The Sanctuary of Torvas rose from the valley like a mountain sculpted by divine hand towering walls, crimson banners rippling in the wind, courtyards filled with the ringing rhythm of steel on steel. Warriors trained in formation, each movement a prayer, each stance a vow to the god of judgment.
And into this sacred place rode a lone man on a white horse, dusted with ash, trembling with exhaustion but burning with purpose.
Ilaron, the worshipper of Aelus.
His clothes were torn, his face streaked with soot, his hands blistered from gripping the reins through hours of desperate riding. But still he pressed onward, urging the divine steed across the final stretch of forest.
When he reached the base of the Sanctuary, its gates slammed shut.
Two High Knights stepped forward, spears levelled.
"Halt!" the first commanded. "No mortal enters the Sanctuary unannounced."
Ilaron raised both hands, slipping from the saddle.
"My name is Ilaron," he panted. "I bring news from Aramoor. I must speak to the High Priest. It is urgent our people are dying."
The knights exchanged glances, sceptical, wary, unconvinced.
"Many have come seeking shelter," one said coldly. "But only warriors and priests enter without question."
"I am neither," Ilaron admitted, steadying himself against the horse. "But I bring truth that cannot wait."
The second knight narrowed his eyes.
"You claim urgency. All claim urgency."
Ilaron clenched his fists, fighting for breath. "Please Aelus himself descended and commanded me to come."
The words crackled like flames.
For a moment, silence reigned.
Then the first knight stepped back as though struck.
"Aelus… the Hearth-Father?"
Ilaron nodded.
The knights exchanged a silent conversation with their eyes.
Then one lifted a horn to his lips and blew a deep, echoing call.
A few breaths later, armoured footsteps approached from within the Sanctuary.
The gates groaned open.
And Kaelar, the Blade of Torvas, emerged.
His armour was still smudged from travel, his expression sharpened by days of battle and duty. Yet his presence commanded the entire courtyard.
"What is it?" Kaelar asked.
The High Knights gestured toward the exhausted worshipper.
"This man claims to have news from Aramoor. And he claims Aelus sent him."
Kaelar studied Ilaron with eyes that missed nothing.
"Your name," the Blade demanded.
"Ilaron, my lord," the worshipper replied, bowing deeply despite his exhaustion.
At the sound of that name, a name shaped with the soft syllables common to Aelus's followers, Kaelar straightened.
"Ilaron…" he murmured. "A worshipper of the Hearth-Father."
He stepped closer.
"You carry the scent of ash and divine light. Aelus touched you recently."
Ilaron nodded weakly. "He saved me. He saved children… and he bade me come here."
Kaelar exhaled sharply.
"Then enter," he commanded. "You are welcome in the Sanctuary of Torvas."
He signalled the knights, who parted at once. The gates fully opened, revealing the grand courtyard within.
Kaelar motioned for Ilaron to follow.
Inside, the Sanctuary was alive with movement.
Warriors sparred in groups. Novices carried buckets of water. Clerics tended to the injured refugees who had arrived earlier. The courtyard was a flurry of steel and devotion, of discipline and urgency.
Ilaron paused, overwhelmed by the sight.
"This…" he breathed, "this place is incredible."
Kaelar looked back briefly.
"This is where judgment is forged," he said. "And where your message will be heard."
He led Ilaron across the courtyard and into the central keep, through a hall lined with statues of past High Priests. They climbed a flight of stairs until they entered a wide chamber lit by murals of flame.
The High Priest waited inside.
The moment his eyes landed on Ilaron, he rose.
"You are not a knight. Not a priest. Who are you?"
Ilaron stepped forward, bowing deeply.
"My lord… I am Ilaron. A faithful of Aelus."
Kaelar crossed his arms. "He brings word from Aramoor."
The High Priest's eyes sharpened. "Speak."
Ilaron steadied himself.
"The city… has fallen."
The High Priest's expression did not shift but something in his posture tightened.
"Yes," he said. "We know demons stormed the gates. We know the traitor stirred them. But tell me what of the royal family? Have they sent soldiers? Reinforcements? Anything to reclaim their capital?"
