The sunlight passed through the cracked stone of the window. It warmed the air in the first rays of dawn. The birds called to each other with light, quick chirps. Soft breeze moved through the room. Everything was still except for the movement of a body that would not stay quiet.
Rage's eyes opened. Light burned against his face. A low groan left his throat as he blinked away the haze. Memories hit him hard. The sharp pain in his foot. The smell of blood. The distant hum of voices barely held back under the weight of exhaustion.
This was the aftermath.
A war won but at the cost of everything he had left behind.
The realization sank in, heavy and suffocating, as his mind sharpened. Firekeep. The fortress.
His body, still too sore to move easily, but slowly becoming more familiar with the sensation of each bruise, cut, and fracture.
The previous days had bled together. A blur of faces, rough hands, and the gruff voices of the queen's men.
There had been no escape. No dignity. Just them, hulking, silent men who had tended to his wounds, carried him when necessary, and fed him when his own hands failed. But they weren't maids.
"If only they were those bunny girls in frilly maid outfits," he muttered under his breath, "instead I got brutes."
The image of their crude, calloused fingers digging into his ribs, tugging his clothes from his body, still made his skin crawl.
Naked. In front of them. The thought of it twisted his gut, but there was no denying the necessity of it.
Rage tried to gather some control over his body. His foot was still raw, still tender. Every movement felt like an insult, each step was a reminder of how his ignorance had gotten him here. He gritted his teeth together. Not even the sunlight coming in could ease the bitterness pressing under his ribs.
He shifted under the thin blanket, his muscles were stiff from days of forced stillness. They'd been careful with him. He wasn't sure if it was out of respect or simple pity. But the brutality of their hands didn't lessen with their kindness. It wasn't like they had asked, either. No, they just did in silence.
[SYSTEM] Garrick Lv.42
[SYSTEM] class : Spearman
[SYSTEM] loyalty : 79%
"Good morning, boy." A voice, low and gruff, cut through the haze of his thoughts. The man's voice was familiar now though Rage couldn't place the name.
Rage clenched his fists at his sides, feeling the heat of the room.
"Get it over with," he muttered. He didn't want to face it. The process. The degradation. But they had their duties, and he had his.
The man approached, as though he'd expected this response. His rough hands moved to check on him. One of the hands that had helped him before, now simply waiting for any sign of struggle.
Rage had recovered, at least enough to stand on his own. But the pain was still a constant companion.
"Just... just give me a moment," Rage grumbled, trying to will his limbs into action, to avoid the touch for just one second longer. His body was no longer weak, but it still screamed with every motion.
The man stepped back, giving him the illusion of space. Rage could feel the weight of his gaze as he struggled to stand, hissing as his foot protested with every inch of movement. His body, no longer the finely tuned machine it once had been, was a burden now.
He stood, holding onto the bedpost for balance. The pain in his leg shot through him with every shift of weight. There was a nagging awareness at the back of his mind that he wasn't in control.
Not here.
Not yet.
"You're not a prisoner here, King," the man said.
Rage's gaze shifted to the window. He hated how the world still turned without him. No matter how far he fell, the world kept going.
But for now, for today, it was just him and the remnants of his pride.
With a deep breath, Rage pushed himself out of bed and started walking. His foot throbbed with every shift of weight, but he forced himself to ignore the pain. One step, then another. His body, shaky but determined, moved toward the door.
The man still stood by. Ready to catch if Rage faltered.
The door handle creaked as Rage grasped it fully despite the pain.
***
Rage stepped outside. The fresh air was cool and crisp. The sunlight made him narrow his eyes. The sudden brightness cut sharp shapes into the world.
The fortress he remembered, the muddied grounds, the clatter of armor, the stench of blood and sweat was nowhere to be found.
The smell of fresh bread and roasting meat filled the air. It mixed with the chatter of vendors. Children ran between market stalls. Their laughter cut through the quiet hum of conversation. Footsteps echoed on the cobbled streets.
Too clean. Too calm.
Rage exhaled slowly, his grip tightened at his side. The battle had ended. But standing here, surrounded by a peace he didn't belong to, it almost felt like he had lost.
He made his way toward a stone bench, its edges were worn and chipped from years of exposure to the elements. The cold stone bit into his skin as he sat, but the discomfort was nothing compared to the constant pain in his leg.
