As soon as Corvus stepped onto the street, the crowd swallowed him whole. The people—vendors, children, and the elderly who usually filled the streets with the chaos of evening—suddenly stopped and turned their attention to him. Many had known him for years; they had witnessed his childhood, watched him swing sword, remembered the day he first donned armor. But now, the young man they once knew was being spoken of with divinity. This created a deep contradiction in the eyes of the people: Was he a member of the lineage they belonged to, or a living embodiment of ancient myths?

  An elderly woman took two steps forward as if trying to approach Corvus, but her knees trembled, and she fell to the ground. Her face was lined like a stone cracked by time. She touched the ground with her hands, then raised them toward the sky.

  “The gods… they’ve finally looked upon our bloodline. These old eyes have seen the chosen before death. I can go in peace now…” she whispered. Tears streamed down her cheeks—an expression of both gratitude and awe.

  Corvus glanced briefly at the woman and nodded slightly in respect. These moments were difficult for him. He was in a position he could neither fully reject nor fully accept. Every word, every gaze, every prayer bound invisible chains to his shoulders.

  In a corner, a group of children whispered with a mix of fear and excitement. The youngest, a boy of about eight, leaned toward his brother:

  “Corvus won’t bother judging our skills anymore, will he?”

  The other shook his head quickly:

  “Weren’t you listening, fool? He’s more than a man now. Might be we’re not even meant to speak to him anymore…”

  The children fell silent, as if witnessing a forbidden ritual.

  A little further away, a young Tiamat with crimson eyes turned to his friend and spoke with a familiar smile on his lips:

  “That’s still Corvus! Same eyes, same stride.”

  His friend replied immediately, his voice trembling with excitement:

  “You blind? His eyes burn brighter now… and he looks taller, doesn’t he? Could be signs—divine signs.”

  A middle-aged Tiamat standing behind them struck both on the head at the same time. The thudding sound echoed in the street. As the young men rubbed their heads, the man roared:

  “Fools! We’re all Tiamats— of course our eyes shine! And Corvus is still young. Of course he’s grown! Stop spouting nonsense and stirring up the others.”

  Corvus had heard the words, but didn’t react. There was an ambiguous expression on his face; though his lips moved slightly, no words came out. Inside him, gratitude clashed with a desire to stay distant.

  At that moment, a woman called out from the crowd:

  “Corvus! Don’t turn from us! Even if you walk among stars now… don’t forget your kin!”

  Corvus turned his head and looked in her direction. His eyes met hers. A brief but intense moment… Then he simply bowed his head. He gave neither a promise nor a denial. That gesture carried more weight than words.

  With a slight nod, Corvus continued walking. He could feel the gazes upon him, and with every step, the burden of expectation on his shoulders deepened. The crowd had surrounded him, but a few of his relatives—armored warriors with stern faces—parted the way for him. Even this short walk had turned into a ceremonial procession for Corvus.

  At last, he reached the headquarters of the Tiamat Guardians. Built from broad, dark gray stones, the building was imposing yet functional. The sounds of axes and swords rising from within were like the pulsing veins of the structure. Inside, beneath banners hanging from the walls, young Tiamats were training in sweat, swinging their shields and engaging in fierce combat. In adjacent halls, seasoned guards were practicing slower, deadlier techniques.

  As Corvus entered his designated command room, a few warriors followed him in. His eyes were immediately drawn to the dozens of documents piled on the desk. Much had occurred while he was in the city of Rax. And now, as the leader of the unit, he needed to be informed about all of it.

  One of the warriors quickly pulled the top file and began summarizing its contents. Then another… and another… Each spoke without waiting for Corvus to ask, listing critical points one after another.

  Hours passed. Daylight, like a golden blade, sliced through the room from the window, casting soft shadows over the papers. Corvus’s face remained expressionless, but his eyes followed every word attentively. He read each report line by line, missing no detail. He had to stay loyal to Rhazgord’s iron discipline; leadership meant bearing the weight of detail.

  But the final file… was different. When he lifted the cover of the thick folder, its contents made him pause slightly. Two mid-sized tribes—one located in the eastern highlands, the other on the edge of the western ancient forest—had long been enemies. For the first time, they had offered a peace proposal. But with conditions: they would accept only Corvus as mediator. They said they trusted his word and would consider an agreement only in his presence.

