The village of Leiths was a small settlement on the outskirts of the state,, simple in every sense...
Its people lived a harsh rural life: dilapidated wooden houses, dry lands that yielded little, and one common hope uniting them all that one day, their children might earn a place among the Orders.
On a morning unlike any other, a message sealed with the mark of the Third Order arrived, announcing the date for the "'Initial Recruitment Trial."'
It was a rare event — almost sacred in its rarity.
The royal summons arrived, marked with the seal of the capital.
It was a rare honor.
"Though the royal selection occurred every year, it was rare — almost unheard of — for a village like theirs to be chosen. But this year, their village was among the selected to send candidates."
Small, overlooked, and weak in resources, they had never expected to receive the official summons.
But this time, the parchment had come. Sealed in silver. Marked by the capital. And it carried one clear message: "Prepare yourselves, all those aged fifteen to seventeen must gather at the village square at dawn."
That night, after the message was received, the village didn't sleep.
Faint candlelight flickered behind every wooden window. Families gathered around modest meals, silent at first, then speaking in hushed voices — not out of fear, but reverence. The old knew what the summons meant. The young pretended to be brave.
One by one, neighbors visited each other. Mothers exchanged cloth wrappings and dried herbs for luck. Fathers stood outside beneath the moon, quiet, their hands calloused and clenched. They didn't say much — only nodded when their eyes met.
At the center of it all was the small temple square, where the village elder slowly raised a hand and recited:
"We send them with hope. May the earth remember their names… and the stars carry their steps forward."
The families placed small wooden charms around their children's necks — a tradition nearly forgotten — carved with symbols of protection, unity… and return.
No tears were shed. Not yet.
But when the firepit dimmed and the square emptied, only prayers remained hanging in the night air, like mist that refused to lift.
That morning, the village square filled with tension and wonder.
"Fifteen- to seventeen-year-olds gathered quietly in the village square, forming a line before the old transport cart, its wheels creaking softly in the morning stillness."
Mothers stood behind their children, hiding both fear and hope behind forced smiles.
Fathers nodded with pride, even when their hands trembled in their cloaks.
Some children wore nervous grins. Others stared at the ground, unable to speak.
It wasn't just a departure. It was a quiet goodbye to everything familiar — the hills, the stream, the smoke from old kitchens, the voices of neighbors.
For many, it was the first step out of the dust.
And maybe… the only chance to rise above it.
Before boarding, Levan stepped away from the others and approached the edge of the square — where the elderly woman who had raised him stood waiting. Her back was slightly bent, her steps unstable, but her eyes... unwavering.
As he reached her, she lifted a trembling hand and placed it gently on his head. Her palm was warm, worn by time.
"Walk steadily," she said in a low voice, almost like a prayer. "Fear no one."
She did not cry.
She did not beg him to stay.
But the silence between them was heavier than any tear, and the way her hand lingered on his hair spoke of all the nights she had feared this moment would come.
Levan knelt slightly, lowering himself so their foreheads nearly touched and said. "I'll come back for you," he whispered. "One day… I'll take you to a place where you'll never have to worry again. I promise."
For a second, the old woman's lips quivered, but she held firm — her tears still trapped behind her eyes. She nodded once, slowly.
Then he stood, turned away… and didn't look back.
Meanwhile, Romo said goodbye quickly to his mother and siblings, smiling awkwardly as he tried to hide his nervousness.
His mother kept repeating gently:
"Be strong, and return to us with your head held high."
They boarded the simple wooden cart silently, settling onto narrow benches.
The driver an old man from a neighboring village looked at them coldly and said:
"Hold tight. The road is long."
The cart moved, the landscape of dry fields and simple homes shrinking behind them.
No one spoke for a long while.
The silence weighed on them.
After some distance, the driver spoke again, his voice gravelly:
"This isn't a journey toward survival… it's a sorting."
"When you arrive, you will be nothing but numbers."
One of the trainees asked hesitantly:
"Were you like us once?"
The driver fixed his eyes on the path ahead and replied:
"I was. I learned that your first step matters more than strength itself.
Your stance, your gaze, even your breathing… all determine your worth."
Levan remained silent, staring ahead as if seeing something far beyond the road.
The journey stretched on for hours, over harsh, unforgiving paths.
Finally, they arrived.
Before them stood the side gate of the Third Order wide open, waiting.
They disembarked, gathering in small groups before the grand square.
Some checked their clothes nervously; others simply stared at the surroundings in silent awe.
The square was paved with polished black stone, crisscrossed with delicate copper lines forming intricate patterns.
None of them had ever seen anything so refined.
Compared to this place, their village felt like a fading, worn-out memory.