Ilaron hesitated.
The High Priest took a step closer.
"What. Has. Become. Of. Them?"
Ilaron exhaled.
"My lord… the royal family has done nothing."
The chamber chilled.
"Nothing?" the High Priest repeated, voice lowering.
"Nothing," Ilaron said. "No troops. No messengers. No attempt to retake the city. It is as if they abandoned Aramoor entirely."
Kaelar cursed under his breath.
The High Priest's gaze darkened.
"Or worse," he said slowly, "perhaps they have partnered with demons."
The possibility settled like a curse in the room.
Kaelar stiffened. "My lord"
"It is not impossible," the High Priest said. "Aramoor fell too quickly. Too quietly. And the royal court has grown… suspiciously comfortable in recent years."
Ilaron shivered.
He had suspected as much. But hearing it aloud set his heart pounding.
The High Priest turned sharply to one of the clerics in the chamber.
"Fetch Priest Ulmar. Send him to the palace with a sealed summons. If the royal family ignores a High Priest's call at a time like this…" His eyes narrowed. "Then we will know."
The cleric bowed hastily and hurried off.
With a wave of his hand, the High Priest dismissed them.
"You have done well, Ilaron. Rest. Food and water will be sent. You will be called again soon."
Ilaron bowed and followed an attendant through the hallways.
But before he reached the guest quarters, he slowed.
Sword strikes echoed nearby clean, rhythmic, purposeful.
Training.
He turned toward the sound.
Across the courtyard, on one of the smaller practice fields, a group of High Knights-in-training worked through stances. Among them
Erias.
The boy swung his practice sword again and again, sweat clinging to his brow, determination burning in his eyes. His form was still imperfect, but it was improving slowly, painfully.
Two trainees snickered as he stumbled.
"You're too weak," one jeered. "A child playing warrior."
"Maybe the Blade brought him in as entertainment," another said, laughing.
Erias ignored them.
He raised his sword. Reset his stance. Tried again.
The mockery continued, but the boy did not stop. He trained, trained, and trained again, refusing to let himself falter. Even when his legs trembled. Even when his breath shuddered. Even when the sting of failure bit into his pride.
One older trainee watched silently.
Then stepped forward.
"You." He pointed at Erias. "Spare me."
The mockers hushed.
Erias stiffened. "O-okay."
They faced each other.
The older trainee struck first solid, controlled, testing. Erias blocked, but his guard nearly collapsed.
The trainees murmured.
Again.
Strike.Block.Strike.Parry.Dodge.
Erias held his ground longer than the mockers expected
but the older trainee eventually swept his legs and placed a practice blade gently at the boy's throat.
"Yield."
Erias gasped. "I yield."
The trainee extended a hand.
Erias hesitatedthen took it.
The two mockers exchanged a look. Their smiles faded.
Respect, quiet and reluctant, began to settle in their expressions.
Then the leader of the training group nodded.
"You're weak," he said bluntly. "But you don't quit. That counts for something."
Erias blinked.
"You… think I can get stronger?"
"Only if you train like someone who doesn't want to die."
Erias nodded fervently.
The trainer smirked. "Good. Then get up. We start again."
Erias rose and for the first time, the trainees formed a circle around him. Not to mock.
But to train with him.
Ilaron watched from the shadows, a faint smile touching his lips.
"That boy…" he whispered, "he reminds me of myself. Once."
He lingered a few breaths longer, then allowed himself to be guided to his room.
But as he left the courtyard, I saw what he could not:
Dream, in his Varos guise, was watching from a balcony above, with a gentle, knowing look in his eyes, as the boy he had chosen continued his ascent.
Soon, the Sanctuary would face the demons.
Soon, the traitor's influence would spread.
And soon, Erias would no longer be merely a boy with a sword
But something far more dangerous.
Yet for now
He trained, under the watch of knights who slowly began to accept him, in a sanctuary preparing for war.
And I, the First, watched destiny weave its quiet, unstoppable thread.