For six months following the Holy Trial, Alaric lived a life of calculated stillness.
He maintained the facade of the quiet, bookish son, a child haunted by the "emptiness" the Church had diagnosed. He spoke in soft tones, kept his gaze downward in the presence of servants.
But Silas Silverlane, a man who had survived the politics of the black sun empire , was no fool. He saw the way his son's eyes tracked the movements of the guards in the courtyard—not with a child's wonder, but with a predator's focus.
He saw the hunger with which Alaric consumed the family library, reading until the candles burn out. Silas knew Alaric needed more than dusty books, he needed a mentor who could navigate the darkness of the world.
He also knew he couldn't choose that mentor alone.
The morning the tutor was set to arrive, the Silverlane office was occupied by three men. Silas sat behind his heavy wooden desk, his face etched with a fatigue that no amount of wine could wash away.
Opposite him sat his oldest friend and most trusted confidant Gram Hilson.
Gram was a contrast to Silas's refined nobility. He was a man of the earth, a seasoned veteran of the Empire's border wars who had saved Silas's life during a ambush in the city twenty years ago.
Gram's hair was a shock of white-blonde, his skin leathered by the sun, and his hands were thick with the hardened of a man who still practiced with a unique grade warhammer every morning.
To Alaric, he had always been "Uncle Gram," the only man who could make his stoic father laugh.
"You're sure about this, Silas?" Gram asked, his voice a deep, comforting rumble. His eyes fixed on the door where Alaric would soon enter.
"Hiring him? Bram Thorne is a ghost for a reason. The Church has ears in every shadow. If they find out you've hired a man who was once blacklisted by the Church to See to train a boy they've labeled 'broken,' they won't just come for the boy.
They'll come for the whole Silverlane family."
Silas leaned forward, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the edge of his desk. "I saw his eyes, Gram. After the High Seer left.
Alaric didn't look like a victim. He looked like a man who had just survived a war and was already planning the next one. I can't leave him defenseless.
If the Church is right and he is empty, then he needs to know how to fight. If the Church is wrong God help us all, he needs a hilt for that blade."
Gram grunted, leaning back. The heavy plates of his leather armor creaked. "I've known you since we were childs, Silas. Your instincts have kept us alive.
If you say the boy has a fire in him, I believe you. I'll keep the perimeter of the estate tight. My personal guards will ensure no 'flies' get a look at the training yard. If anyone asks, the boy is just learning his letters."
"Thank you, Gram," Silas said, the tension in his shoulders dropping an inch. "I trust no one else with his life. Not even my own brothers."
A knock at the door signaled the arrival. The heavy oak swung open, and in walked the man who would change Alaric's life.
His name was bram thorne, a man who looked more like a retired mercenary than a scholar. He was broad-shouldered, with a crooked nose that had clearly been broken more than once, a long beard, and eyes that seemed to weight Alaric very soul the moment he stepped into the office.
Alaric followed behind him, playing the role of the submissive son perfectly. He kept his shoulders slumped, his gaze hovering somewhere near Bram's boots.
But as he entered the room, he caught Gram Hilson's eye. The veteran commander gave him a short, imperceptible nod—a soldier acknowledgment. Alaric felt a flicker of warmth.
Gram was the one person who didn't look at Alaric with the cloying pity his mother did, he looked at him with the watchful eye of a protector.
"He's sharp, Lord Silverlane," Bram remarked, his voice like grinding stones.
He didn't take his eyes off Alaric as Silas introduced them. The man didn't bow, he simply stood there, radiating a grounded, physical presence.
"But sharp blades cut the owner if they don't have a hilt. You want a scholar to teach him poetry, or you want a survivor to teach him how the world actually breathes?"
Gram spoke up, his voice echoing in the office room. "He needs to know the dirt, Bram. Silas wants him to understand the weight of a sword before he learns the weight of a crown. Don't go easy on him because of his age."