The man followed, his heavy footsteps sounded behind him, never far. He still watched, still ready.
Rage sat in silence. The man lowered himself onto the bench beside him.
"I had a son." The man's voice was low and rough. "Would've been about your age now."
Rage flicked a glance at him, but the man wasn't looking his way. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, locked onto something long gone.
"Lost him in a battle. One of Varka's raids." He paused just long enough for the words to sink in. "But... you ended him... Varkas. And for that, I'm grateful."
Rage blinked. There was no anger in his voice, no need for revenge. Just quiet finality.
The man finally turned. "That's why I'm still here."
Something stirred in Rage's chest. It was small and faint, like a thread tugging at the edge of his mind. Guilt? Gratitude? He could not tell. He did not want to.
His jaw clenched. He forced his expression into something unreadable, locking the feeling away.
"Don't make this about me," Rage muttered.
The man gave a low chuckle. "If my son were still alive," he said, "I'd have wished he'd be your friend and your companion. Especially if you ever married the queen."
He let out a laugh though the thought amused him more than anything.
Rage stared at him for a moment, not sure whether to be irritated or entertained.
The man's chuckle faded. His face grew serious. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice was quieter now.
"The king's throne is empty. And every suitor who's tried has been rejected." He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "No heir. No match. Firekeep stands strong today, but kingdoms without succession don't last forever."
His fingers curled into his palm, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. "I've bled for this place. We all have. But without a king, without someone worthy to stand beside her, what happens when another war comes?"
Rage frowned, shifting slightly. "Why are you telling me this?"
The man did not answer at once. From the bench where they sat, he looked back into a window left slightly open to Rage's room where Balmung was kept.
"I've heard rumors," the man murmured, his voice almost distant.
Rage followed his line of sight.
Then, the soldier exhaled, his tone quieter now. "It chooses."
Rage shook his head, letting out a short and dry laugh to shake off the weight of the words. "Maybe if another queen shows up, we will finally have some luck?"
"HEY!"
A cheerful call echoed across the courtyard. The sound carried a sharp, playful authority.
In the distance, a woman stood. She wore a flowing dress in soft colors and her hair fell in waves down her back.
She was leaning down, patting a child's head. There was a certain warmth in her. But what struck Rage most was how familiar she looked. The stature, the height, the way she carried herself. It was unmistakable.
Queen Ignia.
This was no queen in her battle armor. This was a different version, one far removed from the fortress he had known her in. This was not a woman of command.
Rage squinted, his mind struggled to make sense of what he was seeing.
"Does the queen have a twin?" he muttered under his breath.
The man, who had been watching silently, stood. He saluted by stomping his foot, the sound was heavy and firm.
"That's the queen, boy," he said, his voice steady and proud.
Rage attempted to push himself up, but the familiar sting of pain shot through his leg.
"Never mind," he muttered, sinking back down onto the bench. "I'll stay here."
The queen walked toward them with a straight, firm posture. Each step was strong, her feet hit the ground with quiet authority. She moved with the posture of a man, without any attempt to appear delicate or graceful.
She stopped in front of them, a smirk tugged at the corners of her lips as she glanced down at Rage.
"So you're still alive?" she asked, her voice was light and laced with amusement.
Her gaze then shifted to the man, her brow raised slightly.
"Is he ready for another death?" she teased, her tone was playful, but with an edge that made it clear she wasn't entirely joking.
Rage, still nursing his pain, clenched his jaw but said nothing. His pride was too stubborn to let him show any sign of weakness. The soldier, however, answered for him.
"He can manage the basics," he said, his eyes shifted toward Rage as if seeking confirmation.
Rage shifted slightly. A small, crooked smile appeared on his lips despite the pain.
"If it's wax on, wax off, I can do one of those," he muttered.
The queen raised an eyebrow, clearly unfamiliar with the words that had come out of his mouth.
She tilted her head slightly.
"Wax on, wax off?" She shook her head.
"Whatever you say," Her voice was firm. "I'll take that as a yes."
She straightened. "Tomorrow, you'll start."
Rage gave a dry chuckle. "Sure, I guess."
The soldier gave a sharp, snappy gesture to the queen, signaling that he would take his leave.
