Arindor barely had time to catch his breath as they hustled him through the palace doors. It was all a blur—the towering gates, the guards staring at him, and the hurried footsteps echoing down endless stone hallways. He kept his gaze on Regal's back, not even sure what he was doing here. Regal didn't bother looking back, just kept striding forward like he had a purpose, like he already knew where they were going.
Finally, they stopped outside a thick wooden door, and Regal pushed it open. The room inside was… overwhelming. Arindor had never seen anything like it. It was massive but somehow felt cramped with all its grandeur—dark wood tables polished to the point you could see the firelight from the hearth flickering in them, high-backed chairs that looked more like thrones than anything you'd actually sit in, and heavy tapestries hanging on the walls, probably of battles he'd never heard of. Everything felt old, like it had witnessed more than any living person could remember.
Without a word, Regal swung his cloak off and tossed it aside, revealing clothes that somehow seemed even stranger. A plain black shirt—simple but well-worn—and trousers that looked like they'd seen better days. Underneath, he wore a metal breastplate, scratched and dented, like he'd been in more than a few fights recently. Regal unfastened his sword belt, letting it fall onto the table with a dull thud, and the dagger on his hip gleamed in the firelight.
"Regal, what—what's going on?" Arindor finally stammered, still reeling. "I'm just a blacksmith's hand. I didn't come here to—"
"A blacksmith's hand?" Regal shot back, a hard edge to his voice. "Did you really think you'd come here, maybe be a sorcerer, and then just… go back to hammering iron like nothing happened?"
Arindor opened his mouth but had nothing to say. Regal wasn't wrong; he just… hadn't thought that far.
"Of course," Regal muttered to himself, rolling his eyes like he was praying for patience. "We leave at dawn. Get some sleep, if you can."
"Leave?" Arindor's head was spinning now. "Where? What are we even doing?"
Regal sighed, his eyes flicking up to the ceiling as if asking for help. "You know, I really thought the prophecy was true. I thought, 'Hey, the new sorcerer might actually have some sense.' Guess I was wrong."
Arindor flushed, fists clenching, but he swallowed his words. He wasn't about to argue with Regal, especially not when he was this confused.
Regal gave him a long, hard look. "Alright, listen closely. Emperor Salvax has ruled this continent with an iron fist for decades. He's turned every law, every scrap of power, to serve him—and he's not about to let that go. He wants to rule forever. And you, Arindor, are a threat to that dream."
Arindor blinked, feeling like he'd been dropped into a story he didn't belong in. "Me? How…?"
"Yes, you. The moment Salvax hears that there's a new sorcerer, he'll hunt you down without a second thought." Regal's voice was hard, certain. "We need to move before he even gets word."
Arindor felt his mouth go dry. "So… I'm… in danger?"
Regal actually slapped his own forehead. "What do you think, kid?" He yanked off his breastplate and tossed it aside. Underneath, his arms were covered in shallow, red cuts from shoulder to elbow, like he'd been through hell just to get here.
Arindor's eyes widened. "What happened to you?"
Regal just shrugged, like it was no big deal. "They're just flesh wounds, alright? Salvax's men aren't exactly gentle, but believe me, these won't slow me down." He gave Arindor a pointed look, his voice a little softer now. "This—this is what it takes to stay alive when you're on the run."
Before Arindor could ask more questions, the door opened, and two women entered. They moved quickly, one carrying a basin of water, the other with towels draped over her arm. They both nodded at Regal, not saying a word.
"They'll take care of you," Regal said, still sounding annoyed but softer now. "Get you bathed, fed, whatever you need. We've got a long journey ahead, and the king wants to see you before we go."
Arindor stared after him as Regal turned to leave. "But… where are we going?"
Regal hesitated, looking back over his shoulder. His face softened, just for a moment. "Best you don't know, kid," he muttered, then slipped out, leaving Arindor alone with the attendants and a thousand questions swirling in his head.
The attendants guided Arindor down yet another hall, his protests falling on deaf ears. They opened a door, revealing a bathing room so grand it made him stop in his tracks. A massive tub sat in the center, crafted from polished marble, veined with hints of gold, and filled with steaming water. Ornate brass fixtures gleamed in the soft light, and the entire room smelled faintly of lavender.
"Honestly, I can bathe myself," he muttered, feeling his cheeks burn as the two women moved to undress him without hesitation.
"Not tonight, you can't," one of them replied, her tone brisk but not unkind. "If you're leaving at dawn, you'll want to be spotless."
They set to work, scrubbing his arms and back with surprising strength. The warmth of the water and the smell of soap filled his senses, and though he tried to be irritated, he had to admit it felt… calming. They even washed his hair, rinsing it with some kind of herbal concoction that made his scalp tingle.
