One week later...
The walls of Scarbi began appearing on the horizon early that morning, its massive gray stones glowing faintly gold with the first rays of sunlight, as though the city itself were slowly waking from a long sleep to receive the thousands pouring in. Alexander hadn’t seen anything this size since arriving in this world; neither the castle he’d woken up in the middle of, nor the small village where this body had grown up, could compare to what stood before him now.
(A real city, finally... I don’t feel like I’m stuck in some forgotten village out of a history book anymore.)
Stone towers rose above the main entrance, crimson banners rippling in the wind, and the smell of fresh bread, smoke, and unfamiliar spices drifted toward him from a distance, mixing with the scent of animals and damp earth churned by countless passing feet. The roads leading to the gate were packed with carts loaded with goods, knights on horses decorated with noble crests, and poor families walking on foot carrying their children — all of them heading toward one single point: the competition arena.
Alexander passed through the massive gate behind his family, his eyes darting quickly between details that felt like they’d been pulled from some historical film he’d once watched in his old life. But this time, the smell was real, the noise was real, and even the cold biting at his face was real enough to remind him he wasn’t dreaming anymore.
At the center of the great square stood a massive wooden platform decorated with crosses and golden banners, and behind it, a raised dais draped in thick crimson curtains, where crowds had begun gathering from every direction, their voices rising together in a single wave of anticipation and curiosity.
And there, away from the roar of the crowd, on a higher and more isolated platform, surrounded by guards wearing armor gleaming brighter than anything Alexander had ever seen, sat a man wearing a white metal mask that covered his entire face, nothing visible but his eyes, sunken behind two narrow slits in the cold metal. He sat perfectly still, his body wrapped in a heavy cloak despite the warmth radiating off the crowd around him, as though hiding something beneath it he didn’t want anyone to see.
(Who is that? He seems more important than anyone else here. But why the mask?)
He heard whispers rippling through the crowd around him, people speaking in hushed voices as though afraid of being overheard, and from the scattered words he caught, he gathered that the man behind the mask was the King himself — and that the mask wasn’t ornamental or symbolic of power, but a necessity. The King had suffered from leprosy for years, and hid his ravaged face behind that cold metal layer from the eyes of his subjects.
(A king with a disease like that... back in my world, leprosy meant total isolation. Here, he still sits on the throne like nothing’s changed at all.)
Seated right beside the King was a slender young man, his skin pale and smooth as though sunlight had never touched it, his long hair falling over his shoulders in carefully styled waves, his delicate features and the faint makeup around his eyes making him look closer to a woman than a young man his age. He sat beside his father with composed calm, his ring-studded hands moving in slow, deliberate gestures, as though fully aware that thousands of eyes could turn to him at any moment.
(The King’s son, I’m guessing. Strange... looks more like some celebrity I’d have seen on TV than a prince who’s supposed to be training for combat.)
Alexander didn’t know this prince’s name yet, or what role he played in this world, but he felt a strange curiosity toward him — a mix of confusion and interest unlike anything he’d felt toward anyone else since arriving here.
His gaze shifted next toward a group of young men gathering near the competitors’ registration platform, close to his own age, but their clothing and weapons carried the unmistakable marks of noble families; carefully polished armor, swords engraved with gold, confident movements that spoke of years of disciplined training under professional instructors — not under a grim-faced brother in a freezing barn.
One of them stood out in particular — a tall young man standing at the front of the group, holding a long sword polished so bright it nearly reflected his own face, and a look in his eyes Alexander’s own didn’t miss; the look of a man who already knew he’d win before the competition had even begun.
(This guy... looking at us like we’re farmers who wandered in here by mistake. Alright, rich boy. We’ll see who’s laughing at the end of this.)
Alexander felt a familiar excitement rising in his chest, that old kind he knew well from the boxing ring — the kind that came from standing across from an opponent who underestimated you, knowing full well the best answer was silence, at least until the first round.
While he was still watching that young man, he felt his father’s hand press lightly on his shoulder — a silent signal to start moving toward the registration platform, amid the swelling roar of the crowd and the distant church bells that had begun ringing, announcing the official start of the events.
"Take this glove..." his father said.
His father stood before him, holding something small in his rough hands, wrapped in a plain cloth, and held it out toward Alexander with a calm motion, while the distant crowd noise continued rippling behind them like an endless, muted hum.
Alexander unwrapped the cloth curiously and found a dark leather glove inside, finely stitched, its outer surface rough enough to resist the cold, but clearly crafted with far more care than any other piece of clothing he’d seen in this household before.
"For my left hand?"
"Yes. Your mother stayed up all night making it for you."
Alexander paused for a moment, turning the glove between his fingers, a question creeping into his mind that he couldn’t quite hold back.
"Does she know? About me?"
His father looked at him in a brief silence, his eyes showing no surprise at the question at all, as though he’d been expecting it from the start.
"No... but she might. That woman knows things others keep hidden, boy."
Alexander looked at his father in silence, trying to read in his face what he wasn’t saying out loud, then pulled on the glove. Its inner lining felt remarkably good — soft, as if lined with something warm, and it had already begun warming his hand from the very first moment it touched his skin.
"It’s good."
(My mother... knows things others keep hidden? Does that mean she saw something about me with a single touch — something about her own health being at risk? Or does she just know me the way any mother would, no magic involved at all?)
He looked down at his hand, now covered by the black glove, unconsciously comparing it to his brother’s disfigured hand beneath a similar glove, and felt for the first time that some hidden thread tied him to this family more deeply than he’d expected — a thread he still didn’t know would pull him toward safety, or toward something far bigger than he could handle.
Alexander moved forward through the crowd, casting one last glance up at the high platform, at that white metal mask whose eyes hadn’t shifted even slightly, as though the King behind it were watching everything without showing a trace of emotion, while his son beside him offered a calm smile to someone in the crowd — worlds away from the tension that had begun creeping into Alexander’s chest with every step drawing him closer to his new fate.