Synopsis
The music hushes. A single clinking of silver on glass echoes across the courtyard.
All eyes shift to the upper balcony framed by moonlight and vines. There, standing tall in ornate black-and-silver royal garb, is King Aedryn Velkaris, the Stormfang Sovereign—ruler of Dragonoth and known as "The Last Roar" for ending the Beast Rebellion with a single strike of his ancestral blade.
His voice, deep and commanding, silences the crowd.
King Aedryn (raising his goblet):
"My sons… Grey, blood of my line, calm and sharp as steel.
Itarim… wild of heart, storm-born, yet loyal beyond blood.
Today you are no longer boys chasing each other through these halls.
You are warriors. Heirs. And soon, wanderers."
A murmur rolls through the crowd.
King Aedryn:
"By the traditions of our ancestors—before the crown, before the blade—a true Dragonoth heir is cast into the world, stripped of name, shield, and station. For three years, he must live not as a prince… but as a survivor.
Only through fire does a dragon rise.
And so, at first light, my sons shall depart. One path, two burdens.
To fall, or return as men worthy of the future they will shape."
The crowd remains still—awed. Itarim swallows hard. Grey doesn't flinch.
The king steps aside and gestures. A pair of warrior attendants emerge with twin velvet-covered cases.
King Aedryn (smiling slightly):
"Before you leave… I gift each of you what words cannot provide."
He lifts the first case and presents it to Grey.
"Grey. You fight like a tempest. Calm, calculated—then strike like lightning. This lance was forged with Silverthrum Steel, tempered in the breath of the last mountain wyrm. Balanced for a tactician's hand, yet merciless in battle."
A sleek, silver lance with a double-pronged head and etchings that glow faintly in the moonlight. Grey bows and accepts it silently, reverently.
The king turns to Itarim.
"Itarim. Born outside blood, but not outside destiny. You fight with fury, with instinct—blazing like wildfire.
This blade was not made—it was uncovered. Pulled from the roots beneath the Tree of Witness.
Its name… Feralsong. And only you could wake it."
He presents a sword—sleek but wild in shape, the metal appearing almost organic, with faint red markings that ripple slightly when near Itarim.
Itarim grips it. The sword responds with a low hum, syncing to his aura.
King Aedryn lifts his goblet high.
King Aedryn:
"Tonight, we do not mourn their leaving… we celebrate the fire in their blood.
To Grey. To Itarim. To the future of Dragonoth."
All (in unison):
"To the young!"
Glasses clink. Music swells. The moon hangs heavy overhead.
Candlelight flickers. Itarim, still half-dressed from the ceremony, sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the sword Feralsong, which rests in a stand.
A soft knock. No response.
The door creaks open and Grey slips in, still in his formal attire but barefoot, holding two half-finished goblets of wine.
> Grey (smirking):
"Can't sleep either?"
> Itarim (without looking):
"Didn't know we were pretending to try."
Grey hands him one of the goblets. They sip in silence for a moment.
> Grey:
"What do you think of the trial? Of all… this?"
> Itarim (shrugs):
"Haven't thought much. But I bet it'll be fun. You know—starving, bleeding, sleeping under dead trees."
Grey scoffs.
> Grey:
"A prince must remain composed in every situation."
> Itarim (mocking):
"Oh-ho! The great prince, so regal, he's immune to bug bites and wild boars."
> Grey (grinning):
"Exactly."
They laugh briefly—genuine, warm. Then silence returns.
> Itarim (softly):
"You afraid?"
> Grey (quietly):
"...Only for what might happen to you if I'm not around."
> Itarim:
"Tch. That was almost touching. Now get out and go sleep before I cry."
Grey chuckles, salutes mockingly, and slips out.
The scene Cut to black.
A golden haze blankets the village's mighty gates. A few guards stand at attention, but only one figure waits for them near the arch: Sensei Mark, cloaked, arms crossed.
Itarim and Grey arrive, now dressed in practical gear: long cloaks, leather wraps, traveling gear—a blend of rugged elegance.
Their weapons are sheathed behind them. Their eyes sharper. The moment has arrived.
> Sensei Mark (without turning):
"About time."
