#World update#
Drakensport
Drakensport was not a city built for splendor, nor for the idle comforts of nobility—it was a city forged for endurance. Where Embervale shone as the radiant heart of the kingdom, adorned with marble halls, bustling marketplaces, and grand courts, Drakensport stood as the spine of the realm, rigid and unyielding. Nestled at the foot of rugged cliffs and stretching across fertile plains, the city carried a character that blended discipline with quiet prosperity.
Its people were far from poor. In truth, Drakensport thrived as one of the kingdom's strongest economies, fed by smithies, barracks, and endless lines of supply that armed and clothed soldiers across the realm. Yet wealth in Drakensport was never worn loudly. The families who lived there embraced a culture of simplicity, where showing off riches was seen as arrogance and weakness. Instead of parading silks or golden jewelry, citizens wore finely crafted steel buckles, polished leather boots, and sturdy garments—each detail hinting at pride in function rather than display.
Drakensport's true fame lay in its barracks and its training grounds. Unlike Embervale, where recruits aspired to shine under the gaze of royalty or earn glory through strategy and spectacle, Drakensport shaped soldiers who thought of little but the battlefield. From a young age, children learned discipline as naturally as breathing. Wooden swords clattered in courtyards long before the sun rose, and the echo of marching drills often carried across the streets. It was said that if Embervale raised knights to be leaders, Drakensport molded warriors to be legends.
Generations of commanders and elite squads had emerged from the city, their names etched into both victory songs and memorial stones. Parents who served as heads of barracks passed their unrelenting ethos to their children, creating a cycle where honor was not spoken of—it was lived. The Joren and Toren families, for instance, commanded great respect not just because they oversaw the city's barracks but because they embodied Drakensport's principles: quiet strength, loyalty, and duty above all else.
Visitors often remarked how different Drakensport felt compared to Embervale. The streets were clean but unembellished; taverns were lively yet never extravagant; marketplaces thrived on tools, weapons, and provisions rather than silks or gems. Even the city's architecture reflected restraint—sturdy stone walls, wide training yards, and watchtowers that seemed more watchful than decorative. The grandeur of Embervale dazzled, but Drakensport's stern presence reassured. If Embervale was the heart that inspired, Drakensport was the backbone that protected.
The city's pride was not hidden in golden spires but in the sharp ring of a blade being tested, in the booming call of commanders drilling their men, in the silence of soldiers preparing for duty. To live in Drakensport was to accept a life of purpose. Its people measured worth not by wealth or fame but by discipline and service to the realm. That was what made Drakensport irreplaceable: the kingdom could survive without luxury, but it could never endure without its backbone of steel.
End of update
Resuming the story
The Crownspire train station was a world of its own. Iron wheels screeched on polished rails, whistles shrieked like war horns, and the restless tide of travelers surged across the marble floors. Merchants shouted over the noise, pushing trays of roasted chestnuts or stacks of parchment at passersby. Families waved their goodbyes, soldiers in polished armor marched toward their designated cars, and children tugged at their mothers' skirts with wide-eyed wonder at the massive steel beasts waiting to depart.
Alex stood at the heart of it all with Silas, clutching the strap of his satchel where his newly bought books rested. His chest felt heavy in a way no weight of paper could explain.
Just a few paces away, Joren and Toren leaned against a stone column, their usual casual grins dimmed by the reality of what was coming. They were waiting for their train to Drakensport, while Alex and Silas were bound for Embervale. For months the four of them had lived side by side, fought together, studied together, endured hardship together. Now, for the first time, they would be scattered.
The Embervale train gave a low groan, steam hissing from its vents. Its polished black body gleamed like obsidian, bearing the royal crest—a lion clutching a sword in its jaws. Just across the station, the Drakensport train was being loaded: bulkier, armored along its sides, designed less for elegance and more for the steady, stubborn travel of soldiers. The two trains seemed to represent their cities perfectly—one radiating prestige, the other resilience.
"Guess this is it," Joren said at last, scratching the back of his neck. He tried to sound casual, but his voice carried a weight Alex wasn't used to hearing.
"Don't get soft on us now," Toren added with a grin that was just a shade forced. "We'll be back before you know it. One month, and we'll make Crownspire shake again."
Alex chuckled, but his throat tightened. "Yeah. Just don't go lazy on me. If you two come back with bellies from all the home feasts, I'll have Silas write you both out of the team."
Silas smirked faintly at the joke, though his usual sharpness seemed dulled. He glanced at Joren and Toren, then lowered his gaze. None of them liked goodbyes.
The station bell rang three times, signaling boarding.
