Date: July 15, 542 After the Fall of Zandra the Dishonorable
The academy stood on a small rise, set apart from the main streets, its light walls standing out against the grey, grim buildings of the Kingdom of the Rejected. Kazai approached the entrance and paused for a moment, examining the carved columns and the wide windows reflecting the pale morning sky. The building had been finished just three days ago, the builders working day and night to meet the deadline. He had paid them generously—with gold confiscated from the executed elders. Gold that had previously lain as dead weight in chests, now transformed into walls, roofs, and hope.
"The children are already studying inside," Hlis said, noticing his pause. "We enrolled about a hundred. Just as many are in the queue, but there isn't enough space yet."
"Expand it," Kazai said curtly and pushed open the door.
It was bright inside. The wide windows let in plenty of light, and even on a cloudy day the rooms felt cozy, almost homelike. It smelled of wood, paint, and something else—a warmth he had never felt in his life. The scent was foreign, almost unfamiliar, but Kazai did not allow himself to dwell on it. He had come to observe, not to feel.
The spacious hall was divided into several sections by wooden partitions. In one, younger children were learning their letters under the supervision of an old woman with a kind but tired face. In another, older youths were practicing swordsmanship with wooden blades. The instructor, an old warrior with an amputated arm, barked at the slackers, corrected stances, demonstrated strikes.
Everyone froze when they saw the King.
Kazai disliked that pause—the moment when people examined him, feared him, hoped, guessed. But today, he saw something different in the children's eyes. Not fear. Not despair. But a greedy, almost hungry curiosity.
He waved his hand.
"Continue. I came to see your progress."
The children returned to their tasks, but their gazes kept sliding toward him. They looked at him as if he were the sun that could either warm or scorch. The teachers worked with redoubled effort, trying not to lose face before the King.
Kazai moved to the section where the older students were training. He stopped by the practice dummies, watching a boy of about fourteen practicing a chopping strike. His movements were clumsy, but there was power behind them. The boy, noticing the King's attention, grew even more tense. His sword clanged against the wooden dummy with such fury that splinters flew in all directions.
"What's his name?" Kazai asked Hlis quietly.
"Togan, your majesty," the Adept replied. "The son of a blacksmith from a southern village. Lost his father in a skirmish with bandits. They say he swore to become a warrior of the Kingdom and avenge him."
"Avenge him?" Kazai smirked. "Vengeance is a teacher that can drive him far."
He moved on, and soon children surrounded him—not all, but those bold enough to approach. They looked up at him, and in their eyes burned a fire he recognized all too well. It was the fire of hunger—not for food, but for something greater. For recognition. For strength. For the right to be part of something mighty.
"Your Majesty!" shouted a boy of about ten, with perpetually tousled red hair. "I'll be the best! I'll kill all the enemies of the Kingdom!"
Kazai looked at him. Scrawny, bony, with scraped knees—but his eyes blazed.
"Killing is easy," he said. "First learn to defend yourself."
The boy didn't waver. He straightened up as much as his small stature allowed.
"I'll learn, your majesty! I'll train day and night!"
"We'll see," Kazai offered no greater promise. But that brief glance, his attention given to the boy, made the other children freeze.
They all wanted the same thing. They wanted the King to notice them. To nod at them, toss them a word, honor them with a glance. In their eyes, Kazai was not merely a ruler—he was a symbol. A pillar. The person they dreamed of becoming.
He moved on to the section where literacy and basic arithmetic were taught. There were more children here—and all of them, holding their breath, tracked his every move.
"These won't become warriors," Kazai remarked to the old woman teacher.
"No, your majesty," she answered quietly. "They will grow into administrators, scribes, councilors. Those who will keep the Kingdom in order while the warriors fight."
Kazai nodded. He understood the importance of both.
"Teach them well," he said. "A literate subject is worth more than a dozen untrained warriors."
The woman bowed so low her grey hair touched the floor.
