For three days, their journey passed without trouble. The carriage followed a winding road through forests, hills, and the occasional wide meadow. Morning dew gave way to warm sunlight, and by nightfall, the skies were calm.
Miles often sat by the window, watching the landscape roll by. The land was beautiful in its own way. Wildflowers bloomed on the roadside. Rivers ran clean and fast. At night, stars filled the sky. Yet for all that peace, a part of him remained tense. Restless.
Sir Loren didn't speak much. He wasn't cold, just distant. Whenever Miles asked a question, he answered briefly and directly. Most of their conversations were short. The knight spent most of his time reading maps or meditating with his sword at his side.
On the second day, Loren handed him a sheathed dagger without ceremony.
"Keep it close," was all he said.
Miles had expected the trip to be difficult. He had thought of bandits, beasts, and all sorts of trouble. So far, nothing had come. A few passing travelers on horseback. A merchant cart once. That was all.
But peace never lasted forever.
The attack came just before sunset, near a bend in the road where trees leaned too close and shadows stretched long. It started with a rumble under the earth. The horses neighed in alarm. Before Loren could steady them, roots burst from the ground, coiling around one of the wheels and yanking it off balance.
A crack of heat followed. Fire lashed from the trees, not natural flame, but tightly controlled magic spell. They struck the rear wheel and part of the carriage, forcing Loren to act.
Loren threw the door open and stepped out, sword already drawn. The moment his boots hit the dirt, the earth trembled under his control.
"Stay inside," he said.
Miles stayed frozen as Loren walked forward, calm as ever. Then the ground behind the knight cracked and rose, jagged pillars of stone ripping up beneath the wave of attackers.
Six figures emerged, scattered among the trees. Bandits, but not simple ones. Robes marked with scraps of glyphs. A few carried staves. One conjured a disc of flame in his hand. Red-tier mages. One of them pulsed orange, barely.
Loren stepped forward, sword in hand. His presence stopped them cold.
"Final warning," he said.
They attacked anyway.
The one with the disc hurled it. Loren sidestepped and flicked his hand. A boulder-sized chunk of earth tore free from the ground and slammed into the man, pinning him to a tree.
The others cast. Fire streaks, bursts of rock, sharp gusts of wind.
Loren moved fast. Every attack missed or failed. His sword cut through the air with purpose. With each swing, the earth answered—slabs rising to block spells, the ground shaking to knock enemies off balance.
He closed the gap to the nearest one, a red-tier woman trying to chant a freezing spell. She didn't finish the words. He cut her staff in half, then dropped her with a clean blow to the chest.
Another tried to flank him.
Loren turned, snapped his fingers. A spike of stone launched from the ground and skewered the man through the thigh, dropping him with a scream.
It was one-sided.
One bandit broke off from the fight, unseen, and crept toward the carriage.
Inside, Miles crouched low. He heard the fighting outside. The heavy strikes and the bursts of mana. He wanted to trust Loren, but his fingers curled around the dagger left beside the seat, just in case.
The screams outside had faded. Loren must've handled them.
Then the door creaked.
Miles turned just in time to see a figure slip inside. Hooded, eyes sharp, a dagger in hand.
The man didn't speak. He lunged.
Miles rolled sideways. The blade nicked his arm. His heart pounded. The man was fast.
Miles reached for the dagger Loren had given him earlier. It wasn't there.
The bandit lunged again.
This time, instinct took over. Miles lifted his palm and whispered the word Ajax had burned into his memory.
"Air Slash."
A thin arc of air sliced forward, invisible but sharp. It caught the man across the cheek, stalling him for half a second. That was enough.
Miles kicked the man back, grabbed the fallen dagger from the floor, and drove it into his chest. The man's eyes widened. He slumped to the ground without a word.
Silence returned.
Miles stood frozen, chest heaving. Blood dripped from the blade in his hand.
It wasn't graceful. It wasn't clean.
But it was survival.
Loren stepped back toward the carriage, sword still drawn. He saw the body near the door and tensed.
Then he spotted Miles inside, wide-eyed, blood on his sleeve, but alive.
"You alright?" Loren asked.
Miles nodded slowly. "He got in."
"I see that." Loren looked at the corpse, then at Miles again.
Loren raised an eyebrow, but didn't speak for a moment.
"Good instinct," he said finally. "But next time, call out. Don't freeze."
Miles nodded again. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. You're alive."
Loren looked back toward the trees. "We're done here. Clean yourself up. We move in ten."
They buried the bodies away from the road. The coachman was shaken, but unharmed. They moved on quickly.
The rest of the day passed in near silence. Loren remained alert, eyes scanning the trees. Miles sat quietly, looking down at his hands.
He had killed a person.
It wasn't like the stories. There was no thrill. No pride. Just a heavy pit in his stomach.
But part of him wasn't shocked. Ajax had done it before. Too many times. Miles remembered it like he had lived it. Sword through flesh. Screams. Blood on stone.