"Well," Joren said, reaching out his hand. Alex clasped it firmly, then Toren's. Silas followed, his grip tighter than usual, as though he could hold the moment together through strength alone.
"We'll train harder," Silas said quietly. "And when we meet again, we'll be stronger than ever. That's a promise."
"Damn right," Toren said. "We'll make those arrogant bastards regret ever underestimating us."
For a second, they all stood there, four boys who had arrived as strangers and now parted as something closer to brothers. Then the whistle shrieked again, and the spell broke.
Joren and Toren shouldered their bags and moved toward the Drakensport train. Alex and Silas turned toward Embervale's. They looked back only once, exchanging a silent nod across the bustle of the station, before the crowd swallowed them.
---
The Embervale train's interior was a mix of comfort and discipline. Polished wooden benches ran along either side, cushioned enough for long journeys but plain compared to noble luxuries. Silas took the window seat, setting his satchel down carefully. Alex slid in beside him, exhaling heavily as the train lurched forward.
Steam roared from the engine, wheels bit into the rails, and slowly Crownspire's massive station fell behind them.
Alex leaned his head back, staring at the wooden ceiling. "Feels strange, doesn't it? No Joren cracking jokes every five seconds. No Toren dragging us into arm-wrestling contests when we're half-asleep."
Silas gave a small hum, his gaze fixed on the shifting scenery. Fields blurred into sight, dotted with cottages and grazing cattle. "It's quieter," he said simply. "Too quiet."
For a few minutes they said nothing, letting the rhythm of the train settle their nerves. Then a voice came from the aisle.
"You two—you're Alex and Silas, right?"
Both looked up. A young man, perhaps two or three years older, stood with his arms crossed. His dark hair was tied back neatly, his uniform marked with the insignia of a senior year cadet. Behind him, two others leaned casually against the doorframe of the next coach, clearly part of the same group.
Alex blinked, caught off guard. "Uh—yeah. That's us."
The senior smiled faintly. "Thought so. We were in the hall when you four ran the group simulation test."
Silas straightened in his seat, surprise flickering across his usually guarded face. "You… watched that?"
"All of it," another senior called from behind. "And let me tell you—we forgot it was an exam. For a moment, it felt like we were watching a real adventurer squad clearing a dungeon. The coordination, the balance—it was sharper than most second-years we've seen."
Heat rushed to Alex's cheeks. Praise from peers was one thing; from seniors, it was another. "We were just… doing our best," he said, fumbling for words.
The first senior stepped closer, resting his hand on the seat before them. "Don't sell yourselves short. Natural talent shows, but so does effort. Silas—the way you scouted ahead, predicted the enemy formations, and set ambush points? That wasn't beginner's work. And Alex—your support, clearing the sidelines, keeping the attackers free to strike—you were like the glue that held the formation together."
Silas glanced at Alex, who was staring at the floor, ears red. For once, the sharp-tongued boy didn't have a sarcastic remark.
The senior's voice dropped slightly, carrying a weight that cut through the praise. "But let me tell you this—talent alone won't carry you. We've seen bright squads fall apart because they got drunk on early success. Discipline is what makes talent dangerous. Teamwork is what makes it unbreakable. Arrogance? It's the blade that shatters in your hand."
He paused, eyes distant, as though recalling a memory. "Two years ago, I had teammates who thought skill was enough. We went into a field mission—simple reconnaissance. Overconfidence made them split up, ignore warnings. We lost one of ours that day. Not because he was weak, but because we thought we couldn't fail."
Silence fell heavy in the cabin. Silas's knuckles tightened against his knee. Alex stared, wide-eyed, the lesson sinking deeper than any lecture hall speech ever could.
The senior's expression softened. "You four—what you showed wasn't luck. Build on it. Stay humble. And if you keep training the way you fight, then maybe, just maybe, you'll be the kind of squad others look up to."
He gave them one last nod before stepping back into his coach. His friends followed, but not before one of them clapped Alex on the shoulder. "We'll be watching you, second-years."
When they were gone, Alex let out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Did that just… happen?"
Silas finally looked away from the window, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Seems it did." He paused, then added quietly, "Pressure's heavier than I thought."
Alex leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Pressure just forges steel harder. That's what my father says."
Silas gave a short laugh—not mocking, not sharp, but almost relieved. He turned back to the window, where the golden fields of the kingdom stretched endlessly under the afternoon sun.
The train carried them forward, further from Crownspire, closer to Embervale. Both boys sat in silence, each lost in thought. The words of the seniors lingered like echoes in their minds—not just praise, but warning.
The journey ahead would not be easy. But as the wheels clattered steadily on the rails, Alex and Silas knew one thing for certain.
They weren't just boys anymore. They were becoming something more.