  Corvus slowly closed the final report. His fingers lingered on the edges of the paper, as if the rough texture had caught his thoughts. Then he leaned back, sinking into the hard wooden chair. The room was silent now. The sounds that had once filled it—footsteps, respectful “Commander”s, the quiet but tense tones of warriors presenting reports—had all faded into the past.

  Outside, the day had long ended. The deep silence of the night had given way to the first pale lights of a newborn dawn. The scent of swords, axes, clashes, and sweat from the training grounds was no longer in the air. As Corvus exited the room, he passed among a few young warriors rubbing their eyes and yawning. Their tired bodies leaned against walls, collapsed to their knees, struggling to complete their night watches in a state between sleep and wakefulness.

  Sorbaj was slowly waking. A silvery layer of mist had spread across the narrow streets, soaking the stone pavements with moisture. From afar, the clattering of trays carried by a baker’s apprentice could be heard, and in a corner, the delicate but echoing voice of an elder performing morning prayers rose softly.

  As Corvus walked, his eyes fell on Mount Rhaz. No matter how far the city expanded, Mount Rhaz always loomed above. Reaching toward the sky, its peak often hidden behind clouds, the mountain was a symbol for the people of Rhazgord: faith, origin, and dominion.

  Without thinking, he directed his steps toward the mountain. As he passed by the Red Mansion, two Tiamat Guardians who monitored the entrances and exits of Mount Rhaz stood firm. When their eyes met, they greeted him only with a nod. No questioning, no hesitation. It hadn’t even occurred to them to stop Corvus.

  As the path grew steeper, memories began to rise within him. Unlike his peers, he hadn’t secretly climbed Mount Rhaz in search of the gods during his childhood. Corvus’s youth had not been spent in the playful streets of Sorbaj but in training grounds watered with blood. His peers would sneak up the mountain, searching for gods, laughing as they dodged monks and guards. For them, the mountain was a mystery. But for Corvus, it was nothing more than a pile of distant stone—unreachable, divine, an unnecessary distraction.

  Mornings never started pleasantly for him. While the sky was still dark, they would gather in the mud-covered yard of the camp. The instructors never shouted; they commanded with their eyes. And not understanding those eyes meant pain.

  First task: marching. They were expected to march for hours with heavy armor and weapons. Every child walked with sandbags tied to their backs. The lingering cold of the night would seep into their bones, but stopping was forbidden. If someone fell, the others had to carry them. In the end, everyone had to return as a whole—or those who left their comrades behind were punished with beatings.

  But the real nightmare was combat training.

  Every morning, a circle would be drawn on the training ground. This circle marked the area where two young warriors, chosen for the day, would fight. Two young warriors would enter, and the fight would begin. Fists, knees, elbows… there were no limits. When weapons were handed out, it was only to end the fight faster. The instructors never interfered; no one was allowed to leave the circle until the fight was over. These weren’t simple training matches. The fight continued until one side could no longer stand. Some fights ended in death. The instructors saw these deaths as “the law of nature” and never intervened.

  It didn’t end there. After the fight came shield formation training. A few children would carry heavy shields for hours and hold a defensive position, while the other group tried to break the formation. The attackers used wooden swords, but the children holding the shields were only allowed to defend. If they fell, they were punished. They had to endure not only the weight of the shield but also the blows raining down on them.

  Another training: “The Circle of Thorns”. The instructors would place the children barefoot in the middle of a circle filled with rocks and branches, and hand them short wooden sticks. But there was a rule in these fights: the ground was made of gravel, mud, and large rocks, and if you fell, you could not get back up. Just maintaining balance on the stones was a struggle in itself. Children who sprained ankles or broke knees would be out of training for weeks, and when they returned, everything would start all over again. The marks of those days still remained on Corvus’s feet.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  One of the most brutal exercises was the “Chain Run”. Students would be chained at the wrists with light chains. The chains hindered their movements and threw off their balance. But they had to run. Stopping, falling, or trying to undo the chain was unforgivable. One child dislocated his arm when he fell while dragging the chain; another nearly suffocated when the chain wrapped around his neck.

  After dozens of similarly cruel trainings, most children would collapse into sleep once training was over. But Corvus’s day had just begun. He would leave the camp and head to the elder warriors of the Tiamat tribe. There, he was taught advanced skills like sword mastery, one-handed shield use, the Adler language, and group combat strategies. This training required far more focus than physical strength. At the slightest mistake, his instructor would beat him mercilessly.