And in that moment, Miles realized something.
He didn't hesitate.
When it came down to it, he moved. He acted. He didn't run.
Maybe that was what scared him more than anything.
Sir Loren's silence was heavy as they continued riding. He glanced at Miles now and then but said nothing. The boy had dozed off briefly after the fight, exhausted from both fear and the drain of sudden action. The dagger was tucked into his belt, though he no longer gripped it tightly.
Around midday, they stopped near a stream. The horses drank while the coachman checked the wheels of the carriage and refilled a water flask. Loren motioned for Miles to sit by the edge of the stream.
Loren studied him for a while, then sighed. "You've got guts. That's not always a good thing, but it's something."
They rested for an hour before getting back on the road. The trail started to rise into the highlands. The trees thinned out, replaced by rocky slopes and low bushes. Miles noticed that Loren's guard never dropped after the bandit attack. He walked beside the carriage more often now, hand never far from his sword.
That night, they made camp off the trail under a sloping cliff face. Loren set up a perimeter using mana-infused stones that glowed faintly and buzzed with a light hum. He explained they would alert him if anything crossed into their space.
Miles helped with the firewood and tried to stay out of the way. He still felt the weight of Loren's words from earlier. He kept thinking about how fast everything had happened. The moment he picked up the dagger. The way the world slowed down as he moved.
He sat by the fire, watching the flames, but his thoughts drifted again. That other voice came back. Not loud, not in full words. Just emotion. Tension. Memory.
He remembered gripping a sword with blood on the hilt. Remembered steel clashing with steel in some moonlit courtyard. The weight of armor. And the echo of a name. Ajax.
It was strange. These memories didn't scare him like they used to. They were starting to feel normal. Or at least, like a part of him he just hadn't known before.
He took a deep breath and looked up at the stars.
"You're thinking too much," Loren said from across the fire.
Miles blinked. "How do you know?"
"Because I've seen that look on too many young faces. And most of them don't make it through their first year."
Miles looked back at the flames. "Do you think I will?"
Loren poked the fire with a stick. Sparks flew up.
"I don't know," he said. "You've got something strange going on. Gift, instinct, whatever you want to call it. The Academy will either teach you how to survive, or it will chew you up."
Miles nodded slowly.
"Then I'll survive."
Loren gave a small grunt that could have meant agreement or doubt. Maybe both.
They rode for two more days without trouble. As they got closer to the Citadel, the roads improved. The dirt paths gave way to stone-paved roads, and they began to pass traders and caravans more frequently. Guards in silver and blue armor patrolled the wider areas. Loren exchanged nods with a few of them, but didn't stop to talk.
Miles noticed the landscape changing. The trees were thinner here, replaced by long grass and fields of pale purple flowers. Then came the outer farms. Organized, fenced plots of land. Workers moved in the distance. The first stone towers appeared by the horizon.
Loren pointed ahead.
"That's the outer district. Beyond that hill is the Citadel."
Miles stood to get a better view. His breath caught when the full city came into sight.
The Citadel wasn't just a school or a fortress. It was massive. Walls of blackstone curved around the outer ring, rising at least fifty feet high. Guard towers dotted the perimeter. Within the walls were streets, buildings, homes, and merchant stalls. It was a city unto itself.
But at the center stood the Academy.
It climbed the cliffs like a castle from an old tale. Spires reached toward the clouds. Bridges connected towers suspended above courtyards. Mana crystals floated in slow orbit around the tallest tower, pulsing softly like stars trapped in motion.
"That's Elarion," Loren said. "You'll learn to hate it and love it. Sometimes on the same day."
Miles couldn't take his eyes off it. His heartbeat quickened.
This was it.
The carriage passed through a checkpoint manned by imperial guards. Loren handed over a seal, which was inspected and cleared. They were waved through without issue.
As they entered the city proper, the noise swelled. Vendors called out from stalls. Students in uniforms walked in groups. Some looked bored. Others looked nervous. And a few looked powerful.
Miles saw a girl lift a barrel with a flick of her finger. A boy summoned an earth shield for a younger student to practice striking. Magic was everywhere.
He didn't speak. His eyes soaked in every detail.
They stopped at a wide stone square just outside the Academy's front gate. Loren stepped down and opened the door for him.
"From here, you walk."
Miles grabbed his bag and got out. His legs felt heavier than he expected.
"Go to the intake desk. They'll guide you from there. Try not to piss anyone off."
Miles turned to him. "Thank you."
Loren didn't smile, but he gave a nod. "Don't waste your chance, Miles."
Then he climbed back onto the carriage, it turned around, and rode off.
Miles stood there alone, facing the gates of the Academy.
He stepped forward.
The stone beneath his boots felt warm, even though the air was crisp. Students passed him on both sides, too busy with their own problems to notice him.
He looked up at the massive doors.
This was where it really began.
Not the story of a commoner boy who got lucky. But something else. Something bigger. Something old.
Miles took a breath, stepped forward, and walked through the gates.