Scene 1: The Training Hall
The clash of swords rang through the training hall, sharp and unrelenting. The flickering torchlight illuminated the polished stone walls, casting long, shifting shadows of the fighters locked in combat. Elliotte moved with precision and grace, his golden hair damp with sweat as he danced around his sparring partner's strikes.
Exilibur, the radiant sword formed from his ring, gleamed brilliantly in his hand, it's light a stark contrast to the gray stone of the hall. It wasn't just a weapon; it was an extension of himself. His movements were fluid yet calculated, his strikes fast and unyielding. Every clash of blades sent echoes reverberating through the chamber, a rhythm of focus and determination.
Elliotte feinted left before spinning to the right, disarming his opponent with a clean strike. The other knight stumbled back, breathing hard, before bowing low to acknowledge his defeat.
Elliotte lowered Exilibur, the light dissolving into wisps before reforming as a silver ring on his finger. He flexed his hand absently, staring at the ring for a moment. I've trained for years. My body is ready, but am I? The real world isn't a training hall. It doesn't have any rules.
A sharp voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Sir Elliotte," a palace guard said as he entered the hall, bowing low. "Your father and King Aric request your presence in the throne room immediately."
Elliotte straightened, brushing stray locks of hair from his face. "I'll go at once," he replied. His tone was calm, but his curiosity surged. Why now? What do they want from me this time?
The walk to the throne room was both familiar and daunting. The grand corridors of the palace stretched endlessly, their stone arches carved with the stories of past warriors and rulers. Sunlight poured in through the stained-glass windows, painting the halls with hues of gold, blue, and red. The weight of history pressed on Elliotte's shoulders, a reminder of the legacy he was expected to carry.
The heavy double doors of the throne room groaned as they opened, revealing the vast chamber within. King Aric stood tall, his silver crown gleaming in the light. Beside him was Commander William, Elliotte's father, his face as unreadable as ever. The two men exuded authority, their very presence commanding respect.
"Approach, Elliotte," King Aric said, his voice deep and resonant, filling the chamber.
Elliotte stepped forward, his boots clicking softly against the marble floor. He stopped a few feet away, standing straight and meeting the king's gaze.
"Elliotte," the king began, his expression both solemn and proud, "the time has come for you to fulfill your destiny."
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Elliotte's breath caught slightly, though he kept his composure.
"The nine remaining Rings of Light lie scattered across the lands," King Aric continued. "If you gather them, you will wield a power that surpasses all others—a power to protect this kingdom and bring balance to the fractured world. You will be a hero among legends."
Elliotte's heart pounded in his chest. He had always known this moment would come, but hearing it spoken aloud made it feel real.
"Where do I begin?" he asked, his voice steady despite the storm of questions swirling in his mind.
William stepped forward, his arms crossed, his voice firm. "The locations of the rings are lost to time and legend. But there are whispers… whispers that the Woodshadow Forest holds secrets tied to their whereabouts. That is where you will begin your search."
The king's gaze sharpened. "But you will not go alone."
He gestured to the shadows at the edge of the room, and a figure emerged, his movements quiet and deliberate. The man was tall and lean, clad in dark clothing that seemed to blend into the room's dim light. A hood concealed much of his face, but the faint glow of torchlight revealed a long, jagged scar running diagonally across his cheek. His piercing eyes locked onto Elliotte, calculating and cold.
"I am Mark," the man said, his voice low and even. He inclined his head slightly, his tone as sharp as a blade. "I will ensure your journey is… efficient."
Elliotte studied the man carefully. Something was unnerving about Mark's presence, but beneath it, Elliotte sensed a formidable strength.
"I look forward to working with you," Elliotte said, nodding firmly.
Mark didn't respond, his gaze unreadable.
Hours later, the streets of Ironclad were filled with celebration. Torches lit the city square, and the air buzzed with excitement as Elliotte and Mark prepared to set off. Children waved and shouted his name, their voices ringing with hope.