> Grey (teasing):
"Didn't want to leave before breakfast."
> Mark:
"Where you're headed, breakfast will be what doesn't eat you first."
He turns to them and hands over a weathered scroll-map, sealed with a red thread and sigil.
> Sensei Mark:
"This leads to the Dominion Reach. Three moons' journey—if you don't get lost.
No names. No titles. Just instincts."
He steps forward, placing a hand on each of their shoulders.
> Sensei Mark (quietly):
"You'll find monsters out there. But they won't always have fangs.
Trust your bond. And remember who you were before the crown."
A final nod. No more words.
They turn. Walk through the gates. The world opens before them.
As the wander the plains of the earth time passes by with the duo having walked through wide hills and barren plains,crossing bridges strung over canyons.Sitting by a fire, roasting a massive beast's haunch after a brutal hunt while Grey sketches in a notebook.
Itarim racing a wild windwolf for sport.
Both laughing in the rain under a broken canopy.
They grow—stronger, scrappier, more in tune.
TWO MONTHS PASSED...
The young duos arrive at an adventurers guild located in a village called Embergrove
The building bustles with voices and warm light.
The boys step inside—tired, cloaked in dust and dirt. Their eyes scan the place.
Guild Clerk (noticing them):
"New blood, huh? Here for work or shelter?"
Grey:
"Both. But mostly work."
Clerk:
"Then you'll need to take the ranking exam. We don't send E-Ranks to hunt wild beast boars."
She gestures to a board behind her, labeled RANKING SYSTEM:
E – Novice
D – Capable
C – Expert
B – Elite
A – Professional Elite
S – Rare
SS/SSS – Legendary
> Clerk:
"Exam starys in a minute . Try not to die."
They exchange a look—and grin.
A minute time arrives, Grey and Itarim are led through a back door into the wide arena.
The chamber is shaped like an old war hall—circular, stone-forged, and humming faintly with enchantments. Thirteen young warriors sit scattered across benches, flanked by braziers and silver-rimmed pillars.
Grey and Itarim, cloaked in dust and calm, take their seats near the far end, weapons sheathed, expressions unreadable.
The air is thick with nerves. And curiosity.
> Itarim (whispering, teasing): "Feel like we're about to be auctioned."
> Grey (dryly): "I'd wager you'd go unsold."
Itarim leaned back on the bench, arms behind his head, feet kicked up, casually surveying the room.
Grey, in contrast, sat upright beside him, fingers drumming lightly on the wooden bench, eyes focused.
"Lot of energy in here," Itarim muttered under his breath.
"You mean tension?" Grey replied, not looking away. "They're scared. Some of them, anyway."
"Think we'll be paired together?"
"Wouldn't be fair to the instructors."
Before Itarim could chuckle at that, the soft scrape of boots interrupted them.
A girl had stopped in front of them. She had short, ash-blonde hair tied up carelessly and wore a light leather tunic over dark trousers—clearly practical. A blade hung at her side, but her posture was relaxed. Her green eyes studied them sharply, but not unkindly.
"You two," she said.
Grey lifted a brow. "Us?"
"You're from Dragonoth, right?"
Itarim raised a brow: "Is it the brooding aura or the unwashed cloaks?"
Girl (smirking): "Neither. It's the iron-thread tunics. No one wears them past the western crags."
Grey: "Suppose we should've packed disguises."
Girl: "Wouldn't have helped. You walk like nobles trying to hide that they're not."
She extends a hand, casual but deliberate.
Girl: "Liria. From Nestrin coast. Don't worry—I'm not here to bite."
Itarim (grinning as he takes her hand):
"Itarim, son of no one important."
Grey rolled his eyes. "Grey. His slightly more composed counterpart, Same village. Try not to judge us by his sense of humor."
Liria chuckled. "Hard not to. He's got that 'village menace' energy."
Itarim grinned. "That obvious?"
She smirks and slides onto the seat beside them.
"You two are strong," she said after a pause. "I can tell."
"And how's that?" Grey asked.
She tapped her temple. "Aura sense. Weak one. But it's enough to feel the undercurrent. You're holding back, both of you."
Grey and Itarim exchanged a brief glance—then a shared thought flickered between them through their telepathic link.