With a quick nod from the queen, he turned and walked away.
The queen looked at Rage.
"We will begin at first light," she said. Her voice was mixed authority and indifference.
"You will start dying by then." She gave a short laugh.
Rage didn't respond. He simply watched her turn and leave.
Once she was gone, Rage reclined on the bench. His body sank into the seat as he leaned back and stared at the sky.
The light spread across the clouds in soft shades of blue and white, a sharp contrast to the cold weight of the fortress behind him. The breeze was calm and soft against his skin.
The only sounds were the distant murmur of children and the rustling of leaves.
It was peaceful. Almost enough to make him forget.
***
The training grounds were full of movement. Trainees ran laps, instructors shouted orders, and weapons rang through the cool morning air.
He had barely stepped onto the packed dirt when the queen's voice cut through the noise.
"You're late."
Ignia stood near the weapon racks with her arms crossed, watching him. She wore a loose tunic and fitted trousers, not her usual armor. The sharp confidence in her stance showed she was still the most dangerous person there.
"Fashionably," Rage replied.
"Try that again tomorrow, and I'll make you run until your legs fall off," she shot back.
Then, without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel.
"Come with me."
He followed her past the main field.
The further they went, the quieter it became until they reached a place far enough, far from prying ears.
Ignia leaned casually against a post, watching him. "No magic."
Rage raised a brow. "Magic?"
"Don't play dumb. Your tricks, your little 'programmer' things, whatever you call them. None of that. If you're training here, you're doing it properly. Steel against steel. Strength against strength."
Her eyes narrowed. "Do you understand?"
He exhaled, resisting the urge to argue, not because he agreed but because he understood the unspoken part of the message. If the others saw what he could do, if he leaned on his abilities instead of fighting like them, he would not be one of them. He would be something else.
"Fine."
Ignia held his gaze a moment. Then, her expression shifted. "Speaking of which... Balmung."
Rage stiffened slightly. "What of it?"
"I'll take it for now." She extended a hand.
Rage hesitated, glancing down at his arm.
He exhaled sharply. "Alright."
The gauntlet on his arm let out a low hum. Its steel plates vibrated. Slowly the metal turned fluid, crawling over his skin toward his hand forming into a greatsword.
He passed the weapon to Ignia.
She held the hilt with one hand, testing its weight and giving it a slow, practiced swing. A small, pleased smile crossed her lips. "This is how it should look," she said, resting the blade on her shoulder. "This is the proper Balmung."
"Yeah, yeah. Enjoy your oversized butcher knife."
"You'll get it back when you've proven you don't need it to fight."
He frowned but did not argue. He was not even sure he wanted it back right now.
"Let's see if you can keep up without tripping over your own feet." Ignia pointed him toward the track.
Rage sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, and turned back toward the field.
"It's going to be a long day." He exhaled sharply through his nose, already regretting showing up.
He followed Ignia back toward the field, where the other trainees had gathered in loose lines.
Some had already started their rounds.
Ignia jabbed a thumb toward the running path. "Five rounds. No magic, no tricks. Just your own damn legs."
Rage stared at her. "You do realize I almost died like, what -- five days ago?"
"Then this should be easy." Her smirk was downright cruel. "Unless you'd rather sit it out and let everyone know you're too fragile to keep up."
The other trainees threw quick glances his way, some amused, others expectant. He could already hear the whispers forming -- new guy, weak, can't even run. His pride bristled at the thought.
Rage clenched his jaw and stepped onto the path. "Fine. Five rounds."
"Good." Ignia clapped him on the shoulder, a little harder than necessary. "Try not to collapse before the first one's done."
Rage stood at the edge of the field, eyes sweeping across the vast expanse of packed dirt.
He exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath. "This is going to suck."
With a roll of his shoulders, he stepped forward. The first few strides felt fine, awkward, stiff, but manageable. Then, instinctively, he shifted his weight onto his injured leg.
It felt off.
The pain wasn't sharp, wasn't searing but it was there, a ghost of something that should have healed. His body still remembered the injury, still expected it to hurt. Or maybe it still did.
Rage gritted his teeth and kept moving. The sensation lingered, but his body adjusted. One step, then another.