Elliotte smiled faintly, but the weight of the task ahead pressed on him. These people believe in me. I can't fail them.
Scene 2: Journey through the Wildlands
The wildlands stretched endlessly before them, an untamed expanse of dense forests, rolling hills, and jagged cliffs. As Elliotte and Mark journeyed deeper, the vibrant greens of the kingdom gave way to darker, more foreboding hues.
The trees here were massive, their gnarled roots clawing through the earth like ancient fingers. Strange plants glowed faintly in the shadows, their bioluminescence casting eerie light across the underbrush.
Elliotte's senses were on high alert. Every rustle of leaves, every distant cry of a creature set his heart racing.
"Keep your eyes sharp," Mark said without looking back. His voice cut through the stillness like a blade. "This isn't Ironclad. The wildlands don't play by your kingdom's rules."
Elliotte nodded, gripping the hilt of Exilibur tightly. He glanced around, his gaze falling on small creatures flitting through the foliage. Some had shimmering scales that reflected the faint light, while others had glowing eyes that seemed to watch their every move.
"What are these creatures?" Elliotte asked, unable to hide his fascination.
"Vernix. Quinari. Others too," Mark replied, his tone flat. "Don't let their size fool you. Even the smallest of them can kill if you're not careful."
Elliotte frowned, his hand tightening on his weapon. "I didn't realize the world outside Ironclad was so… alive."
Mark smirked faintly, though his expression remained hard. "Alive and unpredictable. You'll learn that soon enough."
They pressed onward, the forest growing darker with each passing hour. Suddenly, a low growl reverberated through the trees, deep and menacing. Elliotte froze as a massive figure emerged from the shadows.
It was a Grumok.
The beast's thick, spiked fur bristled as it bared its fangs, its glowing red eyes locking onto them. Its claws scraped against the ground, and its growl deepened, vibrating through the air.
Elliotte reacted instinctively, summoning Exilibur in a flash of light. The sword hummed with energy as he stepped forward.
"Stay back," Mark ordered his voice firm. "This one's mine."
Elliotte hesitated but obeyed, stepping aside as Mark moved toward the beast.
Mark moved like a shadow, his steps silent and precise. The Grumok lunged, its claws slashing through the air, but Mark dodged effortlessly, slipping around the beast's attacks with practiced ease.
In a blur of movement, he struck—his dagger finding weak points at the creature's joints. The Grumok roared, thrashing violently, but Mark was relentless. With one final strike, he drove the blade into the beast's neck, and it collapsed with a heavy thud.
Elliotte stared, awed. "That was… incredible."
Mark sheathed his dagger, his expression unreadable. "Experience," he said simply. "You'll get there. Eventually."
Scene 3: The Oakwood Inn
The sun dipped lower in the sky as Elliotte and Mark trudged through the dense forest. The gnarled trees cast long, jagged shadows across the ground, their leaves rustling softly in the growing breeze. The day had been long, and the weight of travel clung to Elliotte's body like a leaden cloak.
"How far are we from Woodshadow Forest?" Elliotte asked, his voice cutting through the quiet of the evening.
Mark glanced over his shoulder, his expression impassive. "Still days away. We'll camp soon."
Elliotte sighed, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. He wasn't used to this—walking for hours with no clear destination, no structured plan. The unpredictable wildlands were already beginning to wear on him.
But as they crested a small hill, a faint glow appeared in the distance, nestled among the trees. Elliotte squinted, his eyes catching the flicker of lantern light.
"What's that?" Elliotte asked, pointing toward the glow.
Mark followed his gaze and gave a slight nod. "An inn."
Eliotte's curiosity piqued. "An inn? Out here?"
"They're common enough in forests like these," Mark replied as they made their way toward the light. "Places for merchants, travelers, and adventurers to rest. Not all of them are safe, but they're better than sleeping on the ground."