  The only reward he received was a few hours of free time each week. But even that didn’t mean peace. Most of the time, he simply tried to rest and, watching the other children, he felt something missing inside. They played games, laughed, dreamed. Corvus had only ever found the strength to join them a few times. And in those moments, as he played among the children, his mother’s voice would be heard:

  “The son of Sanguinar has no time to waste on children!”

  As he climbed, lost in those old memories, he had ascended higher without realizing it. His breath grew heavy, and his lungs began to burn in the thin air. When he stopped, the wind kissed his face—it was cold, but clean. Sorbaj now looked like a small village below. The city had taken on a copper hue with the sunrise, rooftops glistening with golden lines. This altitude brought Corvus a strange calm. No war, no commands. Only the wind, the earth, and above—an untouched sky.

  Just as he turned to go back, he noticed something had changed. The air felt heavier, as if a sudden weight had pressed down. Instinctively, he looked up.

  Three monks stood silently before him. He had heard no footsteps, seen no shadows. It was as if they had peeled themselves from the mountain’s surface. Their black robes floated a few inches above the ground, edges gently swaying with the wind. Their heads were covered, and half their faces were cast in shadow, but their eyes glowed piercingly even from within the darkness.

  Corvus flinched for a moment. A warrior’s instincts kicked in; his shoulders tensed, his breath paused. But he quickly suppressed the reaction. These men weren’t enemies. They were the silent guardians of the past and the sacred—monks who had become one with time beneath the mountain’s shadow, who spoke with the wind.

  He bowed his head, respectfully.

  Nothing could be heard except the faint rustle of fabric and boots gliding across stone. The leading monk nodded slightly in return, accepting the greeting. When he spoke, his voice seemed to blend with the wind, yet the words were clear:

  “To die? Or to remain?”

  Corvus paused. His brow furrowed, though he tried not to show it. Monks always spoke like this—an obscure sentence, a cryptic question, as if it held centuries of meaning.

  Saying “I don’t understand” or “What do you mean?” was pointless. They always answered such questions the same way: by repeating. No explanation, just repetition. Always repetition.

  Without saying another word, the monks passed him with slow steps and began walking toward the mountain’s peak. Their robes fluttered lightly in the wind; they seemed to walk not on stone, but on mist.

  Corvus turned and began descending the mountain without looking back.

  But the question—“to die? or to remain?”—was etched into his mind. With each step, his inner voice repeated it louder. As his feet pressed against the stones, the words echoed as if inside the mountain:

  “To die?”

  “To remain?”

  By the time he reached the foot of the mountain, the afternoon had already passed. The sky had started to gray with dark clouds approaching from the distance. And just then, a young guard wearing a thick fur coat came running toward him, out of breath. The sweat on his face had frozen, but panic filled his eyes.

  “Commander!” he said quickly.

  “Sanguinar calls for you. It’s urgent.”

  Corvus paused. His eyes scanned the soldier’s expression.

  “What is it?”

  They began walking side by side. Corvus had already quickened his pace.

  “Just after you left for the mountain… envoys from the Sizat Empire arrived.” the young soldier said. Even though the sentence wasn’t complete, the tone said it all.

  Corvus’s brows furrowed. He nodded silently. As the stone walls of the Red Mansion came into view, the sky had darkened further. The wind had changed direction, and a tense weight hung in the air. He plunged into the keep’s corridors, leaving shadows behind, heading for the throne room.

  The doors opened swiftly, and when he stepped inside, silence reigned. In front of the throne, two men stood with their hands gracefully yet submissively clasped. Their garments, the ornate seals they carried, and the gold-thread embroidery made it clear—they were more than mere envoys. They belonged to Sizat’s noble bloodline.

  And on the throne sat Sanguinar, as always, one hand resting beneath his head, the other holding a letter, lounging with the careless poise of one who knows everything. His eyes turned to Corvus as he entered. He slightly raised his head.

  “The Emperor has agreed to your offer.” he said.

  And then, with a heavy yet precise motion, he extended the letter to Corvus.

  “He’s approved a second meeting in Sorbaj. Says he’ll attend it—wants to judge the prophecy and weigh the risks himself.”

  Corvus quickly scanned the letter. The proposal he had made in the city of Rax had been accepted by the Emperor. The Emperor of Sizat had approved holding a second meeting in Sorbaj—and this time, he would attend personally. Moreover, he wouldn’t come alone; he would bring with him all the vassal kings of the Sizat Empire. This wasn’t just diplomatic courtesy—it was a clear show of force.

  But for Corvus, it meant much more.

