academy itself stood as a testament to Gloria's prosperity and power. Built from white stone quarried from the northern mountains, its spires reached toward the heavens as if seeking divine blessing for the knowledge contained within its walls. The institution had educated the kingdom's elite for three centuries, producing generals, diplomats, scholars, and administrators who served the crown with distinction. To be accepted into its halls was considered the highest honor a young person could achieve, regardless of their noble or common birth.
Yoshua's morning began, as always, with Advanced Military Strategy under Professor Caldris, a grizzled veteran whose scarred hands spoke of battles fought in defense of the realm. The lecture hall buzzed with quiet conversation as students settled into their seats, notebooks and quills at the ready. Maps of various battlefields covered the walls, each marked with colored pins indicating troop movements and strategic positions.
"Today we shall examine the Battle of Crimson Valley," Professor Caldris announced, his voice carrying easily through the spacious room. "Who can tell me the primary tactical error made by General Harwick's forces?"
Several hands shot up. The professor's eyes scanned the room before settling on a young woman in the front row. "Blackwood?"
"The general failed to secure his supply lines, sir," she replied confidently. "His rapid advance left his rear vulnerable to enemy harassment."
"Correct. And what should he have done instead?"
Yoshua straightened slightly, his mind quickly reviewing the battle's details. "He should have established fortified supply depots every twenty miles along his route of advance, sir. Additionally, he could have sent cavalry units to patrol the flanks and rear of his main force."
Seeing the whole class discussing, but no one raising their hand, Caldris finally said. "Remember, gentlemen and ladies, that victory in battle often depends as much on logistics as it does on courage and tactics."
The lecture continued for another hour, covering the intricacies of siege warfare and the importance of intelligence gathering. Yoshua found himself taking detailed notes, not merely because the subject fascinated him, but because something deep within his chest seemed to resonate with discussions of conquest and the fall of kingdoms. It was a sensation he had learned to suppress, though it never truly disappeared.
After military strategy came Ancient Languages with Professor Morwyn, an elderly woman whose knowledge of dead tongues was legendary throughout the kingdom. The classroom was smaller and more intimate, filled with dusty tomes and scrolls that contained the wisdom of civilizations long since crumbled to dust. Yoshua had always excelled in this subject, finding that ancient texts seemed to speak to him in ways that surprised even his instructor.
"Today we shall translate passages from the Chronicle of Astoria," Professor Morwyn announced, her voice soft but carrying an authority born of decades of scholarship. "Please turn to page forty-seven in your textbooks."
Yoshua opened his worn leather-bound book and found the specified page. The text was written in Old Astorian, a language that had evolved significantly over the centuries. Most students struggled with its archaic grammar and vocabulary, but Yoshua found the words flowing naturally as he read.
"Mr. Yoshua, would you please read the first paragraph aloud and provide a translation?"
He cleared his throat and began: "Ignis sacer in corde hominis ardet, fatum eius determinans..." The ancient words rolled off his tongue with surprising fluency. "The sacred fire burns in the heart of man, determining his fate. Those who bear this flame are cursed to fulfill destiny's design, lest their souls be consumed by the very power that marks them."
A strange silence fell over the classroom. Professor Morwyn's eyebrows rose slightly, and several students turned to stare at Yoshua with newfound interest. The translation had come to him so naturally that he hadn't fully processed the meaning until the words left his lips.
"Remarkable," the professor murmured. "Your pronunciation of Old Glorian is quite exceptional, Yoshua. Have you studied this text before?"
"No, ma'am," he replied, feeling oddly unsettled by the passage he had just translated. "It just came naturally."
The lesson continued, but Yoshua found his attention drifting. The words of the ancient chronicle seemed to echo in his mind, particularly the phrase about sacred fire and cursed destiny. He pressed a hand unconsciously to his chest, where he could feel the familiar warmth that had been his constant companion since birth.
This was his secret, the burden he carried alone in a world where he had no true confidants. Within his chest burned a flame unlike any natural fire – a sacred flame that pulsed with divine power and malevolent purpose. It was not merely a metaphor or a figment of his imagination, but a tangible force that he could feel coursing through his veins with every heartbeat.
The flame had been with him for as long as he could remember. His earliest childhood memories were tinged with its presence, a warmth that never left him even in the coldest winter nights. As he grew older, he began to understand that this fire was no blessing, but a curse of the most terrible kind. It carried with it a compulsion that grew stronger with each passing year – an inexorable drive to destroy the very kingdom that had become his home.
The curse was specific and cruel in its design. He was destined to bring about the fall of the Gloria Kingdom, to see its royal line extinguished and its power broken. The sacred flame whispered to him in moments of quiet solitude, showing him visions of burning palaces and fallen crowns. It spoke of a mission that transcended his personal desires or moral convictions, a task that he was bound to complete regardless of his own wishes.
Most terrifying of all was the flame's method of ensuring his compliance. Any thought of rebellion against his destined purpose, any moment of doubt or desire to abandon his cursed mission, would result in the fire consuming him from within. He had tested this threat only once in his youth, and the agony that followed had convinced him never to attempt such defiance again. The sacred flame would not merely kill him – it would obliterate his very soul, leaving nothing behind but ash and emptiness.
Yoshua had no memory of his origins or how he had come to bear this terrible burden. His earliest recollections were of being found as an infant by traveling merchants who had taken pity on an abandoned child. They had brought him to an orphanage in the capital city, where he had been raised among other forgotten children. Even then, the flame had burned within him, though its true nature had not yet revealed itself.
The irony here is he sat in the heart of the kingdom he was destined to destroy, surrounded by classmates who would one day serve the very crown he was cursed to topple. He had excelled in his studies not out of loyalty to Gloria, but because the flame demanded that he understand his enemy thoroughly. Every lesson in military strategy, every discussion of the kingdom's history and government, every friendship forged within these walls – all of it served to prepare him for a destiny he neither wanted nor could escape.
As the morning classes concluded, Yoshua made his way to the academy's great dining hall for the midday meal. The vast chamber could accommodate nearly a thousand students and faculty members, its vaulted ceiling supported by columns carved to resemble mighty oak trees. Long tables stretched across the floor, each designated for different years and areas of study.
He collected his meal – roasted chicken, fresh bread, and vegetables from the academy's own gardens – and found his usual seat among the third-year students. The conversation around him centered on upcoming examinations and rumors about military movements along the kingdom's eastern border. Yoshua listened with half an ear while his mind remained preoccupied with the morning's translation exercise.
"You seem distracted today," observed Marcus, a stocky young man whose father served as a captain in the Royal Guard. "Professor Caldris's lecture wasn't that boring, was it?"
Yoshua managed a smile. "Just thinking about the upcoming Strategy Tournament," he lied smoothly. "I want to make sure our team is prepared."
The Strategy Tournament was indeed approaching – a competition between student teams that simulated complex military campaigns using detailed maps and miniature armies. He had participated for the past two years and had developed a reputation for unconventional tactics that often caught opponents off guard.
The conversation continued pleasantly enough, touching on various academic subjects and academy gossip. Yoshua found himself genuinely enjoying the company of his classmates, which only served to deepen his inner turmoil. These were good people who would someday serve Gloria with honor and distinction. In another life, he might have counted himself fortunate to call them friends and fellow servants of the crown.
But that life was denied to him by the sacred flame that burned eternally in his chest.