"I thought I understood who I am, what my world was."
A man stood in a field of blood and broken bodies. The stench of iron and murky, thick air weighed on his shoulders more than any armor could. He rose from his kneeling position and exhaled slowly, as if settling something within himself.
The sword in his hand was chipped to the point that it should've broken in two. One wrong grip could have shattered it, but he held it like it was new.
Then he looked up.
A tower loomed ahead or rather, a demon seated upon a throne of gold and obsidian, watching with quiet patience.
He moved forward.
Step by step, he walked toward certain death.
And still, he did not stop.
... "ALARIC!!!"
His eyes snapped open. The world blurred before settling into the sharp outline of his mother's glare.
"I'm awake," he muttered, rubbing his face. "Just… resting my eyes."
He stretched, rolled lazily across the bed, then stood, rigid as a spear for a moment—before slouching again.
"See? Awake."
Her finger shot toward the door. "Go. You'll be late for admission."
"Yes, ma'am."
He shuffled off like a corpse given instructions. A quick bath followed. Powder on his teeth, a worn twig in hand; before he dressed, set his round glasses in place, and flattened his hair.
"I take my leave, dear mother."
"WHAT ABOUT BREAKFAST?" came the shout from the kitchen.
"Man shall not live by bread alone, but by the Word of God. Adieu."
"Then starve," she snapped back.
He stepped outside.
"Come back quickly!" she called after him. "We've got field work today!"
Alaric didn't even turn. "WOMAN, WHY DO YOU TROUBLE ME? MY HOUR HAS NOT YET COME."
Silence followed.
Behind him, his mother stood frozen, fist clenched, face flushed red.
"…Come home safe," she muttered. "I'll make that special sandwich you like."
Alaric shrieked and sprinted.
The marketplace was in chaos.
The place was packed with people fighting to cut the line, as if they had found the messiah, but it was just a sale of potatoes for 0.30 denarius rather than the usual 0.40 denarius.
To some, it may have been better than finding the messiah.
"When will this damn war end?" one says, in the sea of voices.
At six feet tall, Alaric cut through the mass like a mast through waves. Heads turned. A few chuckled. One drunk squinted at him.
"Are we at war? Why's there a siege tower walking around?"
Alaric smirked and kept moving.
At the city's heart stood the Antioch Cathedral, where the faithful gathered daily. His eyes passed over it without pause, drawn instead to the hill behind it, where another structure rose just as proudly.
"The Antioch Academy… finally."
A figure stepped into his path, followed by 6 knights.
Alaric smiled and said, "To what do I owe this pleasure, Lady Ariana?"
Her gaze narrowed. "You've grown taller. At this rate, one might think you struck a deal with the devil." A pause. "I could save you, you know. Join our house as its flagbearer."
He walked past her. "With the dreams I've been having, I doubt the devil needs my heart."
A glance over his shoulder. "Forgive me. I'm in a hurry."
Ariana watched him go.
"You won't have a choice forever, my dear," she murmured.
The academy gates were crowded with hopeful seventeen-year-olds.
Alaric sighed. "This city is never empty… though today, I suppose it makes sense."
He veered toward a separate counter, more ornate, guarded by well-dressed officials and armored escorts.
A guard raised his hand. "Name."
"Alaricus Valerius Lucius. First son of the Baron of Antioch."
The list and description were checked. He was allowed through.
Inside, a few glanced his way before returning to their business.
'The halo effect,' he thought. 'Alive and well.'
He crouched at the counter. "Hello. I'd like to enroll."
The clerk studied him, her eyes as wanting as her voice. "You must be Sir Alaricus."
"I must be yours."
Silence.
He laughed awkwardly. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself."
A faint smirk in her. Barely there.
"Your admission is complete. Report to the selection camp tomorrow."
"Will you be there?" he attacked swiftly.
Silence again.
"Right, I must go-"
"If it isn't Alaric the barbarian," a voice behind him called.
He turned.
A group of boys approached, led by a white-haired boy.
"Everyone," the boy announced, "we have a barbarian here. A barbarian claiming the Valerius name too."
Alaric sat on the chair beside the counter, listening.
"Hmph, acting all high and mighty behind a noble name, eh? Makes sense. That height has to come from somewhere. Your barbaric blood justifies your height. I bet your mother-"
"Stop there, Atticus."
Silence fell.
Atticus smirked. He thought he succeeded in rage baiting.
Alaric said, "Actually… I can't hear you," then leaned forward.
"Must be because of your filthy Jewish blood."
Alaric stood up, looked down, and squinted.
"Is that blood responsible for your intelligence, too? But I understand you. This is to be expected from the people who crucified the messiah."
Alaric reached for his pocket and threw something.
A coin flicked through the air, clinking at Atticus' feet.
"Go on, Atticus," Alaric said lightly. "Pick it up. Clip it, too."
He went past the small man and continued, "Or should I call you Shmuel ben Yusuf?"
The clerk was silent. The other nobles were silent. Atticus was. . . well, he is always silent because his voice doesn't reach anyone. Then Alaric went about his day, ate the special sandwich, and slept. But Atticus? He couldn't sleep.
The next morning rolled in.