In a camp somewhere deep within the forest, two men moved together as they patrolled the area. They were dressed like soldiers, armed with polished armor that caught the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy, each with a sword hanging at their waist that clinked softly with every step.
"Hey! Did you hear?" one of the guards asked, breaking the monotonous silence. The other guard, whose eyelids were already drooping from boredom, perked up like a hound catching a scent, anything to keep his mind occupied.
"Heard what?"
The first guard scoffed, puffing out his chest with the satisfaction of knowing something his companion didn't. "You mean you haven't heard? We're getting a new leader, recommended by the commander himself. I heard he's from the main family and an important person too." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, though there was no one else around for miles.
The second guard's eyes widened like a startled deer. "Really? If he's really from the main family, then there's no helping it, we're cooked." He gulped audibly, already imagining the grueling drills and impossible standards that would surely follow.
These guards were part of a unit under the Eisenklinge Order of the Lion, stationed at the border of the domain like watchful sentinels. Every problem they faced felt magnified in the isolation of their post, and gossip traveled faster than wildfire through their ranks.
Presently, there was a bandit group running amok in the forest, and the commander of the order, Count Daimon, had dispatched the unit to handle the threat. But there was another layer to this mission, it was also a test for the newest addition to the order, though the guards didn't yet know they were about to meet their examiner.
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In a room lit by the pale morning light, a young man stood before a mirror that reflected more than just his image, it seemed to capture the very essence of nobility itself. He had long, flowing obsidian hair that cascaded like black silk over his shoulders, and piercing blue eyes that could cut through steel. Standing at 6'1", he wore a beige-colored trench coat over all-black inner wear, the contrast making him appear like a figure stepped out of legend.
The expression on his angular face was one of calculated indifference, as if the world around him held little interest. Without so much as a glance at his reflection, he moved past the mirror with fluid grace, approaching an armor stand positioned in the corner of the room like a silent guardian.
The young man reached for the sword the armor stand held, a blade that seemed to hum with anticipation at his touch. The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, he continued moving toward the door, his steps purposeful and unwavering. This was none other than Sigmund Eisenklinge, Alaric's firstborn son and heir to a legacy written in blood and honor.
After his time at the Cradle, Sigmund had spent three years interning at the Eisenklinge camp within the Lion Order. The path was traditional, after the Cradle year, or for outsiders when they turned twelve, young nobles would enlist to intern at the Eisenklinge camp, training within one of the orders.
There, they would be molded and brought up to speed before being sent to the empire's academy to serve. Upon their return, a position would be waiting for them like a perfectly tailored suit. However, some orders maintained incredibly strict requirements, and the Lion Order was notorious for being the most selective of all.
Every year, the orders would accept new recruits, but the Lion Order would take only two candidates, or sometimes none at all. Only those of direct bloodline and designated heirs could join, as it was believed their noble blood made them inherently stronger than common citizens.
During his time at the empire's academy, Sigmund had carved out a reputation that preceded him like thunder before lightning. Due to various circumstances that seemed to follow him like shadows, his return had been delayed by two years. Upon finally returning to Eisenhart, Count Daimon had immediately enlisted him in the Lion Order, recognizing in Sigmund a prodigy among prodigies. A talent too precious to waste.
After walking for some time through the forest path, Sigmund arrived at the camp grounds where he could see soldiers moving about like ants in their organized chaos. He remained silent, his keen eyes scanning the area as though searching for something specific. Suddenly, his gaze paused and locked onto a tent. not just any tent, but the largest and most elaborate structure in the entire camp, its fabric rippling gently in the forest breeze.
He immediately moved in that direction, his steps measured but purposeful, each footfall displaying the discipline that had been etched into his very bones through years of training. As he approached the tent, two guards stepped forward, crossing their swords in an X pattern that barred his path like a gate of steel.
"Stop!" the first guard shouted, his voice echoing through the camp. The second guard, seeing that the intruder had been halted, puffed up his chest and spoke with authority he hoped he possessed.
"This place is off-limits to civilians!"
Sigmund, whose expression remained as aloof as morning mist, showed no reaction to their words. He simply continued forward as if the guards were nothing more than morning fog to be walked through.
"Hey! Stop!" the guard shouted again, but Sigmund paid him no more attention than he would a buzzing fly.
The guard attempted to strike at Sigmund, but the outcome was as unexpected as lightning on a clear day. In the blink of an eye, Sigmund had vanished from where he stood and materialized behind the guard like a ghost made flesh. Both guards stood frozen, their mouths agape, and before the second guard could even think to interfere, a voice cut through the tension.
"What's all this ruckus out here?" A man emerged from the tent, his presence commanding immediate attention. He bore the trademark obsidian hair of the Eisenklinge bloodline, though his eyes were amber rather than blue. Clad in well-maintained armor that spoke of experience and rank, he surveyed the scene unfolding before his tent with growing concern.
The moment the man's gaze met Sigmund's, he froze as if turned to stone, beads of sweat forming on his forehead despite the cool forest air. His mind raced: 'Him, he's finally here. What in hell's name have these men done? The look on his face doesn't seem murderous yet, but I should intervene for their sake before they end up as corpses decorating the camp.'
"You two!" he called out, tension crackling in his voice like a whip. "What are you doing? Do you not know who that is?" His words carried the desperate edge of a man trying to prevent a catastrophe.
The two guards looked at each other with expressions as blank as freshly fallen snow. They had no idea what transgression they had committed, nor that their actions moments ago could have sealed their fate if they had pushed this mysterious figure any further.
"I am sorry, young master. Forgive them. it is my fault," the captain pleaded, dropping to his knees faster than a stone falls, his voice carrying the weight of genuine fear for his subordinates' lives.
Seeing their captain on his knees, the guards finally grasped the gravity of their situation. They gulped nervously, their Adam's apples bobbing like corks in choppy water, and looked to their captain with expressions that screamed the unspoken question: *Who in the seven hells is this person?*
"You fools!" the captain hissed, his voice a mixture of panic and authority. "Come now, kneel and apologize to the young master! This is the firstborn son of our Lord, the one our commander calls the prodigy among prodigies. Young Master Sigmund Eisenklinge!"
The moment his name was spoken aloud, it hit the two guards like a physical blow. They had just harassed not merely an important person, but the purest blood among the pure, the heir to their very livelihood. Terror washed over them like an icy wave, and they immediately crashed to their knees, their voices cracking with desperation.
"Young master, please forgive us!"
Sigmund, meanwhile, observed the entire scene with the detached interest of someone watching clouds drift across the sky. He had never intended to exchange words with the guards in the first place. Had they proven truly troublesome, he might have removed an arm or leg as casually as pruning a tree branch. But since the captain had appeared before things escalated, such measures were unnecessary. Without acknowledging the kneeling men, he simply walked past them into the tent.
The guards and their captain remained frozen in their positions until Sigmund disappeared inside. Only then did the captain turn to his subordinates, who were already fighting back tears of relief and shame, and shot them a glare that could have melted steel armor. He shook his head. Sigmund had just joined their unit, and more encounters like this were inevitable. The guards swallowed hard once more, wiped the cold sweat from their brows with trembling hands, and reluctantly returned to their posts, already dreading the next time they might cross paths with the young master.