By the time he settled into a jog, his breathing was uneven and his form was off. He pushed forward, his movements were unsteady. Every step reminded him how much his body had gone through. His breathing sped up, then slowed, his chest tightened as he tried to find a rhythm. Each step felt heavy, the impact jarred his legs.
His arms were not in sync. One moment he pumped them too hard, the next they barely moved. He tried to steady his posture, but every small misstep threw off his balance. The injured leg still felt wrong. Not broken, not weak, but unnatural, as if his body had not fully accepted that it was healed.
By the end of the first round, his lungs burned, and sweat began to bead at his temples.
Halfway through the second, he nearly stumbled, his foot dragged just enough to throw him off.
Others ran past him effortlessly, their motions were smooth and practiced. Rage gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep moving.
The pain in his leg wasn't real. It couldn't be. But the memory of it clung to him, his muscles hesitating just enough to make his movements awkward.
The start of the third round came with a small shift. His breathing, though still uneven, had started to regulate. His jogs weren't as heavy. His arms, while not perfect, no longer flailed.
Step by step, his body began to remember.
Rage adjusted his pace, focusing on the feeling of movement rather than the discomfort in his limbs. He wasn't fast, but he was going. He could feel himself learning not just how to run, but how to trust his body again.
And then, as his feet hit the ground in a steady rhythm, an idea surfaced. Bad idea.
"Let me try this," he muttered.
The moment he made the slightest adjustment --
"Hey!"
The queen's voice cut through the air.
He barely had time to react before rough hands grabbed his arms.
"You heard the queen," one of the guards barked.
Rage barely managed a breath before he was dragged from the track, hauled toward Ignia.
Her expression was sharp and unreadable.
"I said no magic."
Then she gave the order. "Bring him to the hole."
A ripple of unease passed through the nearby trainees. Some slowed their pace, glancing over with wary expressions. They knew what the hole was.
Rage didn't.
The guards hauling him exchanged amused glances before one let out a barking laugh.
"Steel your mind, boy."
They stopped in front of a small, weathered door embedded within the fortress walls. It was unremarkable -- aged wood reinforced with rusting iron, barely tall enough for a grown man to step through without ducking.
One of the guards yanked it open. The hinges groaned.
Inside, the room was barely more than a hollowed-out space in the stone -- cramped, narrow, just enough for a single person. A single wooden chair sat in the center, its surface worn smooth by time and use. The air inside was stale, thick with dampness.
Without ceremony, the guards shoved him inside. One of them grabbed his arms, forcing them behind the chair while the other wrapped a thick rope around his torso, securing him to the chair.
"You try anything stupid again, and you'll be sitting in here for a full day."
Another low, guttural laugh followed.
"Steel your mind." This time a reminder.
The door slammed shut.
The barking laughter of the guards echoed briefly, then faded as their footsteps retreated, leaving Rage alone.
Silence.
The stones beneath his feet were cold, uneven. The air was thick, pressing in from all sides. Then --
A drop of water landed on his forehead.
Rage let out a slow breath. "Ah yes, another fine stay at the illustrious Firekeep Inn. Five-star accommodations, complete with premium cold flooring, complimentary restraints, and an exclusive dripping ceiling feature."
Then another drop.
The unrhythmic, erratic plink of unseen droplets filled the room, slow and deliberate, echoing in the suffocating dark.
Rage exhaled through his nose, slow and steady. This was not pain. Not like a blade cutting flesh, not like broken bones grinding together. It was not suffering. It was pressure. Small, steady, relentless.
And that was worse.
Because pressure didn't stop. It didn't give you an enemy to fight, no opponent to beat down. It just was. It seeped in, dug deep, and made a home in the cracks of your mind.
The drops kept falling. The cold kept creeping. The ropes kept biting.
His instincts screamed at him to move -- to shift, to struggle, to do something. Anything.
His fingers twitched behind him. The itch of his abilities crawled beneath his skin, that familiar pull whispering in his bones. He could make it stop. One flex of power, one thought, and he'd be free.
But what would that prove?
That he could bend the world when it pushed too hard? That when things got difficult, he could cheat his way out?
What if, one day, he couldn't?
A lesson wasn't worth anything if he didn't take it.
Endure. Not fight, not escape -- endure.
Some things, you had to outlast.
And so he did.
