So. It's been eight years.
Yeah, eight. As in, I was a tiny, wide-eyed five-year-old when I came to Black Wind Vale, and now I'm thirteen, slightly taller, only marginally more jaded, and significantly better at pretending I know what I'm doing.
They say time flies when you're having fun. Or when you're trapped in a snowy death-valley run by druids who think silence is a lifestyle choice. Either way, here we are.
Let's talk about the place first. Black Wind Vale? Still cold. Still snowed in. Still looks like it was carved out of a depression manual. The trees haven't moved in eight years—emotionally or physically. There's a mist that never goes away, like the forest is permanently vaping.
Now, let's talk people. Because if you think a bunch of cloaked weirdos hiding in a frozen forest for decades wouldn't be interesting, congratulations—you're right.
Elder Thorn. The man. The myth. The senior citizen with the botanical name. He's head of the Verdant Vigil, the group that runs this place. He's got the personality of dried moss and the emotional range of a frozen turnip. Talks like a tax form. Thinks in riddles. Smiles once a season—if the crops are good.
Fun fact: I once asked him why the trees here grow sideways. He said, "Because the winds blow against conformity." No idea what that means, but it sounds like something you'd tattoo on your ribcage.
Arno. My glorified babysitter. Still looks like someone beat a statue into the shape of a man. Wind affinity, sword skills, and exactly zero sense of humor. He talks in short bursts like he's being charged per syllable. But hey, he's saved my life more times than I can count (I still struggle after eleven), so I'll let it slide.
He's the one who trained me. Which means I now know fifty-seven different ways to get murdered and maybe three ways to not. Progress?
The Other Disciples.
Kaelin. Ice affinity. Pretty, cold, better than you—and knows it. She's been trying to ascend to the rank of "Most Insufferable" since she was ten. She's currently winning.
Bren. Earth affinity. Built like a boulder, thinks like one too. Nice guy. Not much going on behind the eyes, but he'd punch a wall for you. Then apologize to the wall.
Sera. Fire affinity. Angry. Loud. Thinks volume equals victory. Wants to burn the system. And probably me.
Milo. Water affinity. Slippery in both personality and actual movement. Speaks like he's auditioning for a role in a mysterious backstory. Big on secrets. Probably writes poetry.
Together we make up the trainee squad of the Verdant Vigil. Or, as I like to call us: the "Frozen Failure Club."
Oh, and my brother? Julius Caspian. The Prodigy. The Golden Boy. Still alive, still perfect, still makes me feel like the decorative backup child.
He's twenty-two now. A full-fledged A-rank knight in service to the crown, fire affinity, ridiculously handsome, and the kind of guy poets write about and peasants name their kids after. Last time I saw him, he patted my head like a puppy and told me to "grow strong."
Thanks, Julius. I'll get right on that. Maybe when I'm not being stabbed at training for blinking wrong.
So what have I been doing for the last eight years?
Let's see:
Waking up at dawn.
Freezing.
Training until my fingers go numb.
Studying battle theory, ancient runes, forest ecology, and political history. (Because obviously I'll need to debate taxes with a wyvern.)
Not unlocking any mystical powers.
Not discovering a hidden lineage.
Not being chosen by a divine artifact.
Basically, everything a protagonist should be doing? I'm not.
And that's the thing. Everyone keeps expecting something. They whisper when I walk by. "That's the Caspian second son," they say. "The quiet one. The strange one."
Yeah, well, the quiet one also learned to throw a knife between someone's fingers from twenty feet. So whisper louder, please.
We've had a few… incidents. Shadowy figures in the forest. Missing scouts. Strange symbols appearing on trees that definitely weren't drawn by any of us. Arno thinks someone's probing the Vale's defenses.
I think someone's bored.
But now something's happening. Something big. Thorn summoned me this morning. No riddles. No vague metaphors. Just three words:
"You're leaving tomorrow."
Apparently, I'm being sent back to the south. To the capital. Alone. With Arno.
No, seriously. After eight years of keeping me hidden like I'm some kind of frostbitten secret, now they decide to release me into the wild? There was no grand explanation. No prophecy revealed. Just Thorn telling me to pack warm clothes.
So here I am. Sitting on the roof of the disciple quarters. Watching the moon. Listening to the wind whistle through the trees like it's in on a joke I'm not allowed to hear.
Eight years.
And tomorrow, it begins again.
Probably with someone trying to stab me before breakfast.
Can't wait.