I left my room with Gol leading the way, his steps measured and precise as always, the hallway of the inn swallowing the sound of our footsteps in its worn wooden floors.
The morning light pressed gently through the windows, soft and clean, the kind that made the dust motes visible as they drifted through the air like lazy snowflakes. Downstairs, the inn's main hall was already stirring with life. Travelers ate breakfast in quiet clusters, murmuring over bread and tea, their voices blending into a low hum that felt oddly comforting.
Gol held the door open for me as we stepped outside into the capital's streets.
The morning air hit me first, cool and crisp, carrying with it the layered scents of a city waking up: fresh bread from a nearby bakery, the faint tang of metal from a smithy already at work, the earthy smell of stone and packed dirt roads. Voyeur in daylight felt different than it had upon arrival. Less overwhelming. More real.
People moved around us in steady streams, their paths crisscrossing like threads in a loom. I saw them closer now, the details I had only glimpsed from the dragger's window. A beastkin woman with feline ears walked past, her tail swishing lazily behind her as she balanced a basket of vegetables on one hip. A dwarf with a thick braided beard haggled loudly with a merchant over the price of enchanted tools, his voice carrying above the general noise. A demi-human boy, no older than ten, with small horns curling from his temples, darted between the crowd chasing after a runaway ball.
It was a collision of lives and races, all moving together in the same space, and somehow it worked. There was rhythm to it, an unspoken understanding of how to exist alongside one another without constant friction. It reminded me, strangely, of the bus rides in my old world. Different people, different destinations, but all sharing the same vehicle for a little while.
We walked in silence for a few minutes, Gol slightly ahead, his presence a steady anchor in the unfamiliar city. The streets gradually shifted from the dense commercial districts to quieter, more refined areas. The buildings here were taller, made of pale stone rather than brick, their windows larger and adorned with decorative ironwork. Trees lined the roads, their branches arching overhead to form natural canopies that dappled the ground with shifting patterns of light and shadow.
And then, finally, we reached the academy entrance.
It was walkable distance from the inn, just as Gol had said. Perhaps fifteen minutes on foot, maybe less if you hurried. The academy gates rose up before us, massive iron structures worked with intricate designs, swirling patterns and embedded symbols that glowed faintly with residual magic. Beyond the gates, a wide courtyard stretched out, paved with smooth stone that gleamed faintly in the morning light. Buildings rose on either side, elegant and imposing, their architecture a blend of function and artistry that spoke of an institution with both history and purpose.
But what caught my attention, what pulled my gaze and held it with an almost magnetic force, was the statue standing in the courtyard's center.
It dominated the space, tall and commanding, carved from what looked like white marble that had been polished until it shone. The figure stood in a straight posture, shoulders back, chin raised, one hand resting on the hilt of a sword planted point-down into the base of the statue. The other hand was lifted slightly, palm open, as if offering something, or perhaps welcoming those who approached. The detail work was extraordinary. Every fold of the cloak, every line of the face, every strand of hair had been rendered with painstaking care. It was not just a statue. It was a monument.
I stopped walking, my feet halting without conscious decision.
"Gol," I said quietly, not taking my eyes off the figure. "Whose statue is that?"
Gol stopped as well, turning slightly to follow my gaze. For a moment, he said nothing, simply looking at the statue with an expression I could not quite read. Respect, maybe. Or memory.
"That," he finally said, his voice carrying a weight that made the words feel heavier than they should have been, "is the hero who defeated the Great Demon Lord."
The hero.
The words landed in my mind with a strange kind of finality, like the last piece of a puzzle clicking into place.
"It has only been thirty years since the war ended," Gol continued. "The hero led the final battle, turned the tide when all seemed lost, and struck down the Demon Lord in single combat. The kingdom was saved. The world was saved."
Thirty years.
That was not ancient history. That was recent. Within living memory. People walking these streets right now had lived through that war, had seen the hero fight, had watched the Demon Lord fall.
"And now," I said slowly, piecing it together, "that hero is the king."
"Yes," Gol confirmed. "His Majesty, the current king of this kingdom, is the same man immortalized in that statue."
I stared at the carved face, the strong jawline, the determined eyes that seemed to look toward some distant horizon even in stone. The hero who became a king. The man who had saved the world and then taken up the responsibility of ruling it.
And somehow, impossibly, the statue felt familiar.
Not the face itself. I did not recognize the features in any literal sense. But something about the posture, the way the figure stood, the sense of presence it carried even as cold marble, tugged at something deep in my chest. Like a half-remembered dream. Like a story I had heard but could not quite recall.
I shook my head slightly, trying to dislodge the strange sensation.
"Come, young master," Gol said gently, his voice pulling me back to the present. "The academy awaits."
I tore my gaze away from the statue and followed Gol through the gates, our footsteps echoing softly against the stone courtyard. Students were already gathering in clusters near the main building's entrance, some chatting excitedly, others standing with the stiff formality of nobles trying to project confidence they did not entirely feel. Uniforms varied slightly, marking different years or specializations, but the overall atmosphere was unmistakable.
This was a place of learning. Of testing. Of becoming something more than what you arrived as.
As we crossed the courtyard and approached the academy's grand double doors, I glanced back one last time at the hero's statue, its white marble gleaming in the morning sun.
The hero who defeated the Demon Lord.
The king who ruled this kingdom.
The man whose daughter, hidden and disguised, would be sitting in the same classroom as me.
The weight of that knowledge settled a little heavier on my shoulders as Gol and I stepped inside, leaving the hero's shadow behind us in the courtyard, standing watch over the next generation.