The minutes stretched. Maybe it had been hours. The water kept dripping. Sometimes it fell fast, sometimes it paused just long enough to make him expect the next drop. It was more than cold. It pricked like tiny shards of ice in his skin. His muscles burned from being still. His shoulders were stiff and aching. His fingers were numb. The wet chill had soaked his clothes, clinging to his skin, growing heavier with every breath.
His body begged for relief -- a stretch, a shift, anything -- but he didn't move. Couldn't.
The worst part wasn't the pain.
It was the creeping exhaustion, the way his thoughts started to slow, his awareness dulling. The weight of the dark, the ceaseless dripping, the rhythmic press of discomfort against his senses -- it all blurred together, wearing him down. He felt small, like his existence had been reduced to nothing but breath, pain, and the slow march of time.
Was he even awake? Or had he started dreaming?
Then --
Footsteps.
Voices.
They grew louder, closer, breaking through the haze of his thoughts. The heavy thud of boots stopped just outside the door.
The hinges groaned.
Light spilled into the cramped space as the door creaked open, and for a moment, Rage squinted up -- his vision was blurry, his mind was dazed -- seeing nothing short of divine figures standing before him.
Angels.
Strong arms yanked him up, pulling him from the chair. His legs nearly buckled. Someone gripped his shoulder, steadying him.
Then came the laughter.
Barking, rough, utterly amused.
"Look at him."
"Not so smug now, huh?"
A hand patted his cheek -- mocking, playful.
"Now, you will not dare be stupid again."
Now he realized, the kingdom was serious.
They didn't do empty warnings. They didn't bluff. When they said punishment, they meant it.
The sun was still up, golden rays stretching across the fortress walls, but to him, it felt like he had been locked away for an eternity.
His body was stiff, his clothes damp, and yet the world had moved on without him again.
The training grounds were still alive with activity -- trainees clashing swords, running drills, pushing themselves harder. But something had shifted. Whispers rippled through the field. Eyes followed him, some curious, others wary. He could feel the unspoken questions pressing in.
How did it feel?
Are you okay?
It hadn't even been that long. A short punishment. A warning.
And yet, it had been enough.
Ignia stood a few paces ahead, arms crossed, her expression was unreadable.
"Five more rounds," she said. No mockery. No teasing. Just the order.
Rage didn't argue. He couldn't.
His legs protested as he took the first step, but he forced them forward. One foot, then the other. The first lap was heavy, his body was slow, the weight of the day dragged behind him. But as he kept moving, something familiar settled in -- pain, exhaustion, but also momentum.
By the fourth round, the sun had dipped lower, the sky painted in warm hues of orange and deep blue. Shadows stretched across the field.
By the fifth, the sun was gone.
The air had cooled, torches now flickering along the fortress walls. The training grounds had quieted, most of the trainees dismissed for the day.
But the queen was still there.
Ignia stood at the edge of the field, watching. Still as a statue, arms still crossed, her gaze following his every step.
She was waiting.
Rage kept running.
***
The next day.
Rage was there early.
But the queen was earlier.
She stood near the edge of the training grounds, arms crossed, watching the horizon as if she had been there for hours. Her presence was steady, unmoved by the morning chill or the faint mist still clinging to the field.
She turned as he approached. Then, with an almost amused tilt of her head, she spoke.
"Oh? So you haven't died?"
Her tone was casual, as if she hadn't been there last night -- hadn't stood at the edge of the field, watching his final lap in silence. But Rage had seen her.
Ignia let the silence stretch before exhaling through her nose, unimpressed. "You come early, you start early."
Then she pointed to the track. "Ten rounds. Get going."
Rage said nothing. He simply moved into position, set his stance, and started running.
Behind him, Ignia's voice carried over the field, her smirk audible in her words.
"Now you're a candidate for the most obedient soldier."
A barking laugh followed, but Rage didn't hear the last of her words. Or maybe he just didn't care.
He took a slow step. Then another. His legs felt stiff, the weight of yesterday still clinging to him. He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he pushed forward into a light jog. His breath came steady, measured -- at first.
Then, instinct took over. His pace quickened. His strides stretched longer. The stiffness faded into motion, and soon, he was running.
