The story begins ten years later on Niklaus' sixteenth birthday.
Niklaus Dorscha stirred from his slumber, shaking off the remnants of sleep like a warrior casting aside the last echoes of a fading dream. Today was different. Today, the air crackled with a sense of anticipation, beckoning him to rise. A spark flickered deep within him, igniting his spirit. With an exuberant leap, he bounded from his bed and flung open the heavy wardrobe door, challenging the morning light to unveil the adventure that awaited. The creak of the ancient wood echoed sharply against the cool gray granite walls, a battle cry in the stillness, and he winced as the sound cut through his thoughts, which raced in a chaotic whirl.
He slipped his feet into well-worn leather boots, his companions through many escapades, each scuff telling a story of challenges met and overcome. His fingers danced over the treasures tucked away in the wardrobe—an old dagger with a hilt worn smooth by his touch, a pouch filled with forgotten relics of childhood adventures, and the spine of a fragile tome. Yet, he settled on a deep black cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders. It felt comforting—a familiar shroud invoking memories of past journeys while his rich brown tunic spoke of countless mischiefs.
A glance at the sun's position sent a jolt through him. He was late! Again! Sighing, he felt the familiar thrill at the thought of racing against time, a penchant of the prince of Lupé that filled his heart with a mix of exhilaration and dread. With a swift motion, he snatched his small knife, its blade glinting ominously in the dim light. As he trimmed his shoulder-length hair, letting strands fall away like the burdens of childhood, a flash of sunlight momentarily entranced him, the brilliance invoking a brief pause in his restless mind.
Turning toward the polished metal sheet hanging on the wall, he peered at his reflection. Violet eyes stared back at him—alive with vitality, youthful curiosity mingling with the haunting shadows of early loss. They sparkled with an intensity that threatened to consume him, a fire stoked by the weight of dreams yet to be fulfilled. He tapped the cold surface, lost in contemplation, feeling the coolness seep into his fingertips—a tether to reality. How much longer could he afford to dawdle?
The silence of his room merely amplified the restlessness bubbling within him, compelling him to pivot and charge out into the world beyond. His heart raced as he dashed toward the Training Halls, excitement surging through him like a wild river. He arrived just as the bell tolled, its commanding chime resonating throughout the stone corridors, signaling the start of weapons training.
Before him lay the sprawling training room, a maelstrom of energy—shouts, clashes of swords, the rhythmic thud of feet against the ground. The weapons racks stood like proud sentinels, each blade and bow whispering stories of victories and defeats. The polished axes gleamed in the flickering torchlight, and yet one weapon captivated his gaze—a hand-and-a-half spring steel sword, its ebony handle calling to him like an old friend.
"Boy! Leave the weapons and get your behind over here!"
The sharp command sliced through the buzz of activity like a knife through silk, jolting Niklaus from his daydreams. He turned, his heart racing, and locked eyes with the source of that gravelly voice. There stood Jonathan Kaine, a towering figure amidst the throngs of lesser men, his presence as commanding as a storm about to break. With raven hair cropped yet tousled, Jonathan's face was carved by time and experience, a rugged map of battles fought and won. But it was his violet eyes—mirrored reflections of Niklaus's own—that truly captured him. Those eyes held the weight of expectation, sharp and piercing, ready to seize any who dared waver.
"Late again, Young Wolf-heart? What has delayed you this time?" Jonathan's voice resounded with authority, but beneath it lay an undercurrent of playful reproach, like a gentle taunt wrapped in a knotted fist.
Excuses crashed through Niklaus's mind in a chaotic whirlwind, each clamoring for their moment of attention. He felt a familiar itch beneath his skin, his fingers twitching at his side, wanting to touch something—anything—to anchor him in the moment. "Chasing dreams can be a hungry endeavor," he finally admitted, offering a sheepish grin. "I couldn't resist stealing a few moments with… inspiration."
Jonathan raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirking up ever so slightly. There was humor there, but also the wisdom of a mentor who had seen Niklaus stumble before. "Inspiration? Or were you once more lost in your daydreams? We don't train for poetry, Niklaus; we prepare for battle."
As they stood at the threshold of the training yard, the reality of Jonathan's words knocked against him like a crashing wave. The journey to the far islands of Vilinoir and Talinor loomed large—a daunting rite of passage for a prince destined to wear the crown of Lupé. To master combat and magic, he would have to learn from ancient monks who dwelled in those distant lands. A shiver of both fear and excitement coursed through him, leaving him restless, his foot tapping against the hard ground in a staccato rhythm.
Jonathan's brow furrowed, his expression darkening momentarily. Concern softened the angles of his face, casting shadows that hinted at deeper truths. "You must be ready for this, Niklaus. Alone on that ship, facing the vast unknown… it will test your limits."
Niklaus nodded, feeling the tendrils of uncertainty coil around his stomach like a serpent. He glanced down, fidgeting with a loose thread on his tunic, the act grounding him in an ocean of swirling thoughts. "I promise you, Jonathan. I won't fail you or our kingdom."
With a firm clap on his shoulder, Jonathan's tone shifted, like the sun breaking through clouds. "That's the spirit. You're becoming a leader, but remember—challenges await you. Train harder, focus, and rely on everything you've learned here."
The warmth of Jonathan's faith infused Niklaus, igniting a fire within. He straightened, his spine tingling with purpose. The weight of duty pressed down, heavy yet invigorating. He could feel the adrenaline beginning to course through his veins, a reminder of the stakes they faced. In that moment, each swing of his sword would become more than just practice; it was an embodiment of his ambitions, a choreography of dreams and apprehensions entwined.
As he prepared for the training session, a storm brewed within him—a mix of doubt and determination, harmony and discord. Each swing of the blade became a dance, every thrust a leap towards the man he must become for the kingdom of Lupé. The air thickened around him, charged with the promise of battle, and amid the chaos of his thoughts, he recognized that the future awaited his command. He could not falter. Not now.