Grey (telepathically): "She's sharp."
Itarim: "And bold. I like her."
Grey: "Don't."
A moment passes.
Liria (lowering her voice): "You'll be fine. But try not to reveal everything. Some folks here… aren't just here for the exam."
The three glance subtly across the room. A boy in crimson armor sharpens a jagged blade with too much purpose. Two others sit in silence—twins with void-black eyes.
Itarim (telepathically, to Grey): "She's right. Something's off."
Grey: "I know. They're watching us."
She leaned forward then, lowering her voice. "Don't worry—I won't out you. I'm not here to make enemies before the exam starts."
Itarim raised a brow. "So you're here to make them after?"
"Only if they earn it."
A beat passed between them before all three cracked faint, knowing smiles.
Liria stood. "Good luck out there. If we face each other… hold back a little, would you?"
"No promises," Grey replied.
"Definitely not," Itarim added.
She gave a lazy wave and returned to her side of the chamber.
As she left, another voice from the back whispered, "That Liria girl… she's not just talk."
"Yeah?" Itarim muttered, watching her go. "She'll be fun."
Grey: "You're not here to make friends, remember?"
Itarim: "Right. But if I accidentally get along with someone… who's gonna stop me?"
The doors creak open.
An instructor, face hidden beneath a wolf-steel mask, steps in, followed by four others. Behind them, the far wall parts—revealing a dimly lit combat arena marked with ancient glyphs and glowing combat runes.
> Lead Instructor (voice deep and enchanted): "You've come seeking rank. You will earn it in one of two ways."
He steps into the center of the circle.
> Instructor: "One: Show us your art. Shape, strike, and summon. Prove your foundation."
"Two: Face an examiner. Survive three minutes. Or impress them before time runs out."
The arena glows.
> Instructor: "Each of you will be called. Your rank will reflect your skill… and your restraint."
> Instructor (turning): "Grey. Step forward."
He does, cloak fluttering behind him. He enters the ring, drawing a silver-tipped lance. Across from him, a B-Rank instructor cracks his knuckles.
> Instructor: "Begin."
Cue combat.
Grey moves like a storm in pause—graceful, sharp, flowing from stance to stance. The clash rings out. Each block, parry, and strike earns murmurs from the others.
The instructor lunges—Grey meets him mid-air, spinning the lance and disarming him in two smooth motions.
> Instructor (pausing): "...A-Rank."
Gasps. A few students stiffen. The twins exchange glances.
Grey returns silently, not even smirking.
> Itarim (under his breath): "Showoff."
> Grey: "Hold back."
---
> Instructor: "Itarim. Enter."
He does.
The crowd leans in.
The instructor this time—a hulking brute of stone skin and two sabers—cracks his neck.
Itarim doesn't draw his blade at first. He walks—calm, loose, eyes closed.
Then the earth splits—his footwork silent, his movements deliberate, feints layered over feints. He twists into a single strike, not at the instructor—but into the earth. A controlled shockwave buckles the instructor's stance.
When the opponent regains footing, Itarim is already behind him, blade tip resting against his back.
> Instructor: "…A-Rank."
Itarim returns to the bench. Liria blinks at him.
> Liria: "Okay… you're terrifying."
> Itarim: "I get that a lot."
OTHERS STEP FORWARD
Liria – A fierce wind-imbued sword dance: B-Rank
The Crimson Blade boy – Brutal shadow-style axe swings: A-Rank, but with unstable Ki
Twin spellcasters – Elemental fusion, unstable but powerful: C-Rank
Each ranked. Each whispered about. The room begins to change. Rivalries are seeded. Trusts are cautiously tested.
The exam ends. The group, now blooded, is led into a quieter hall.
A new figure waits: an S-Rank adventurer, silver robe, eyes like starfire.
> Adventurer: "You've passed. But rank is just a label."
> Adventurer: "The real journey starts tomorrow. You'll be deployed. And some of you… may be selected to attend the Dominion Reach Academy. The Guild is watching."
A hush falls.
> Liria (to Grey and Itarim, voice low): "Guess that's where the real monsters go."
> Itarim (smiling faintly): "Guess we're headed in the right direction, then."