It was barely six in the morning.
The sun hadn't quite decided whether to rise or just fall back asleep, leaving the sky tinged with pale orange and gray. At the edge of the village of Nerya, two figures stood upright, backpacks on their shoulders, facing the main road that led to the capital.
Behind them, a crowd of about twenty people had gathered. Neighbors, elders, a few half-asleep children—all bound by the same heavy silence. No one shouted. No one laughed. It was one of those farewells where words feel useless.
The two adolescents were Rael and Lyo.
Rael, fifteen, had black skin, almost caramel, glowing gently in the morning light. His short, slightly curly hair was still messy, as if he hadn't slept properly. He wore simple clothes: a worn dark tunic, beige pants, and reinforced sandals. Nothing remarkable. But his gaze was. Fixed, determined, burning with a silent fire.
Rael was an orphan. He had always been. Yet he did not feel alone.
Next to him stood Lyo, eighteen, taller, broader in the shoulders. His skin was fair, almost pale, contrasting with his light chestnut hair tied back with a simple leather strap. He wore a worn brown jacket over a light shirt and dark pants tight at the ankles. He looked like any other young person from the village, yet his posture hinted at a different kind of maturity. Childhood was behind him, though his dreams were still alive.
Facing them was a woman.
Her name was Maëra.
Maëra was in her forties. Her skin was tanned by years of work, and her black hair streaked with gray strands was tied in a low bun. She wore a long, sand-colored dress, simple but clean, with a light coat draped over her shoulders. Her dark eyes shifted constantly between Lyo and Rael, as if she could not bear to let either go.
Maëra was Lyo's mother.
But to Rael, she had always been much more.
When he lost his parents, she had taken him in. Fed him. Taught him. Corrected him when needed. Supported him when he fell. Over time, Rael stopped seeing her as "his friend's mother." She had become his anchor, his home, his family.
The silence broke when Maëra spoke.
— The capital is not kind, she said calmly but with tension. It swallows dreams as fast as it creates them.
Lyo gave a small smile.
— That's exactly why we came.
Rael nodded, gripping his backpack strap. He didn't smile. Not yet.
Behind them, someone whispered encouragement. Another waved goodbye. The village seemed to hold its breath.
Ahead, the road stretched long and dusty, leading straight to the capital, where their dreams would take shape—or shatter.
Without another word, Rael and Lyo stepped forward.
They were leaving childhood behind. They did not look back.
The road to the capital wound through open plains and forests, so long that it would take a week of walking to glimpse the first walls. A week. Enough to doubt. Enough to dream too much.
The first days passed to the rhythm of their steps on dry earth. The sun beat down mercilessly at noon, then gave way to cool nights beneath a sky too vast for two ambitious teenagers. Rael and Lyo spoke little, but their silences carried weight.
They imagined the capital.
Its streets. Its schools. Its arenas.
The opportunities… and the dangers.
When fatigue came, they stopped.
By the roadside, in empty clearings or on dusty ground, they trained. No real weapons—just sticks, fists, and imagination. Lyo, more experienced, led the movements. Rael, more instinctive, made up for it with surprising speed.
— You attack too straight, Lyo said, wiping sweat from his brow.
— And you overthink, Rael replied, already ready to start again.
They simulated fights, dodged invisible enemies, repeated sequences until exhaustion. It wasn't real power yet. Just a promise.
Days passed.
On the sixth day, as the road widened and became busier, they heard the steady sound of hooves and the creaking of a cart. A merchant approached, pulling his goods behind a massive brown horse.
His name was Orven. Tall, thick salt-and-pepper beard, skin tanned by the sun. He wore a long, dusty green coat, and a bag full of papers and coins. His gaze, wary at first, softened quickly.
— The capital, huh? he said after observing them. Looks like you need it as much as it needs labor.
After a brief conversation, Orven agreed to carry them in his cart. The horse resumed its pace, and for the first time since leaving, Rael and Lyo could rest their legs.
The road suddenly seemed shorter.
As they moved, the air changed—heavier, livelier. And then, finally, it appeared.
The gates of the capital.
Two immense dark stone towers, carved with ancient symbols, framed an opening wide enough for several carts to pass at once. Armored guards watched the comings and goings, lances straight, eyes cold. Behind the walls, the hum of a massive city could be felt.
Orven stopped.
Rael and Lyo climbed down.
They looked up.
The capital was there.