The first few rounds were steady, his breath controlled at the start, but the weight of exhaustion settled in quickly. He took short breaks between sets, shaking out his legs, rolling his shoulders. Then, back to it.
***
The training grounds were full -- trainees clashing, instructors barking corrections, the rhythmic clash of steel filling the air. There was movement everywhere, voices, bodies, effort.
Yet Rage felt alone.
The world blurred at the edges, his focus shrinking down to his own movements -- the uneven pound of his footsteps, the strain in his calves, the dull ache in his lungs. His rhythm had improved, slightly -- his steps weren't as heavy, his breathing was more measured -- but it still wasn't enough. His body wasn't moving how it should.
So he ran. Again. And again.
The sun sank lower, bleeding orange across the sky. The air cooled, the torches were lit. The training field had begun to empty, shadows stretching across the dirt.
But Rage kept going.
And the queen was still there, watching.
***
The following day.
Rage arrived on time.
A row of rucksacks filled with sand was laid out, and one was shoved into his hands along with the rest of the trainees. The extra weight pressed down on his shoulders the moment he strapped it on, digging into the muscles of his back.
Then the running began.
This time, he felt everything -- the strain in his legs, the pull in his shoulders, the dull burn in his core as he fought to keep his pace steady. But his movements were more refined than before. His footing was surer, his breathing was better controlled. The ache was still there, but it no longer dictated his every step.
The day stretched on, dragging into the evening, the sky dimmed into deep blues and purples.
Most of the trainees had long finished their sets, some collapsd onto the dirt, others barely moving. But Rage kept running.
And just like the night before -- Ignia was still there.
She likely expected him not to notice. To think she was just another shadow in the torchlight, watching without a word.
But he saw her.
***
The first month was survival.
Every morning began the same. The sun barely crested over the fortress walls, the chill of dawn still clinging to the air. And there she was.
"You're not dead yet. Get moving."
And the next morning, the queen was there again.
"You're late. Start running."
***
The second month was endurance.
The terrain became cruel. What had once been steady ground turned into uneven paths, thick mud, and jagged stones. The weight on his back no longer just dragged at his shoulders -- it settled into his bones, turning each step into a test of will.
"Move faster. Or do you need a hole to remind you?"
The instructors pushed them harder -- forced marches before dawn, uphill sprints under the midday sun, relentless rounds long after exhaustion had set in. He barely had time to catch his breath before being sent home with a body too sore to rest. But when the morning came, he was there.
And so was she.
"Still alive? Get going."
***
The third month was refinement.
Now, it wasn't just about lasting -- it was about discipline. Breathing controlled, pace regulated, steps sharpened. The weight had become part of him, no longer a burden, but a measure of his endurance. Training wasn't about finishing anymore. It was about mastery.
And yet, as the months passed, some things never changed.
Every evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Rage was still out there, running.
And the queen was still there, watching.
***
The day started like any other.
The sun hung lazily in the sky, the training grounds filled with the familiar sounds of boots hitting dirt, distant orders from instructors, and the ever-present weight of routine. Rage ran, his body moving on instinct -- ten rounds, nothing more, nothing less. No extra weight, no uphill sprints. Just running.
It should have been easier.
But the queen noticed.
Something was different. His form was intact, his breathing was steady, but there was no fight left in him. He ran like a man fulfilling a duty, nothing more. No resistance, no struggle.
Like a broken thing.
Ignia tilted her head, her sharp gaze trailing his every step. Then, a smirk curled at the edges of her lips.
"Let's break him more."
The guards beside her chuckled, their barking laughter cutting through the morning air.
"To the hole."
Rage didn't react. He didn't argue. He didn't even stop running.
He just... turned and walked.
Not dragged, not shoved. He moved first, his feet carrying him toward that cold, dark place as if it were just another part of the routine.
His gaze drifted over the training grounds. The instructors drilling their recruits, the trainees pushing through their exhaustion. Beyond them, past the stone walls, merchants laughed, families chatted, life went on. The world was full of warmth and light, and yet it felt so far away.
It felt like he was floating, like time had slowed.
By the time the guards reached him, he was already at the door. They tied him down, rough hands securing the rope, but he barely felt it.
Then came the darkness.
Rage sat still, eyes open, unblinking. But he saw nothing.
No pain. No cold. No frustration. Just memories.
