Akola stood in front of his father's office.

Two intricate wooden doors towered above him. Carvings of armored knights wielding huge, gleaming swords covered the doors' surface. Dying warriors fell before the polished ebony knights' feet, their magics useless before the Sinclair family's might.

Akola's pride swelled at the thought of his family's past deeds, but his mood quickly soured. Over the past few years, the halls of his keep had gradually emptied. Now only a few bits of plain furniture sat on the rooms of the Sinclair family manor.

A nighttime storm had swept in hours before, sending tiny echoes of dripping water through the once lavish mansion.

Akola swallowed, adjusted the large, jewel-covered sword at his hip, and straightened his long velvet cloak. He strode into the office with his chin held high, coming to a stop in Infront of a large stone desk. The young man fell to one knee.

"Akola. Rise."

The Akolas' eyes flicked up to meet his father's.

Thomas Sinclair was an imposing man. He seemed to loom above Akola, even sitting down. The son noticed a few new white strands in his father's long mane of black hair. The bags under Thomas's eye had deepened, and his brows were furrowed. Yet his shoulders still budged against a fine blue shirt, and a massive black longsword adorned the wall behind him.

The sword was the Sinclair family's greatest treasure. One thousand years ago, at the height of the clan's power, its founder waged war against an ancient species called the Saria. The family brought the Sarian race to extinction, looting the species' mountain capital.

The sword was named The Blade of The Mountain. It was said to have been crafted by the last Queen of the Sarians in an attempt to forge of weapon capable of defeating House Sinclair. The Queen was killed before she could finish it, but even as a roughly constructed piece of stone, the Heart of The Mountain was deadly.

Rain battered the office's large stained-glass windows. His father's gravelly voice filled the room as Akola took the chair before him.

"Son. House Sinclair has fallen."

Akola drew in a sharp breath. His hands twitched, but the young noble kept his composure

"You have seen the deteriorating state of our clan for the past few years. We've been forced to sell almost every possession we have to fend off our opponents."

Thomas continued, "The blame lies entirely with me. I grew lenient, allowing the smaller houses in Hazend to accumulate power."

He paused, drawing in a short breath before continuing.

"I command you to leave the Kingdom of Rimoria. Take Barrack and our remaining core members to Polis," the man said, tapping a large map on his desk.

An ink trail marked the way out of Hazen to the independent city-state Polis.

"Father, respectfully, I refuse. I will stay and fight," The young man's hand shot to his sword, attempting to convey strength, and power, like his father.

"Akola. You are not a swordsman."

His father's words gripped Akola. It was true, he, the heir of the Sinclair house, a family famous for their swordsmanship, was talentless with the blade.

"You will leave tomorrow night. Until then, do not let anyone know that you will be departing soon, or my opponents may try to interfere. You will attend your classes as usual."

Thomas Sinclair nodded, dismissing his son.

Before he could exit, the man cleared his throat, pushing a plain Red Book towards Akola. "This Tome has been in the family since its founding. We've hired countless scholars to decipher it but... Well. You know. I've never been so scholarly, I thought that you could take a crack at it once you reach Polis. You know you're so smart. You remained me of your m-"

'My mother, yes," Akola interjected with a somber smile, picking up the heavy red book.

"Akola, you know I love you."

"…"

"Yes, father."

Akola gingerly closed the office door behind him, letting out a deep sigh. 

Waiting diligently by the door stood a tall knight, covered in grey steel armor, with a large halberd resting on his shoulder.

Sir Barrack of House Sinclair was assigned to Akola on his eighth birthday. He acted as Akola's most trusted bodyguard and advisor.

The young noble sulked through his manor's empty halls, Barrack wordlessly following him. 

Without the bustling of hundreds of servants, the mansion was eerily quiet.

Akola's' large tower bedroom was one of the only suites still decorated. After injecting the torches around his room with three hours' worth of mana, the noble sat down at his desk, situated in front of a window overlooking Hazend. He could only see tiny, flickering city lamplight through the sheets of rain coddling his tower room.

"fuck Fuck FUCK," Akola slammed a fist down on his desk, sending an ink well shattering on the floor. As he attempted to pick up the ink, Akola rammed his shin onto a chair leg. He kicked the chair, resulting in another jolt of pain shooting into his foot. 

Falling to the ground, tears sprung up at the corners of the young nobles' vision. 

Lying on the cool stone floor, Akola first felt Anger at his father. It wasn't his fault that the house fell, it was his father's. That old Bastard, he's ruined everything that's rightfully mine.

As his anger simmered, Akola thought back on the last few years. What did I do to help him? I offered my father no support. I lorded over the Academy, potentially making him more enemies. 

He took a few shaky breaths, gazing up at the violent storm raging outside his window.

I know nothing about how the world works. - It was a simple conclusion, but one that changed his entire mindset: Akola needed to adapt, quickly.

As if responding to his thoughts, the large black tome Akola had carelessly tossed onto his desk suddenly flew open, its pages fluttering in a nonexistent breeze. Incomprehensible runes glowed in its pages, bathing up the room in blue light. The Tome flew off the desk, landing directly on Akola's chest with a heavy thud.