  The meeting taking place in Sorbaj meant that Rhazgord would step onto the diplomatic stage on its own soil. It wasn’t just about strengthening ties with Sizat—it was about showing that Rhazgord was no longer a barbarian nation, but a political actor recognized on the international stage.

  Considering the Emperor hadn’t left the capital in years, this visit was even more significant. This move would declare that Rhazgord was not just a people trapped in a mountain’s shadow, but a force that would have a say in shaping the new world. For Corvus, this wasn’t just a diplomatic victory—it was the beginning of something that would change Rhazgord’s destiny.

  He turned to the envoys standing respectfully just across from him. Both men bore the maturity of middle age. One had a finely crafted sword hanging from his belt, while the other wore a simple yet carefully tailored robe. The experience in their eyes was evident; one had likely been tested on the battlefield, the other across the tables of diplomacy.

  Corvus straightened his posture, his voice rising with calm authority and confidence.

  “I am Corvus Tiamat. I’m pleased the Emperor accepted my offer. We’ll send word to the other nations without delay.”

  The unarmed man stepped forward with a warm smile on his face. He puffed out his broad chest slightly as he spoke; his voice was deep and friendly.

  “An honour to meet you, Your Majesty.” he said, placing one hand over his chest and bowing his head respectfully.

  “I am Naram Elur, envoy of the Sizat Empire.” As he finished his words, he turned to the man with the sword standing firmly beside him.

  “And this is Tukbel Sharad—one of the guards tasked with the Emperor’s safety.”

  Corvus’ brows furrowed slightly at the introduction. While the presence of an envoy was expected, the presence of a warrior—especially one directly responsible for the Emperor’s safety—was not typical for such a meeting. This unusual decision echoed with a few unanswered questions in his mind.

  Tukbel must have noticed the flicker of confusion on Corvus’ face, as he stepped forward. His broad shoulders and commanding stance were hard to miss. His face, marked by harsh lines, reflected years of discipline and combat training. Yet, his voice was unexpectedly soft, speaking in an almost graceful tone:

  “With your leave, Your Majesty, I’ll remain here until our Emperor arrives. As you well know, his enemies are as many as his allies. My men and I will see that all is ready before he sets foot here.”

  Just as Corvus was about to reply, the air in the room suddenly shifted. A heavy energy filled the space; the temperature dropped and the atmosphere began to vibrate. Sakhaar’s Lightstone energy had permeated the room. There was no visible movement, yet its presence seemed to seep through the walls, shake the ground, and invade every living cell.

  Without moving an inch from where he stood, Sakhaar fixed his gaze on Tukbel. His face was shadowed with anger. The old prejudices he held toward the Sizat Empire had clearly resurfaced, blazing in his eyes. His energy was so intense, it pressed down on Tukbel like an invisible hand.

  Tukbel initially tried to resist the pressure. He clenched his knees, trying to remain standing, but failed; before he could grasp what was happening, he dropped to both knees. His breath quickened, and his pupils trembled.

  “If you don’t trust us, then why are you here at all?!” Sakhaar roared, his voice thundering like a storm. Each word echoed off the stone walls of the chamber.

  Corvus immediately tried to calm his father, stepping forward and calling out, but Sakhaar did not back down. His pride—and the honor of Rhazgord—could not tolerate the shadow of an empire like Sizat.

  Blood trickled from the corner of Tukbel’s mouth. As the droplets hit the stone floor, they left dark red marks. He slowly lifted his head, speaking with pain but still attempting composure:

  “Your Majesty… you’ve misunderstood…” he said, followed by a cough that brought up more blood.

  “It matters not which land we visit—we take the same precautions everywhere. This isn’t about you.”

  But he struggled to finish his words. His strength was fading, and the echo of his voice grew dim. Seeing him in this state, Naram quickly stepped forward, his voice rising in panic and concern:

  “Your Majesty! The guards will only prepare the place where the Emperor shall stay. They won’t come near your people. You’ll barely notice they’re here! It’s nothing more than routine.”

  These words sparked something in Sakhaar’s eyes. He knew he had made a show of power. He had seen the same behavior before in kings who thought too highly of themselves. This was no different. After a few moments of silence, Sakhaar took a deep breath and suddenly withdrew his Lightstone energy. The room returned to normal; the cold faded, and the air became breathable again.

  “Corvus will oversee all preparations for the gathering.” he said in a harsh tone. Then he leaned back against his throne and rested his head on his hand.

  “Do not trouble me again until your Emperor stands before me!”