Bram glanced at Gram, a spark of recognition passing between the two warriors. "Ah, the Hammer of Hilson. I wondered who was guarding the gates. If you're involved, then this isn't just a tutoring job. It's a mission."
Once Silas and Gram left, closing the heavy doors behind them, the atmosphere in the room shifted.
Bram didn't open a textbook. He didn't ask Alaric to recite his letters. Instead, he unrolled a massive weathered vellum map across the wood table, weighting the corners with heavy iron inkwells.
"Alright, lad. Let's skip the pleasantries," Bram said. "Tell me, when you look at this map of Myrhia, what's the first thing you see?"
Alaric stepped closer. He decided to drop the mask. He looked Bram dead in the eye, his gaze cold . "I see a cage," Alaric said.
Bram raised an eyebrow. "A cage? Why?"
"The borders," Alaric replied, pointing to the light of theocracy at the heart. "The Church occupies the center. Every other nation curves around it like they're moving away from a disaster.
Bram let out a sharp bark of a laugh.
"You've got a mind like a razor, Alaric. But you need to know who else shares this cage with us. It's not just humans."
Bram pointed his finger toward the dense, shimmering forests to the East. "The Elves of the elf empire. They are the masters of the Intermediate and Advanced ranks of Mana manipulation from birth. They look down on us because their lives long.
They don't seek the 'Life' of the Church; they seek the 'Origin.' If you ever meet an Elf, remember, they aren't being polite, they're waiting for you to die of old age."
He then moved his finger to the obsidian mountains of the West. "The Dwarves of the iron forge empire.
They don't care about your soul rank as much as the rank of your steel. They are the only ones who can forge Legend grade weapons. They're very stubborn as the stone they mine, and they've been at war with the Demons for a thousand years.
We have a trade treaty with them, but they trust a human as far as they can throw one—which, considering their strength, is surprisingly far.
Bram's voice dropped to a whisper as he pointed to the soaring, inaccessible volcanic peaks in the furthest North. "And then the Dragons. They don't have 'ranks.' A hatchling is already an Expert level threat. An ancient Great dragon? They are the reason the Divine rank even exists in our scrolls.
They don't interfere in our wars, but they are the true apex. If the Church is the leash, the Dragons are the storm that could break the cage if they ever messed with.
Bram pulled out a separate scroll detailing the hierarchy of the world.
Power ranks =
Novice, Intermediate, Advance, Expert , Master, Grandmaster, Saint, Sovereign, Divine
Demon ranks =
Imp, Soldier, General, Greater, Arch, Baron, Count, Duke, king
Demons also have sub rank
Early, Mid , Peak
Weapon ranks =
Common, Rare, Enchanted, Epic, Unique, Legend, ancient, Divine
Potential Rank
F to SSS+
"The Church gave you an F-rank Potential," Bram said. "They saw a broken vessel.
But in a world of Elves who live forever and Dragons who breathe fire, an F-rank is just a death sentence."
They would rather die than have an F-rank potential.
Alaric looked at his small hands. "And what do you see, Master Bram?"
Bram turned, his face shadowed. "I see a boy who looks at a map and sees a cage.
I'm going to teach you how to survive in the dark. We start tomorrow. Physical training at dawn. We'll find you a Rare grade training sword, and we'll see if we can't push you to Intermediate by the time you're seven."
Alaric nodded. "I won't disappoint you."
As Bram left, Alaric focused his mind, calling forth
Appraisal
[ Target: Bram Thorne ]
[ Rank: Expert (Peak) ]
[ Potential: A- ]
Then, he looked toward the door where Gram had stood.
[ Target: Gram Hilson ]
[ Rank: Master (Mid) ]
[ Potential: A+ ]
Alaric let out a breath. He was still the weakest in the room. He looked at the map again, drawing a small, crimson flame on the paper.
"Tomorrow," Alaric murmured, his eyes glowing with a faint, steady crimson. "The training begins."