Smiles -- bright, genuine, familiar. His team, his family, his friends. Office chatter, dumb jokes, the warmth of people who knew him, who needed him.
That was where he wanted to be but he's not there anymore.
He wanted to exist again, he wanted to be present.
The training felt like nothing to him.
The exhaustion, the weight, the endless rounds -- it no longer crushed him, no longer felt like punishment. His body moved through the motions, but the struggle that once defined his every step had faded into something distant.
Even the queen's harshness, once sharp and relentless, no longer felt like cruelty at all. The smirks, the mocking remarks, the way she pushed him harder than the others -- he saw it now for what it was. Not malice, but a reflection of her. A woman who led with fire and expectation, who tested others not to see them fail, but to see if they could withstand.
He understood.
For the first time since he had arrived in this world, clarity settled over him.
Firekeep was not just a fortress. Not just a prison, a place where he had been thrown to break or survive. It was alive. Its people laughed, trained, bled, and thrived within these walls. It was a home -- not his, not yet, but a place worth standing for.
More than anything, he wanted to protect it.
And in order to do that, he needs to become strong.
Then a sharp snap echoed in the darkness.
For a moment, Rage thought he had imagined it -- a crack in his mind, a sound that didn't belong. But no, it wasn't that. It was footsteps. The guards were coming back.
The door creaked open, torchlight spilling in, blinding after so long in the pitch-black. Rough hands untied him, pulling him to his feet. He let them. His body moved without resistance.
They led him back to the training grounds.
But something was different.
***
The field was no longer just scattered with trainees running their usual rounds. A crowd had gathered -- rows of disciplined figures standing tall before the queen. Instructors, warriors, recruits who had endured the same grueling months he had.
Rage's gaze flicked up, meeting Ignia's.
For just a moment, something flickered there -- guilt, concern, hesitation.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone. She steeled her expression, her usual smirk returning as if it had never left.
She took a step forward, her voice carrying over the field. "All of you standing here have passed."
A ripple of murmurs moved through the gathered soldiers.
"Tomorrow, you will be tested for weapon proficiency. Prepare accordingly."
A low chuckle came from beside him. One of the guards, the same one who had thrown him into the hole, clapped him on the back -- firm, but not mocking this time.
"You did well, kid. Keep it up."
There was something in his voice -- something almost fatherly, a quiet pride, as if Rage were his own son.
Another voice chimed in -- a familiar one. The soldier who had tended to his wounds when he was too broken to move, the one who had carried him when his own legs had failed.
"Not bad, kid. Thought you'd collapse in the first month. Guess you proved me wrong."
Then another. The gruff warrior who had first hauled him off the battlefield, a man who had once looked at him as nothing more than another corpse-to-be.
"Didn't think you'd make it past that night. You've got more in you than I thought."
And then one more, a voice laced with amusement -- the soldier who had helped him in the medical tent and the one who told him he saved the queen.
"And here I thought you were just some lucky fool. Turns out you actually belong here."
Rage blinked.
For the longest time, he had moved alone, fought alone, felt alone. But now, as he stood surrounded by voices that had once spoken of him as a burden, now filled with something closer to pride -- he realized he wasn't.
And then something else hit him.
He had been so focused on surviving, on enduring, that he had never noticed the loyalty levels around him. The others' gazes, once distant and cautious, now held trust. Their usual sharp edges softened, respect clear in every movement.
One by one, he realized they were no longer uncertain. Their loyalty levels had grown.
And then he looked at the queen. Ignia had spent months testing him, breaking him down. Yet here she was, standing, watching, waiting. Her presence no longer a threat, but a quiet acknowledgment of what he had earned.
A strange warmth settled in his chest, something he wasn't sure he knew how to name.
He glanced around, the weight of months of isolation lifting off his shoulders in an instant, and without thinking, the words slipped out.
"So... when do I get the wax on, wax off kind of training?"
A brief silence -- then a bark of laughter from the guard beside him. Another joined in. And another. Until the whole group was chuckling, shaking their heads like he was a fool they had somehow come to respect.
Ignia's gaze lingered for just a moment longer.
Then, ever so slightly, she smirked.
[SYSTEM] Queen Ignia : Loyalty 87%
[SYSTEM] Corruption : 12.8%