The children in this section also watched the King. Their eyes didn't hold the wild hunger of the future warriors. But there was awe. And hope. They knew they could become the ones who would speak on the King's behalf to other peoples. And that knowledge made their hearts beat faster.
As he walked through the academy, Kazai noticed that the very youngest children—those just beginning their studies—were reaching their hands out to him, as if he were a wizard capable of granting them strength with a single touch. He didn't take their hands. He didn't pat their heads. He simply looked at them.
They memorized his face. His cold gaze. His calm, confident stride. And they already knew what they wanted to become when they grew up.
"In one year," Kazai said, raising his voice so that his words carried through the hall, "the three of you who can most impress me with your progress will earn the right to be personally apprenticed to me."
The silence exploded into whispers. The children exchanged glances, and a fire ignited in their eyes—the very fire Kazai wanted to kindle. Even the youngest, who didn't fully understand what was being said, felt the gravity of the moment.
"Study diligently. Train hard. Prove that you are worthy not merely of being subjects of the Kingdom of the Rejected, but of being its future pride."
In the silence that followed, only breathing could be heard—a hundred children's breaths, merging into one.
Kazai had already turned to leave when a quiet but firm voice called out to him by the exit.
"My king."
She sat apart from the others, against the wall, in a wooden wheelchair. A girl. About twelve years old, with short ash-grey hair and grey eyes that looked at him without fear. Her legs below the knees were missing—the stumps ended in neat scars, wrapped in clean cloth.
Kazai recognized her. He had noticed the girl early in his tour, sitting in the corner reading a book, paying no attention to what was happening around her.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Yala," the girl answered. Her voice was calm, but held no less awe than the other children. "In a year, I will be one of those you take as an apprentice."
Kazai looked at her. Long, attentively. In her grey eyes there was no fear, no bravado—only certainty. The same certainty he himself had possessed as a child.
"You cannot walk," he said. "And fighting will be difficult for you."
"I don't intend to fight with axe or sword," Yala replied. "I will fight with my mind."
A tense silence hung around them. The children froze, afraid even to breathe. None of them would have dared speak to the King in such a way. But Yala did not avert her gaze.
Kazai smirked. There was no mockery in his smirk—only cold, calm approval.
"Good," he said. "In a year, I will see if your word carries as much weight as you believe."
He turned and headed for the exit. Hlis was waiting for him by the door.
"That girl," Kazai said quietly, "keep an eye on her. I like her courage. The Kingdom of the Rejected needs people like her."
"It shall be done, your majesty," Hlis replied.
Kazai glanced back. Yala was still watching him go, and in her grey eyes burned a fire he recognized all too well.
*A strong child,* he thought. *We'll see what she's capable of.*
The wind, cold and damp, tousled his hair. The sun had risen higher, and for a moment, the Dead Swamp seemed almost alive.
"Hlis," Kazai said, descending the steps of the academy. "What's next?"
"The longhouses, your majesty," the Adept answered. "The builders promised to finish two more by the end of the month. If you wish, you can inspect them today."
"We will," Kazai adjusted his cloak. "But give me a minute first."
Hlis stepped back, giving the King space.
Kazai stood at the foot of the academy and gazed at the building that held the children. Those who, tomorrow, might go to bed hungry. Those who had lost parents. Those who didn't yet know what betrayal was, but would soon learn.
*These are my subjects,* he thought. *My soldiers. My servants. My future.*
He felt no love for them. He felt no pity. But he felt responsibility.
"Let's go," he said, taking a step forward.
Hlis followed. The academy remained behind, but its light, it seemed, would be trailing them for a long time to come.
Inside, by the window, Yala watched the King's retreating figure. Her small but tenacious fingers clutched the book she had been reading when he entered. She didn't know if she would become his apprentice in a year. But she knew she would strive with all her might.
"I will prove it to him," she whispered. "I will prove it to everyone."
And in her eyes still burned the fire—the very fire that Kazai had ignited in them all.