Finally, after he was scrubbed raw and his hair was nearly squeaky clean, they handed him a thick, soft towel and gestured to a fresh set of clothes: a simple tunic and trousers, but the fabric was finer than anything he'd ever worn. Arindor dressed, feeling like he was stepping into someone else's life.
He was led to a small dining room where a feast waited—no other word for it. Roasted meat sat in the center, glistening with juices, surrounded by platters of cheeses, dark bread with crusts so crisp they cracked when he broke them open, and fruit arranged so perfectly it looked like a painting. There were potatoes roasted with herbs, a bowl of some creamy, savory soup, and a pitcher of what he guessed was wine.
Arindor barely knew where to start. He tore into the bread first, then reached for the meat, savoring the way the juices melted on his tongue. He tried the soup, which was rich and earthy, warming him from the inside out. Every bite tasted better than anything he'd ever had in his life, and he realized he hadn't even tasted food like this before.
When he finally leaned back, stuffed and a little overwhelmed, the attendants appeared again as if by magic, whisking away the empty dishes. He sat there in silence, feeling like he was in a dream, when the door opened, and Regal walked in, flanked by two guards.
Regal looked him up and down with a raised eyebrow, then nodded approvingly. "Get some rest. We're moving out at first light."
Arindor's stomach dropped, his momentary comfort shattered. "Where are we going?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Regal ignored the question. Instead, he gestured to the two guards. "These men will be stationed at your door. For your protection."
Arindor blinked, glancing nervously at the guards, who stood like statues. "Protection… from what?"
"From leaving, for one." Regal's voice had a slight edge to it. "Do not step outside this room, Arindor. Not until morning."
Arindor opened his mouth to argue, but the look on Regal's face stopped him. "Alright," he said, his voice small.
With a final nod, Regal turned and left, the door closing with a solid thud behind him. And just like that, Arindor was alone. He sank down onto the edge of the bed, the weight of everything crashing over him. His life was changing again and he didn't even know what was waiting for him on the other side of that door.
Arindor lay on the bed, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling. His heart pounded. An ache spread through his chest. Could he really leave all this behind?
Fonrir's face flashed in his mind. The old man had taken him in after his parents were gone, fed him, clothed him, taught him the craft of blacksmithing. Arindor squeezed his eyes shut. Could he really slip away without saying goodbye? It felt wrong. Fonrir had been more than a mentor; he'd been family.
And then there was Eloween. Just thinking about her sent a flood of warmth through him. She was How could he just disappear from her life, too? Without even telling her?
No. He couldn't do It.
He got up and crossed the room, heading for the large window on the far wall. Metal bars lined it, stretching from top to bottom. He grinned after running his hands over them. These weren't just any bars. They were crafted by Fonrir himself, and Arindor had helped him install them. He remembered every inch of them, every weak spot.
Carefully, he gripped the leftmost bar. It wobbled, just slightly. That was enough. He worked it loose, then squeezed through the gap, easing himself out onto the narrow ledge outside the window.
The drop was daunting, but there was no turning back now. His fingers wrapped around the ledge as he began his descent. Stone by stone, handhold by handhold, he made his way down, gritting his teeth against the strain. Finally, he dropped onto the garden path below, landing in a crouch. He pressed himself flat against the wall, catching his breath.
The guards' footsteps echoed nearby, their boots clanking against the stone path. He kept himself low, his eyes scanning for an opening as they drew closer.
"Did you hear?" one guard muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "They say the prophecy's true. This lad is the one."
The other guard snorted. "The blacksmith's boy? A sorcerer?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll believe that when pigs fly."
Arindor held his breath as they passed. His heart pounded, but he stayed perfectly still.
The first guard grunted. "Maybe. Still, got an odd feeling tonight."
The second guard laughed, the sound sharp and dismissive. "That odd feeling's the wine talking."
They moved on, their voices fading into the distance. Arindor exhaled slowly. Then, as soon as he was sure it was safe, he slipped out from his hiding spot and bolted across the gardens. He kept low, avoiding patches of moonlight, his heart racing with every step. When he finally reached a small stone archway, he ducked through it, leaving the palace grounds behind.
The familiar streets of the poorer quarter stretched out before him. The grandness of the palace faded into the gritty, close-packed buildings he knew so well. The smell of metal and ash filled the air, stronger than ever. He knew that smell. It was the scent of Fonrir's forge.
Fonrir's shop was still there, tucked between two crumbling stone buildings. A dim light glowed from the tiny window by the door. Arindor's heart clenched. Memories flooded over him—long nights working there with Fonrir and River, laughing and hammering until their arms ached, the air thick with the heat of the forge.
He reached for the door, his hand hovering over the handle. He could picture Fonrir's face, the crinkled eyes and the warm, steady hand that had guided him all these years. He swallowed hard, bracing himself.
Then, he slowly pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.