They all stood, tense, waiting for the signal to begin the trial their eyes sharp, their breaths heavy, their hopes hanging by a thread.
They did not have to wait long.
From a side gate leading into the square, a tall man appeared, seemingly in his mid-thirties, with pale skin and narrow eyes.
He stood firmly before the trainees and spoke in a steady voice:
"My name is Nolvar Sin.
I am the Supervisor from the Sixth Order for the Initial Assessment Program."
"From this moment, you are under the scrutiny of the Ten Orders."
"Every behavior you display today… will be recorded and never forgotten."
He motioned to his assistant, who quickly moved toward a side table and announced loudly:
"Begin the name registration."
The trainees lined up.
Each stepped forward in turn, stating their name, age, and place of birth, before having a leather strap with a number tied around their wrist.
Romo, a boy of fifteen, medium height, with short brown hair and bright eyes, registered his name and stepped aside.
Levan, the protagonist, also fifteen, slender, with medium-length black hair falling over his forehead, approached silently, wrote his name, and returned to his place without a word.
Ina Nes, a girl with her red hair tied high and brown eyes, advanced quietly, registered her name, and retreated without saying anything.
Then came two others who immediately drew attention:
Kairon Valma: A sixteen-year-old tall boy, sharp features, light brown hair from the Valma family linked to the First Order.
Sever Nyle: Slightly shorter, sturdily built fifteen-year-old with short black hair from the Nyle lineage connected to the Third Order.
One of the onlookers whispered:
"Direct descendants... but this is their first real test."
Nolvar raised his hand, and all whispering ceased at once.
He then pointed toward another gate.
As the trainees clustered nervously in the polished square, a massive stone side door creaked open.
The grinding of stone against stone echoed heavily across the courtyard.
From the shadows of the passage, ten figures began to emerge, walking with measured, deliberate steps.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the air seemed to grow denser.
It wasn't some magical haze, nor a dramatic mist it was a primal instinct:
the presence of people who had lived through real battlefields.
Their attire was uniform:
Chest armor of dark polished silver covering their torso and shoulders. The emblem of their Order engraved neatly within a black circle bordered with fine silver threads. Above it, another symbol: a straight sword surrounded by two intertwining olive branches the mark of a Knight's Rank.
The First Delegate:
A tall, broad-shouldered man, his short-cropped gray hair sharpening the severity of his features.
He appeared about thirty-two years old, his sharp eyes weighing everything around him with a single glance.
He bore the emblem of the First Order.
The Second Delegate:
A woman with bronzed skin and tightly braided black hair, moving with the precision of a seasoned soldier.
Her age seemed around thirty.
The emblem of the Second Order shone on her chest.
The Third Delegate:
A young man of medium height, messy short blond hair, and a faint, humorless smile tugging at his lips.
About thirty-four years old.
He carried the emblem of the Third Order.
The Fourth Delegate:
A slender woman with short, flyaway gray hair and pale, lifeless eyes.
Around thirty years old.
She bore the emblem of the Fourth Order.
The Fifth Delegate:
A massive man, dark-skinned, his facial bones sharp and solid, exuding silent sternness.
Approximately thirty-eight years old.
The Sixth Delegate:
A young man in his late twenties, short dark brown hair, fair skin, and calm, detached features.
He held a leather-bound book in his left hand, as if battle started with knowledge first.
Twenty-eight years old.
The Seventh Delegate:
A small-sized young woman, her short black curly hair framing a simple, upright stance.
She was about twenty-five years old.
The emblem of the Seventh Order adorned her armor.
The Eighth Delegate:
A short, thickset man with messy reddish-brown hair, his face marked with old battle scars.
His restless eyes scanned the trainees like a seasoned hunter.
He appeared around forty years old.
Bearing the emblem of the Eighth Order.
The Ninth Delegate:
A woman with silky white hair falling neatly to her shoulders, cold gray eyes that seemed to pierce through illusions.
About thirty-five years old.
The emblem of the Ninth Order etched brightly on her armor.
The Tenth Delegate:
The tallest among them, a man with neatly parted black hair and a face void of emotion.
Thirty-two years old.
He carried the heavy presence of the Tenth Order like a living monument.
As the delegates seated themselves before the trainees, the atmosphere subtly changed.
Breathing didn't become impossible, but it required focus
as though the very air had thickened, not from magic, but from the accumulated weight of experience, survival, and battle these warriors carried.
Every movement, every glance, became calculated.
Nolvar's voice rang again, crisp and firm:
"These before you are not mere soldiers." "Each of them... is a Knight acknowledged by their Order." "Every stance, every glance, every moment of hesitation you show... will be measured." "One of them may choose you." "Or you may pass by them... unnoticed."
A heavy silence fell over the field, tightening the trainees' postures.