"Do you want to explain yourself, Miklas? We did grow friendly during this period, but if you think I will call you ’father,’ you are out of your mind," I said, making sure not to draw unnecessary stares from the people on the street.
"I owe my life to you, and at the moment, this was the best way for me to repay that debt. And dear daughter, do not think you would be better off alone. Do I need to remind you of the refugee camps just outside the walls?"
"Okay, fine. You are right... thanks, I guess. It is only that everything is happening so fast. I don’t feel I have the time or the agency to actually decide for myself. I am getting dragged around by events without any choice but to brace myself and pray to Jute that I survive."
Miklas stared at me for a few seconds. Every trace of his usual roguish humor vanished from his amber eyes before he placed both his hands on my shoulders.
"Elvit, in this world where catastrophes happen one after another, the only thing that can give you that type of freedom is power. The power to stand firm and force everything else to move."
"But how can I gain such power? I was not born a princess or a man. I am trapped in this feeble body."
"I told you, everyone can train their ember. And who knows? You could be one of the few who can manipulate it. Never lose hope; real strength comes from inside you."
I stood there, processing everything. I had gone from a normal world to a place where magic existed, and I had never even tried to learn it. I had focused on books and getting a good education, but here, it was better to know how to swing a sword or shoot lightning than how to count.
Wake up, Elvit, there is still time, I told myself, clenching my fists until my knuckles turned white.
"Elvit, are you coming or not?" Miklas called out.
"Coming!"
After a few minutes of walking, we stood in front of another gate that preceded a small, utilitarian keep. It was built from dark, unyielding stone, prioritizing defense over aesthetics. It had four small towers, one at every corner of its square-like shape, with narrow slit windows meant for archers rather than sunlight. At the center, a taller tower was connected by stone bridges to the other four.
Approaching the gate, we were stopped by two soldiers. This time, they were dressed differently from the city guards. They wore similar scale armor to Miklas, but they did not have the intricate gold filigree or the heavy white mantle he possessed. These soldiers knew him, and we passed easily, even if they gave my splinted leg confused glances.
The interior of the keep was decorated simply, matching its martial exterior. Dark, heavy oak furniture stood against the walls, and paintings depicting historical battles hung above them. The floor was simple stone with a long black carpet running down the middle. Every five feet, a Dilemd Empire banner stood proudly, featuring the number seven under the tulip representing the 7th Legion. The castle was built on three main levels, and we had to go all the way up to the third. The layout of the floors changed as we climbed: the first floor had mostly open training spaces and mess halls, but the corridors became narrower and more bureaucratic the higher we went.
We arrived at a small, reinforced door with a guard stationed in front of it. This man was a Knight-Mage, dressed similarly to Miklas, complete with the commanding aura of someone who had condensed his ember. As we came closer, he looked up from a stack of parchments. After a brief expression of relief, he shouted.
"You old dog, Miklas! You are finally back! You do not know how much work has piled up in your office. All our supply chains need someone to look them over, the quarterly contracts need to get approved... where have you been?"
"Faciv, I would love to catch up on the pile of work, but I need to speak to the commander. I have urgent matters to report."
Faciv, a man who appeared to be in his late twenties with dark skin and light brown eyes, looked at us once again. He barely glanced at my makeshift splint, and his eyes briefly swept over the heavy, dried blood caking Miklas’s armor. He let out a long, exasperated sigh, completely unfazed by the gore. For a Knight-Mage capable of incinerating armies, a blood-soaked comrade was evidently nothing more than a minor administrative delay.
"Barbarians again? You always find an excuse to skip the boring work, Miklas," Faciv grumbled, waving a hand dismissively as if a wiped-out cohort was merely a scheduling inconvenience. "Fine, fine. Go dump your combat report on the commander. But those quarterly contracts are still waiting for your signature."
And as he said so, he pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped aside.