As they approached, the inn came into view. Its wooden structure was sturdy but weathered, the kind of place that had seen countless travelers pass through its doors. A carved wooden sign swung gently above the entrance, the words "Oakwood Inn" painted in faded gold. The soft glow of lanterns spilled from its windows, casting a warm and inviting light against the encroaching darkness.
Elliotte felt a small surge of relief. After hours of trekking through the wildlands, the sight of a roof and walls felt like a gift.
Inside, the inn was alive with the hum of conversation and the crackle of a large hearth in the corner. Wooden tables and chairs filled the space, occupied by travelers of every kind—merchants with bulging packs, cloaked adventurers nursing drinks, and even a bard strumming a lute in the corner.
What caught Elliotte's attention most, however, was the magic.
Across the room, patrons casually used magic rings as though it were second nature. A young woman at one table summoned a flicker of flame to light a pipe. At another, a man conjured a small stream of water to rinse the dirt from his boots. Near the bar, two travelers amused themselves by creating tiny floating orbs of light that danced around their hands like fireflies.
Elliotte froze, his eyes widening. In Ironclad, magic was tightly controlled, and reserved for the nobility or the military. To see it wielded so openly, by commoners no less, was almost unthinkable.
Mark noticed his expression and smirked faintly. "You're not in Ironclad anymore. Out here, magic isn't a privilege—it's a tool."
Elliotte tore his gaze away from the glowing orbs at the bar. "But… how? In Ironclad, magic is limited to those with rank or wealth. You can't just…" He gestured vaguely toward the woman who had just used her ring to summon fire. "You can't just hand it out like that."
Mark leaned against the edge of a table, his tone calm but edged with dry amusement. "That's because Ironclad hoards its power. It keeps magic locked up behind palace walls, used only by those it deems 'worthy.' But out here? Magic is woven into everyday life. Rings like those—fire, water, earth—are common enough if you know where to look or who to trade with."
Elliotte frowned, his gaze shifting back to the patrons. "So they're just… allowed to use it? No restrictions?"
Mark shrugged. "Why shouldn't they be? Magic belongs to no one. Not the royals, not the military—no one. Out here, people survive because of it. Some use it to hunt, others to heal. It's not about who's worthy. It's about who needs it."
Elliotte was quiet for a moment, his thoughts swirling. He thought of Anther—of the wooden ring, of the dark magic that had led to the destruction of his friend's family. If Ironclad hadn't hoarded magic… if it had shared it the way these people do, would Anther have been spared?
A pang of regret shot through him, but before he could linger on the thought, Mark straightened and motioned toward a table near the hearth.
"We'll rest here for the night," Mark said. "Get something to eat. We'll need our strength for the days ahead."
Elliotte nodded, following him to the table. His mind was still buzzing with the sights and sounds of the inn, the casual use of magic so at odds with everything he had been taught.
The peaceful hum of the inn was interrupted as the heavy doors creaked open. The chatter died down as two armored figures entered, their boots clanging against the wooden floor. The insignia of the Kingdom of Aethelvar gleamed on their breastplates—a golden tree encircled by stars.
The lead guard stepped forward, his voice booming across the room. "Attention! We are searching for a man skilled in dark magic—a fugitive known for causing unrest across the region."
The tension in the room thickened, conversations grinding to a halt as all eyes turned to the guards.
The second guard unfurled a wanted poster and held it high for all to see. Elliotte's heart stopped as his gaze locked onto the image on the parchment.
It was Anther.
The boy he had once called his best friend, whose family had been destroyed by his betrayal. The boy who had disappeared into the shadows all those years ago.
Mark's sharp gaze flicked toward Elliotte, catching the subtle shift in his expression. "You know him," Mark said quietly, more a statement than a question.
Elliotte didn't respond. He couldn't. His pulse thundered in his ears as he stared at the poster, his hands gripping the edge of the table tightly.
Anther's face was older now, hardened, his once bright eyes shadowed by something darker. But there was no mistaking him.
Anther is alive.